In the last few decades, the scientific community has come to a general consensus regarding OCTOBERFEAST: Goth-kids love Halloween. While their dark wardrobes, crummy poems, and pasty complexions are usually frowned upon, Hallow’s Eve provides Goth-kids a rare chance to flaunt their woe-is-me approach to existence. I guess this is a good societal release valve, providing a safe outlet so that real mistakes are not made.

So sure, we concede a bit of a loss during OCTOBERFEAST. We allow each teen inaccurately diagnosed with depression to wear a different Nightmare Before Christmas hoodie every day. We put up with thirty-one days of ghetto-blasters blaring Boys Don’t Cry and overzealous students begging us to attend the Drama Club’s performance of whatever. And for an entire month, we understand that staying out of Hot Topic is a decision made to ensure physical safety.

But all these concessions are made so that the inmates don’t overtake the asylum that is OCTOBERFEAST. In reality, there is some pretty cool Gothic-inspired shit in the world. In addition to his rampant alcohol and drug abuse, Edgar Allen Poe should be commended for his body of work. Despite writing in the Gothic style, Poe gave us fucking classics like The Fall of the House of Usher, The Tell-Tale Heart and The Raven. So by giving the weirdos a month-long recess, they can be marginalized the rest of the year; and as result, they don’t completely taint the world of Gothic entertainment.

While Poe is one worthy representative of the American Gothic, he is trumped by a Brooklyn-based powerhouse. This entity has demonstrated that you can be into glum shit without being a totally despondent a-hole. The band at hand manages to sing about girlfriends’ girlfriends, asking a girl to be a druidess, and being set on fire in a strangely energetic and uplifting manner.

In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m referring to Type O Negative.

Type O Negative’s special brand of metal distinguishes itself by incorporating morbid lyrics into doom-and-gloom music. For instance, the creepy keyboards sound more like an old-school organ played in a cathedral where priests trains for exorcisms. On top of these are guitars that vary between ambient, groovin’, chuggy, or even thrashy. But perhaps most identifiable are Peter Steele’s low, brooding vocals.

Take all of the above attributes and use them to serenade a Goth girl. The result?

Black No. 1 (Little Miss Scare-All)

This is one of Type O Negative’s most well-known tunes, and with good reason. Musically, the eleven-minute track oscillates between straight-ahead verses, poppy sing-a-long choruses, hard hitting sections of hate, and truly beautiful bridges. Oh, and they also manage to sneak in the theme to The Addams Family.

Most appropriate for the OCTOBERFEAST, however, are Steele’s lyrics. At times, Black No. 1 seems to be a real love fest for freaky-ass, pale girls. And then, the song turns on a dime with declarations that loving the woman in question “Was like loving the dead/ Was like fucking the dead.” Surely, not what I’m planning to drunkenly croon at my wedding but pretty fucking awesome.

For a better idea of the song’s theme, check out this excerpt:

I went looking for trouble
And boy
I found her…

She’s in love with herself.
She likes the dark
On her milk white neck.
The Devil’s mark.

It’s all Hallows Eve.
The moon is full.
Will she trick or treat?
I bet she will.

She will.

Happy Halloween.

She’s got a date at midnight
With Nosferatu.
Oh baby, Lily Munster.
Ain’t got nothing on you.

Well when I called her evil
She just laughed.
And cast that spell on me.
Boo Bitch Craft.

Yeah you wanna go out
’cause it’s raining and blowing.
You can’t go out
’cause your roots are showing.

Dye ’em black.

Fuck it, I’m making a huge decision: consider Black No. 1 the official theme of OCTOBERFEAST. So in the next few days, take every opportunity to blast this tune as loud as possible while stuffing candy corn into your face.

Albeit an abridged version, check out the music video for Black No. 1:

OCTOBERFEAST is the celebration of that which makes the tenth month of the year superior. Of the last twenty-seven entries, I’d like to think that  some have been outside of the normal considerations. However, as with any tradition, there are certain staples that become so ingrained as to become fully synonymous with their host-event. Unfortunately, this often leads these staples to become taken for granted and underappreciated.

To thwart an egregious  oversight, I present Jack O’Lanterns.

