I GOT NOTHIN' FOR YA

So, another week befalls us, another opportunity for a new blog. Which would be great, except I had the pleasure--and really, when you have a job as easy as mine, it isn't exactly unpleasant--of pulling a 56-hour week recently. And while it'd be really simple to recap current events--mainly, looking up '80s porn stars on MySpace in between showings of 3:10 TO YUMA--I figured I'd put some real thought into it and try to give you something worthwhile.

THE BRAVE ONE (aka DEATH SENTENCE with breasts) sold more tickets Saturday than Kevin Bacon's outing during its entire run. No big surprise there, since the former's being pushed as a serious drama whereas the latter was a straightforward genre piece about whuppin' punk ass. I plan on doing a side-by-side review later this week.

HALLOWEEN, here at the theater as well as nation-wide, has done far less business than opening weekend. The reason can most likely be summed up by the Hot Topic-fitted Goth chick coming out of the theater last night, who opined, "That sucked the second time!"

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On the literary front, I had a chance to pick up John Skipp's THE LONG LAST CALL (out in paperback from Leisure, who included the bonus novella CONSCIENCE). This lean, mean thriller about a mysterious stranger who visits a seedy strip club as the night's festivities are winding down (one side note: John, by any chance have you been to Lady Godiva's outside of Morgantown? Cuz I could've sworn you were writing about that place) is a one-sitting read. The story's compact enough that anything more than a synopsis would ruin the experience, but I will say Skipp should be commended for writing about a strip club and NOT resorting to throwing vampires in. (CONSCIENCE, the story of a hit man's spiritual epiphany, is a tasty little follow-up.)

As for my own artistic efforts, Kat got me a sweet new desk, and we spent the weekend switching our bedroom to my ersatz office. Finally, I won't have to use the ironing board Kat got for Christmas when inspiration strikes.

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And while we're on the subject of creative inspiration, on my one day away from the theater I hit the bike trail behind our apartment (finally) with Mike and Sasha. It was fun, and not only is it the first time in quite a while that I got to walk several miles that didn't involve a food court, this place seemed tailor-made for a horror writer. The central strip of the trail is lined with hemlock trees, creating a tunnel-like atmosphere, surrounded by acres of story-inducing foliage. And did I mention the bat houses spaced every half mile? Needless to say, walking at dusk made it more interesting.

During the walk I kicked around ideas for my hillbilly-mutant-cannibal novel with Mike, since every few feet I kept getting new wrinkles for the plot. Should I ever manage to pull this book off, Mike'll probably end up on the dedication page, since he's around every time new elements pop up (the house-by-house narration through West Virginia farm country last summer was, for me, the highlight of the Keyser trip). It should also be noted as the first time the inclusion of Bigfoot to the plot was suggested, and I did not greet it with ridicule. (What does Bigfoot have to do with hillbilly-mutant-cannibals? Well, that's why I'm writing the book.)