OCTOBERFEAST just wouldn’t be the same without the lovely recess that is Columbus Day.

Personally, I couldn’t care less about Christopher Columbus himself. Yeah, his travels really paved the way for European exploration of the New World. I guess that’s pretty cool. But it’s kind of hard to overlook the raping/pillaging/plundering aspects of his genocide. So in that regard, he’s pretty lame.

More important than the Christopher Columbus is the holiday bearing his name. I am a firm believer that human beings need days off. Without the occasional three-day weekend, society is apt to implode. If the only way to officially cancel a workday is to replace it with a bogus holiday, then by all means go for it.

The usefulness of Columbus Day reveals itself it many different ways. For college students, this first three-day weekend of the semester provides an excuse to travel back home, attempt a road trip or just enjoy an extra day of binge drinking.

For sports fans, Columbus Day provides an otherwise absent opportunity to nurse post-game hangovers. This is  an appreciated prospect, considering that the MLB playoffs are in full-swing, NFL action is heating up, the NHL season is beginning and the NBA preseason is looking to come to a close.

And for many more, Columbus Day is a chance to enjoy autumn. With a full day’s freedom, it is a lot easier to plan a trip to an apple orchard or pumpkin patch. Living in the suburbs, it seems to me that this is the day that the neighbors start tossing scarecrows and goofy Halloween decorations onto their front porches and lawns. I’m not sure if agricultural competitions are the October-thing-to-do everywhere, but residents of the greater Boston region use this day to get their asses to Topsfield.

Truthfully, I always try to use the holiday as an extra day of rest. While I always find OCTOBERFEAST to be the  most pleasurable of all seasons, it is also generally when I’m at my busiest. Today I made a point to lounge around, eating too much food and trying to catch up on some television I’ve been missing; I can’t say that the combination of caramel apples and Californication is a bad one. I haven’t been terribly productive — and this is a design with which I am comfortable.

In the case that you had to work today, I offer my sympathies. At the very least you can take comfort in the fact that we’re well on our way to Halloween.

Oh, and just in case you’re unfamiliar with the exploits of Christopher Columbus – the video below is a hard-hitting documentary about the explorer.

Monday Morning Commute.

Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide. Check out my list after the jump:

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Since the dawn of the cinema, an incalculable number of feature films have been produced. Some are good, others are atrocious, and most are some shade of cookie-cutter meh. The members of this homogenous body are usually enjoyed at the time and then forgotten for the rest of eternity. And I’m fine with that — more than fine with it, really.

I have a problem when it seems as though people forget about quality pictures.

There are a lot of movies that deal with ghouls, ghosts, and all the other staples of the supernatural world around which we base Halloween. But I have a terrible feeling (about this!) that today’s heaping of OCTOBERFEAST has been largely forgotten by pop culture. I can’t remember the last time I saw this movie on television or referenced in a bullshit Top 10 Best Something or Others list. And it’s a damn shame because the movie is a wonderful intersection of comedy, horror, zany special effects, and Michael Keaton.

I’m talking about Beetlejuice.

Let’s  hop in the Delorean and go back to a time  before  Tim Burton only made movies  so that studios would  cut fat checks to Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter. Back in the day, Burton made some genuinely unique movies that weren’t afraid to take chances. I dare you to watch Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure and suggest that it is anything other than an extraordinary journey, told with a self-awareness and darkness that only reinforces the humor. In fact, I probably don’t have to tell you to watch Pee-Wee because you most likely remember it.

And so I return to Beetlejuice, a strangely overlooked classic. This movie sees the young couple of Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis just trying to enjoy their time in a relaxing rural home. But since this is a movie and therefore requires a conflict, they die. Shortly after they bite the dust, Baldwin and Davis realize that they’re actually ghosts! Unfortunately, their house has been sold to a couple of new-age yuppie scumbags and their goth teenage daughter named Winona Ryder.

Befriending Winona, Alex and Geena try to figure out a way to scare the yuppies into leaving. With no luck on their own, they look to the assistance of Betelgeuse — a perverted ghost whose business lay in conducting reverse-exorcisms. Even with his relatively limited screen time, Michael Keaton shines as the self-proclaimed ghost with the most.

Betelgeuse is a crass, vulgar misogynist with whom you cannot help but laugh. He’s fucking hysterical. When questioned about his qualifications in convincing living beings to vacate the premises, Betelgeuse retorts:

Ah. Well… I attended Juilliard… I’m a graduate of the Harvard business school. I travel quite extensively. I lived through the Black Plague and had a pretty good time during that. I’ve seen the EXORCIST ABOUT A HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVEN TIMES, AND IT KEEPS GETTING FUNNIER EVERY SINGLE TIME I SEE IT… NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT YOU’RE TALKING TO A DEAD GUY… NOW WHAT DO YOU THINK? You think I’m qualified?

Also, it was because of Beetlejuice that I learned there is a time and place for swear-words. No more than four years old, I emulated the title character by kicking the air and proclaiming, “Nice fucking model!” My mom told me that I shouldn’t have used the sentence’s middle word…but she did so with a smile.