Yes, the doorstop sentry of every house on the block that celebrates Halloween — the Jack O’Lantern. In truth, the very concept of this illuminative device is fucking insane. Just think about its construction:

1)           First, take an orange gourd.

2)           Cut off the top and pull out its guts.

3)           On one side, carve out a freaky-ass face.

4)           Put a candle inside, light that shit up and put the top back on.

If you didn’t know about Halloween and someone gave you the above instructions, you’d think about reporting terrorist activity. But as a part of the OCTOBERFEAST, Jack O’Lanterns are rad.

I mean, seriously — even before having their bodies mutilated, pumpkins kick ass. They provide another porch decoration for the suburbanites of quiet desperation who are just trying to outdo their neighbors. Pumpkins, of course, also bring us pumpkin-pie. The pie can always be washed down with a cold pumpkin-brew. And who doesn’t love munching on pumpkin seeds after they’re roasted and salted to hell? The answer — Nazis.

But seeing a pumpkin mature into a Jack O’Lantern? It is a wonderful feeling. I don’t have children, but I can’t imagine that hearing a baby’s first word is cooler than transforming a pumpkin into this. Turning a vegetable into a hilarious or creepy torch is a goddamn talent.

I’d like to think that it isn’t even necessary to point out the importance of the Jack O’Lantern to Halloween. But something tells me that there will be plenty of dingbats who walk right past the orange bowls of fire. Go out, grab a pumpkin, and turn it into something sick.

In case you don’t know how, watch this tutorial:

With only a few days left in the OCTOBERFEAST, I’m sure that there is some speculation underfoot. After all, there are certainly fewer available spots than there are candidates with which to fill them. It’s an unfortunate fact, but not every kooky-ass, ghoulish autumn activity/movie/song/memory makes the cut, so don’t throw a hissy fit when your favorite is excluded. Maybe next year will prove successful.

I’ve had some guesses thrown my way as to what the main course of the OCTOBERFEAST will be. I could tell you, but I value the few hits OL gets every day; you’re just going to have to keep on reading. However, I will tell you what it is not: Halloween.

Don’t get me wrong, the movie Halloween is great and everything. Before  selling doo-doo yogurt, Jamie Lee Curtis was famous because of Halloween, which is saying something. I guess. Or is it? Hey, remember True Lies? Yeah, who could forget?

Anyways, Halloween is not included in the OCTOBERFEAST. Maybe it’s too obvious. Maybe I’m just surly. Or maybe it’s because the film’s antagonist is no longer the most horrifying being with the name Michael Myers.

However, what this twenty-seventh day of FEAST’ing does include is the theme from Halloween…as performed by Secret Chiefs 3.

Earlier this year, I saw Secret Chiefs 3 open up for Les Claypool. I had never heard of the band, but was quite impressed. Not only were they super tight, energetic, and generally good sounding, but they also performed in druid-robes. It was sick.

Turning to the hippie rocking out to my left, I asked about the band. He informed me of their name and the fact that they were formed by Trey Spruance. For those of you unfamiliar with Spruance, he was the guitarist for Mr. Bungle and played on Faith No More’s King for a Day…Fool for a Lifetime. So if you like that stuff, maybe you’ll like Secret Chiefs 3. Honestly, I haven’t checked out the band’s albums so I can’t really say.

But about halfway through the set, Secret Chiefs 3 busted into the only tune of theirs I’d recognize: the familiar theme from Halloween. I find the original version of the song terribly creepy — listen to those notes in the dark and you’re bound to look over your shoulder. While Secret Chief 3’s rendition isn’t necessarily as haunting, I think it brings an electricity and liveliness distinguishable from the original.

Check out the video below. The actual footage is pretty bogus, but listening to the audio while you do something else will be worthwhile.

In the words of Vigo the Carpathian, “Now is the season of evil.” Yeah Vigo, that is a pretty good way to sum up the OCTOBERFEAST.   But that doesn’t mean we can’t take the opportunity to laugh our asses off — it just has to be done with a *spooky* theme. If only there were a classic comedy that made use of some of horror’s most recognizable characters…

Oh shit. If I didn’t include this movie, Mrs. Krueger would give me a goddamn dragon uppercut. She’s never even played Street Fighter but last time she did it she knocked out an incisor. True story.

