A Nightmare Just Before Christmas

I’m back from Maui and hunkered down in the much more wintery climes of Alberta. Although I didn’t sample any Maui Wowee, I’ve gotta say that Hawaii far exceeded my expectations on every level: the scenery, the weather, the people, the food, the beaches, the sights and the beer (coconut porter = awesome).

Not a lot of horror happenings around there, but apparently the town of Lahaina throws an awesome Halloween bash. I saw some pretty cool Tiki carvings and, um, the new issue of RM was at the Barnes & Noble. Sadly, the closest I came to fighting Supergator was playing catch-and-release with the geckos in our condo.

I did go see I Am Legend while in Maui, and I won’t go on about it, ’cause I’d like to review it in the mag, but I will say that a better title would’ve been I Am Bullshit. Poor Matheson.

So, today I’m at my girlfriend’s parents, eating amazing food, lazing around reading and getting geared up for my first crack at Guitar Hero. Later, we’ll continue our Christmas Day tradition of watching cheesy horror with a trip to the multiplex for some Aliens vs. Predator action — fuck, yeah!

Before that, though, I’m gonna share the dream/nightmare I had this morning — possibly the weirdest one ev-er. In it, I showed up at a giant, lavish theatre. I didn’t know why I was there until my mom ran up and gave me a headset and told me I was late for the Poultrygeist screening. I would never in a Tromillion years show my mom Poultrygeist but in my dream she had organized a gala screening of some sort. I was seated at a table and given a guest list. There were a bunch of celebrities on it but the only one I remember — and this is probably the strangest part of the whole thing — was Pierre Berton… +10 guests! If you’re not Canadian, you probably don’t know who Berton was. The quirky Canuck, who died in 2004, was a writer, historian and all around media guy who focused on Canadian history. He’d wear a bow-tie, a coat with tails and had mutton chops; so pretty much the last person you’d see at a Troma screening. Before I could find out who dead Pierre Berton was bringing with him to Poultrygeist, my mom pulled me aside to tell me that my grandma was diagnosed with Alzhemer’s.

Then I woke up.

Make all the tainted egg nog jokes you want — I feel a little violated having Lloyd Kaufman in my subconscious in Christmas morning. Now I have this image of him standing on a roof in a filthy Santa suit, threatening to drop his pants and come down my chimney.

On that note, have a Black Christmas and I hope you’re all doing your very best to make Baby Jesus cry.