"I gotta show up at shopping centers for openings and sign autographs and shit like that and it makes my life a hell. Okay? A living hell."

I’m not doing this movie justice. Just trust me on this one — Beetlejuice rules. If you haven’t seen it, do yourself a favor and buy/rent/download a copy and enjoy. If you have seen it, give it the respect it deserves. The fact that Beetlejuice is forgotten while Rob Zombie’s Halloween remakes are the objects of salivation brings tears to my eyes.

Believe it or not, The Simpsons was once a great television show. In fact, I would argue that in its prime (somewhere in the mid-to-late 1990’s) The Simpsons was fucking untouchable. Marge vs. the Monorail? Twenty-Two Short Films About Springfield? The Itchy & Scratchy and Poochy Show? Episodes like these embody the spirit of the sitcom at its absolute finest.

So while its epic nose-dive has been enough to keep me away for the last decade, I still feel warm, fuzzy things for The Simpsons. Some of the warmest and fuzziest of these funny feelings are connected to Treehouse of Horror — the show’s annual Halloween special.

Every year, Treehouse of Horror would take everyone’s favorite family from Evergreen Terrace through parodies of horror & science fiction movies, strangely murderous tales and other similarly bizarre romps. It was insanity — the residents of Springfield killing one another before my very eyes! I guess part of the charm was that for one episode every season, the best show on television took it upon itself to make kooky stories about the zany shit I love.

Also, Treehouse of Horror always featured Kang & Kodos, two of the best alien characters of all-time. I think it was in the `96 episode that they inhabited the bodies of Bill Clinton & Bob Dole, then ran against each other for president. Genius.

Kang & Kodos hoping to hitch a ride.

Maybe I’ve constructed a false memory, but I really think that I remember coming home from trick-or-treating and watching Treehouse of Horror. As an eight-year-old, there was no better feeling than stuffing my face full of candy, paying my dad off with Almond Joys to look the other way, and watching Homer Simpson do silly shit. That was the life.

I’m not so sure that The Simpsons will ever reclaim the glory it once possessed. But at least once a year, when the pumpkins are screaming in terror as their captors approach them with kitchen-knives in hand, I’ll think of Treehouse of Horror and smile.

Before I even start tearing into this week’s brew review, I have to pause a moment to issue a statement of gratitude. Without the assistance of my good buddy Riff-Daddy, this week’s entry would never have been possible. Riff-Daddy took it upon himself to drive all the way to Troy, New York just to pick up a six-pack for me. He totally wasn’t there anyways to visit his girlfriend. He told me that he was just sitting around in his underwear watching episodes of Charles in Charge and he thought, “Damn, I should drive four hours each-way to help out Pepsibones.”

So it is with the utmost sincerity that I thank you, Riff-Daddy. You’re a good guy. I love you.

Ok, transitioning away from traces of homoeroticism and into a beer review…This week sees me guzzling Oatmeal Stout from Brown’s Brewing Company. I first encountered this brand when Riff-Daddy and I, on our way to a concert, stopped into their signature taproom in Troy. Their drafts nearly blew my shoes off. Seriously, if I hadn’t made sure to securely fasten the Velcro straps I would’ve been in big, big trouble.

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Over the course of the last week or so I’ve been rereading Arthur Miller’s quasi-historical The Crucible in preparation to teach it. I had forgotten the density and poignancy of the play — Miller’s work is pretty much a head-on condemnation of our current power structure, criticizing the fact that it is based on racism, sexism, paranoia, religiously justified oppression and the process of othering.

Of course, I’m going to have to water down all of these ideas as I attempt to present them to a body of fifteen-year-olds who couldn’t care less. And while I abhor the concept of compromising sick ideas, I am willing to do so as long as I keep a promise to myself. No matter how little interest these teenagers show, I am going to ensure that they walk away from The Crucible knowing one thing for sure:

Giles Corey is the motherfucking man.

In true, historically-verified terms, Giles was an old-ass man accused of witchcraft during the Salem Witch Trials of 1692. When you think of him, think of that bad-ass geezer who isn’t afraid to speak his mind or take a stand. In Arthur Miller’s words, “Giles Corey, eighty-three…He is knotted with muscle, canny, inquisitive, and still powerful.”

According to Puritan Law, any man who would not plead either guilty or innocent to an accusation could not be tried in court. Giles refused to plead innocent because he didn’t want to subject himself to an unjust trial and he wouldn’t plead guilty because he wasn’t a goddamn witch. In such instance, the Puritan authorities would lay a suspect on his back and then place as much weight on him as required to elicit a plea (thereby justifying a trial).

But Giles never succumbed to the (literal) pressure. Subjected to this torture for days, Corey never issued a statement regarding the accusation of witchcraft. Elizabeth Proctor from The Crucible clarifies:

He were not hanged. He would not answer aye or nay to his indictment; for if he denied the charge they’d hang him surely, and auction out his property. So he stand mute, and died Christian under the law. And so his sons will have his farm. It is the law, for he could not be condemned a wizard without he answer the indictment, aye or nay.

In fact, the only words slipping out his mouth during the entire endeavor were “More weight.” Giles Corey is the definitive old-man bad-ass.