OCTOBERFEAST has reserved a more than well-deserved spot for Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein. Written by Gene Wilder (who also plays the lead), the feature chronicles the exploits of the grandson of the infamous Dr. Frankenstein. The descendent initially wants nothing to do with his ancestor’s legacy, distancing himself at every opportunity and making sure to pronounce his surname [Fronk-en-steen]. However, there is a matter to settle with his family’s estate, and he has to  travel to the scene of his grandfather’s crime!

Once in Transylvania, the Young Frankenstein comes across a number of characters that threaten to steal the film from him. There’s Inga, the flirtatious lab assistant played by Teri Garr who is so good looking in this movie that it really depresses me to think of how she looks now. Frau Blucher is the beyond-homely, elderly servant of the Frankenstein estate whose very name evokes the naying of horses throughout the entire movie. And then there’s Igor, the hunchbacked servant played by the kooky-eyed Marty Feldman.

While all the characters in Young Frankenstein are brilliant, there is a terrific wit emitting from Igor that just elevates him to a higher plateau. Just watch how he handles one of his duties as servant:

I’m not the type of guy who worships at the altar of the supposed classics. If anything, I miss out on a lot of cool shit because I respond to seemingly unanimous praise with an overabundance of skepticism. But Young Frankenstein deserves the acclaim. Every scene delivers and no member of the ensemble cast is wasted. Gene Hackman’s brief appearance as a lonely hermit supports this claim:

Young Frankenstein is not only a great Halloween movie, but a great comedy as well. If you’ve enjoyed Mel Brooks’ other films, try this one on for size. And if you don’t like Mel Brooks…well, then you’re probably an asshole.

As I write, I’m sitting in a plastic chair that faces the leaf-painted lawn my parents spend all spring & summer trying to protect. “Sorry `rents,” I laugh inside my head, “but even Home Depot’s finest lawn-care products can’t ward off Mother Nature. That bitch is nasty!”

The wind just picked up, tossing over a few of the aforementioned leaves and inspiring my obese pooch to tilt his head upward. I see his snout quiver ever so slightly and he squints as the breeze fills his lungs. Maybe I really am starting to turn into a hippie, but I think Stryder’s got it right. He’s not worried about the recession, or the perpetuation of the military-industrial complex, or even whether or not his DVR is going to save tonight’s Californication. No, this motherfucker is just glad to be.

Since I’m particularly struck by the  dog today, I’ve decided to let him choose the OCTOBERFEAST entry. I mean, he’s just a dog so I let him make a choice from my tentative list. I was going to write about any topic of his choosing, but he wasn’t willing to budge:

Pepsibones: Hey, what should I post about today?

Stryder: Isn’t there some Halloween movie where every scene includes a cat being brutally murdered?

Pepsibones: Nah, I don’t think so man.

Stryder: Hrm…I’m pretty sure there is.

Pepsibones: Well, I’ve never heard of it.

Stryder: Really? C’mon, you know what I’m talking about. It’s that movie by the director, and in every scene a stupid cat gets just  what he fucking deserves.

Pepsibones: I don’t know.

Stryder: …Well, what if I give you a script that I wrote and you enter that into the OCTOBERFEAST?

It went on for about a half an hour. Seriously.

Anyways, Stryder finally made a decision and thus the OCTOBERFEAST will continue upon its magnificent voyage.

Stryder the Dog contemplates OCTOBERFEAST

Today, we hit the rest stop known as Scream.

I’m not sure why, but I’m under the impression that the 1996 film is the object of much hatred. I understand why one may dislike the series as a whole, as Scream is a satire of the horror/slasher genre and its penchant for producing subpar sequels. But Scream itself? A great movie.