Found  below are a campy recreation of Giles’ fatal pressing and the music video for Unearth’s Giles.

Kristen Bell has a movie coming out this week, “Couples Retreat.” It looks awful. But yet, my friend Dave and I are seriously contemplating seeing the movie. Why? It’s simple. Veronica Mar…er, Kristen Bell is in the flick. In a bikini. The nerdpull dragging us towards the screen is almost indefatigable.

So news that she’s going to be in another movie coming up? I’m stoked. I’m going to throw on my Pulse t-shirt and wait for this beautiful monster to arrive:

Via Slashfilm

Kristen Bell will appear opposite Christina Aguilera in the musical drama Burlesque

Kristen Bell? Musical? Perhaps dance numbers? Spin spin spinnnn!

There’s a few things that are frequently rocketing around the anticipatory portions of my brain. Bayonetta, Final Fantasy XIII and…Mass Effect 2. Apparently, Mass Effect 2 is going to be the “Empire Strikes Back” of the series. Which really isn’t, you know, news at all. Isn’t every sequel something that aspires to be the ESB of the series?   BioWare co-founder Greg Zeschuk comments:

Via IGN:

“If you recall, Empire Strikes Back was the darker chapter and that is how we designed the ME2 story and experience: to try and make the player reflect on the challenges of the character. If you put ME2 next to the original it is definitely a darker, harder game.”

It makes sense. I don’t really have anything else to say about it. I’m just a whore for anything Mass Effect 2. Mass Effect 2’s obvious correlation to ESB, Mass Effect’s money-grab with unique armor, Mass Effect fanfiction featuring Shepard and Wrex intercourse? I’m there, there, there.

My friend Buddy, while not trying to avoid telepathic death, occasionally sends me rad shit to view. This is one of those cases. The forthcoming video is of the Cookie Monster and a Pink Gorilla rocking the fuck out in a subway station. Turns out they’re part of a musical group called the Xylopholks. Who apparently are bizarre, and fucking awesome.

From the Xylopholks Myspace:

The XYLOPHOLKS are a dynamic group of musicians who mostly play novelty ragtime music from the 1920’s (featuring the xylophone!). They do so while wearing furry animal costumes. The XYLOPHOLKS wish to make people happy and perhaps even dance

Trippy, odd, awesomeness. Check out their MySpace. Also, check out a video of them shredding it up in some sort of beautiful true hallucination after the jump.

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The OCTOBERFEAST has proven to be a true labor of love. When I created the general outline I had no clue that I would find myself so bitterly conflicted about some of the specific details. Looking towards today’s post, I was at a loss. Perhaps I had originally left my schedule partially incomplete with the faith of later discovering a naturally fitting entry. I couldn’t help but feel my stomach bottom out when I looked at the calendar and saw:

October 8^th — Iron Maiden — (Figure out song later).

Fuck.

I find it foolish to argue against the notion that Iron Maiden is the most legendary of active metal bands. With a career spanning over thirty years, one would expect them to be mere shadows of their former selves. Not the case. Unlike Metallica, Iron Maiden can still put on a live performance without butchering the songs or relying on theatrics. And while Maiden’s recent studio albums aren’t their best efforts, they’re hardly the self-parodies of which Megadeth seems so fond. These are old dudes that can still actually lay it down.

With  an enormous repertoire — fifteen studio albums — how can I choose one song for Omega-Level’s seasonal celebration? Thematically, the occult is embedded into almost every single piece of Iron Maiden’s catalogue. Therefore, the inclusion of any one track necessarily results in the exclusion of all sorts of songs about demons and pharaohs and warlords (Oh My!). Simply put, the task at hand is daunting.

But I’m no sissy — I’m the Grand Admiral of OCTOBERFEAST! And this means that I’m the guy who has to make the tough decisions. So here we go. Even though almost any track could fit, I think that one of Iron Maiden’s songs works especially well:

The Number of the Beast

Sharing its name with the album on which Bruce Dickinson made his debut. The Number of the Beast is one of Iron Maiden’s most recognizable hymns. Iron Maiden create more of an epic journey in Beast’s five minutes than many bands could manage in twenty. The band delivers a haunting introduction, soaring melodies, Harris’ signature bass lines and the breathtaking vocals for which all of Brazil would scream. Musically, The Number of the Beast is the ideal towards which all rockers strive.

More importantly, The Number of the Beast is a perfect anthem for Hallow’s Eve. Before any music starts, the listener is treated to a ghoulish voice announcing —

Woe to you, Oh Earth and Sea

For the Devil sends the
Beast with wrath, because he knows the time is short…
Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the Beast for it is a human number —

Its number is six hundred and sixty six.

Every time that I hear that, I begin to think that I should forfeit agnosticism and begin worshipping Satan.

Once the song kicks in, Dickinson sings us through hellish landscapes and evil intentions. The chorus (which plays great live as a sing-a-long) screams “666 — The number of the Beast // 666 — the one for you and me!”

You should check out the music video. It is a seriously awesome combination of performance, clips from cheesy horror movies and an appearance by Eddie!

Iron Maiden – The Number of the Beast