Penned by the master of 1990’s horror, Kevin Williamson, Scream is a slasher flick with a brain. While trying to avoid being stabbed to death, Neve Campbell (remember her?) and her friends realize just how similar their situation is to a horror movie. As a result, they come up with all sorts of strangely self-aware theories about how they should behave. Jamie Kennedy, in an awesome performance as a hardcore video-store clerk/nerd, lays out the rules:

Perhaps I’m just a sucker for the 1990’s and its finer moments. More accurately, I am a sucker for metafiction, and Scream certainly dabbles in that area. So if you want to chalk up the appreciation for Scream to that, feel free.

But even stripping away the self-referential aspect, the plot is noteworthy: you have a killer who calls you on the phone (in the days before Caller-ID), quizzes you about movies, and then stabs you to death. It’s fucking fantastic. The death scenes are exciting and full of gore, executed lethally (cheesy pun intended).

What really makes me root for the movie is that it takes some chances. There’re some recognizable names in Scream and not all of them make it out alive. In fact, Barrymore doesn’t even make it out of the first scene. While I was only ten when I saw it for the first time, I remember that Scream kept me guessing throughout.

Oh, and I completely forgot to mention — Wes Craven directed this movie. Sure, he isn’t Spielberg, Coppola, Scorsese, Tarantino, PT Anderson or Ridley Scott — but as far as horror movies go, he’s a force.

Forget the fact that it spawned the reprehensible Scary Movie series and the terribly played-out “ghost-face” costume. Scream is a good movie and you should include it in your personal OCTOBERFEAST celebration.

Although I’ve been saying this a lot lately, I must now formally announce that we are in the final lap of OCTOBERFEAST. In one week’s time, the demons and ghouls who spend most of the year pretending to be children will be running on the streets and holding us up for candy. It’s going to be great.

I really believe that trick-or-treating is one of the most surreal, almost magical parts of childhood. For one evening, adults step back and allow the inmates to run the asylum. Children shed their skin and assume the roles of beings that are to be not only considered, but actually feared and revered. I will never forget the feeling of importance when some fat-assed housewife would open her front door, fork over a goodie, and ask “Oh my! And what are you dressed as?”

It is with this awe of and respect for Halloween’s most celebrated  activity that OCTOBERFEAST inducts its newest member — E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial.

But first, let’s step back for a moment. Completely independent of its connections to the American Harvest Festival, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial is a fantastic film.  The 1982 Spielberg-concoction  is about a cute little alien with a pot-belly who gets stuck on Earth. Shortly thereafter, he is discovered and protected by three children and their single mom. Elliot, the middle of the three children, becomes best friends with the alien and they share a mind-link. In the process, Elliot helps the otherworldly visitor make an interstellar phone with which he can call home for a ride. By the end of the movie everyone learns the true meaning of love, friendship, and just how funny it is to call someone “Penis-breath.”

Really though, the only way you can not enjoy E.T. is if you don’t have a heart. Between Drew Barrymore’s debut (as Gertie), a John Williams score, the hilarious scene in which E.T. drinks beers, and flying bicycles there is something for everyone. So even on its own, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial is an amazing slice of cinema.

Now, you may  find yourself asking why this movie is part of the OCTOBERFEAST. Well, first of all, the titular character is an alien. While certainly different than Earth-based monsters, I think it’d be foolish to argue that aliens don’t deserve a spot in the category of horrifying. While E.T. turns out to be a good guy, there is still an element of fear and uneasiness about the concept of outer-space men. So at the very least, just remember that E.T. is about an alien and that is enough of a qualifier in and of itself.

But more poignantly, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial takes place in a suburb preparing for Halloween festivities. With Spielberg at the helm, the viewer is treated to scenes that perfectly embody the spirit of the holiday, featuring kids getting amped to hit the streets and the costumes of which they are so proud. While one may want to write off the inclusion of Halloween in E.T. as incidental setting, I believe that Spielberg wanted to capture a season that contained a magic such as that found in the relationships of the movie’s characters.

Halloween may be a backdrop for the movie, but it is a significant and memorable backdrop.

For your consideration — E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial’s (sometimes first-person) perspective on trick or treating:

Walking into the liquor store today, I knew that I wanted a challenging beer. I mean, I didn’t want a brew that was going to knock me on my ass and leave me for dead, but I wanted something with a bit of a kick. I walked to the cooler and started perusing.

Light beers? Nah, not for me.

Seasonal brews? Eh…always fun, but I wasn’t in the mood to get burned again.

Sam Adams? Sammy – you got your turn last week!

And then my eyes connected with those of the beast, a being I only know as Troegenator.

I mean seriously, look at the picture above — the Troegenator is basically Zeus with fucking devil horns.

Let me repeat the previous sentiment. The label on the beer features ZEUS — the most powerful member of the Greek pantheon with devil horns. I was sold. I mean, seriously, it is the most powerful God of all time and he’s ready to rage. I’m down.

But then I actually read the label and found out that the Troegenator is a doublebock. In my purely unscientific understanding, doublebock is a form of old-school Bavarian lager known for a bready flavor, a spicy aroma, and an ability to induce pleasurable sensations of inebriation.

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Twenty-three days into the OCTOBERFEAST and things are getting kooky. Damn kooky. We’ve worshipped Lucifer, munched on cereal, and even hung out with apes. These are strange, horrifying days and they’re only becoming more wonderfully shocking. Sometimes it seems as though OCTOBERFEAST is an alternate dimension of its own.

Anyone who reads comic books or science fiction realizes that our reality is but one of many, a single chapter in book known as the multiverse. There have been countless depictions of realities other than the one to which we are accustomed, and they usually illustrate the idea that some essential quality has been altered. Of course, this makes for great narratives as it encourages the reader/viewer/listener to consider the grand What If?’s in life.

In the late 1950’s, this concept of disregarding standards and questioning society-at-large was the basis behind one of American television’s greatest products — The Twilight Zone. This televised anthology blew minds away every week with unusual stories and narrative twists that defied cookie-cutter formulas. In creator Rod Serling’s words, The Twilight Zone is “A series for the storyteller.”

Serling and his creative team (which sometimes included Ray fuckin’ Bradbury, if you’re still a doubter) seamlessly blended science fiction, horror, westerns, literary classics and comedy into compelling tales of the human condition.   Despite their drastic variances, each episode effectively acts as a parable or revelation.

As these ideas are defiant of those found in most television, The Twilight Zone did itself the favor of including an introductory warning. As seen in the first season,

There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.

Admittedly, I haven’t seen every episode of The Twilight Zone nor can I claim to have an intense knowledge of the show’s history. But any time that I catch an episode on the Sci-Fi Channel (oh shit, I guess I mean SyFy) I find myself positively captivated. It is a terrific program and I find that even some of the shows I truly love (*cough*LOST*cough*) are doing their best to hit the high-water mark set fifty years ago.

Granted, this may be one of the most popular and referenced episodes of the series — so I can’t necessarily defend myself against arguments of That shit is played out. But with Richard Donner behind the camera and the all-mighty Shatner in front, Nightmare at 20,000 Feet deserves the status of goddamn classic.

[Werewolf Trilogy — Part III]

Holy shit, we’re nine days away from Hallow’s Eve, summit of the mountainous OCTOBERFEAST. This is the season of decaying matter and yet life never feels more invigorating. Wait until the sun goes down and step outside — bathe in the cool autumn air, breathe in the fragrance of crumpling leaves, and try to feel anything less than excited to be alive.

I dare you.

To round out the Werewolf Trilogy, we’re going to explore the notion that werewolves are fun-loving party-goers. While manhunters and bitch-mothers are small subsets of the community, most are just looking for a good time. Seriously. For example, this werewolf just wants to snort lines of blow. And this werewolf loves to shred.

Perhaps the best expression of this animalistic debauchery is found in Every Time I Die’s We’rewolf. Keith Buckley (genius that he is) masterfully outlines what it means to go through an evening as a wolfman.

An excerpt:

It’s a full moon, denim is tight, and flannel shirt is freaking out.

Run for your life, cover your eyes, I don’t want you to see me party this hard.

I’ve got a bone to pick with the morning sun and the first last call.

But I didn’t put my hair in a pony tail for nothing,

So if I’m going home alone I ain’t going at all.

Yea. In the wild kingdom you don’t live until your ready to die.

Which one of you sons of bitches is gonna make me feel alive?

Which one of you motherfuckers is gonna get inside my heart?

Is gonna give me a heart attack?

Look away it’s too much to bear. I’ve been bitten by the party animal.

Save yourself. Save yourself. Tell my baby that I love her so.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I gave the world one hell of a time,

And I don’t regret a thing except for the times that I got caught giving it.

I never thought it would take. I had thick blood and cynical skin.

To where are you supposed to escape when the creature is lurking inside of you?

We all want to be werewolves, drinking beers and doing fucking headspins well past the witching hour. We want to resist the idea that our lives are run by suits and squares who only give us 2/7^ths of the week to enjoy ourselves — and only so we don’t freak the fuck out.

Unfortunately, most of us are never fortunate enough to transform into mythical human/canine hybrids. In fact, most of us feel the need to blast ourselves in the heart with the `ole figurative silver bullet before we even consider living the werewolf life.

We should all take a note from Every Time I Die — periodically taking the opportunity to throw caution to the wind in order to live a life that defies rigid structure and routine. I’m not saying to be a fucking weirdo for the sake of it, but to give yourself the chance to occasionally allow your inner animal to surface.

It’s OCTOBERFEAST – use this time to be whatever the fuck you want.

Watch Every Time I Die – We’rewolf in Music    |    View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

[Werewolf Trilogy – Part II]

OCTOBERFEAST is in the midst of an unrelenting assault, driving home the idea that vampires need to take the backseat to werewolves. As detailed previously, werewolves are the ultimate monsters, the worst monthly visitor one could allow into the home (ok, maybe the second worst). In any case, the werewolf is the manifestation of humanity at its most primal –  the fulfillment of base desires through rockin’ violence and sex.

However, there is a caveat to be issued. While the werewolf dominates other monstrosities with ease, he can be defeated. In fact, his very undoing  may be traced to a member of his own species, a culprit whose cunning is only matched by its nefarious nature.

Of course, the creature I’m writing about is the infamous She-Wolf.

To the best of my knowledge, the She-Wolf is essentially the female equivalent of the werewolf (with a much cooler sounding name than Werewoman, Wolfwoman or even SheWereWolfMadam). However, the She-Wolf is actually more powerful than any werewolf because she possesses better attributes, such as breasts and a vagina.

See, wolfmen are just like real men in the regards that they’re fucking morons. As a result, even wolfmen are more apt to think with their penises than their brains when in the company of a procreative mate. I’ve seen it a million times — a werewolf will be on his way home from terrorizing the village and he’ll run into a She-Wolf who “just happens” to be wearing a weird outfit that shows off her buttcheeks.

“Oh, hey there Mr. Muscles!”

“Argh!?”

“Yeah you. I’m supposed to run into that house and eat the grandma. But I’m afraid that I’ll break a were-nail. Do you think you could do it for me? I mean, I hate to ask but you look so strong…”

“Woof-woof-OF COURSE!!!”

It’s disgusting, using sex appeal to get one’s way. On the other hand, I do admire the craftiness of the She-Wolf. And so does Dave Mustaine, singer/songwriter and former junkie. Mustaine dedicated a track on Megadeth’s Cryptic Writings album to lady-lycanthrope.

The 1997 She-Wolf serves as a warning:

The mother of all that is evil.
Her lips are poisonous venom.
Wicked temptress knows how to please.
The priestess roars, “Get down on your knees.”

The rite of the praying mantis.
Kiss the bones of the enchantress.
Spellbound searching through the night.
A howling man surrenders the fight.

One look in her lusting eyes,
Savage fear in you will rise.
Teeth of terror sinking in –
The bite of the she-wolf!

My desires of flesh obey me.
The lioness will enslave me.
Another heart beat than my own,
The sound of claws on cobblestone, I’m stoned.

Beware what stalks you in the night!
Beware the she-wolf and her bite!
Her mystic lips tell only lies!
Her hidden will to kill in disguise!

So there you have it — undeniable evidence that even werewolves, the most severe of OCTOBERFEAST threats, are toppled by the She-Wolf.

From Woodstock 1999 (you know, the terrible one in which shit caught on fire):