The Top Three Greatest Bad Horror Movies That Would be a Shame to Miss on Your Home Theater System

3. Hellraiser – For some bizarre and inexplicable reason, the overweight gothic girls and the hopeless, bespectacled geeks who love them have rewarded this steaming pile of crap with a modicum of undeserving renown and acclaim. Stretching over three ghoulish hours, Hellraiser provides the average viewer with some of the most hilariously bad acting ever to grace the silver screen, coupled with the most nonsensical dialogue of all time. I recognize the fact that these kinds of horror movies are generally awful, featuring convoluted story lines and brutal one liners, but the fascinating thing about this movie is that it has a decent rating according to most respectable movie websites, as well as a slew of unfortunate people who deem it to be one of the most frightening movies of all time. Of course, I have only ever watched it on an ancient VCR chugging along feverishly, dangerously close to sputtering to its death; the whir of its mechanical bits humming at increasingly louder decibels. In other words, maybe I haven’t given this movie the proper viewing it deserves. This kind of cinematic garbage warrants the real deal; like sitting back in a luxurious Bass Ambassador Home Theater Chair, watching a massive flat screen television and enjoying only the finest Orville Redenbacher which I like to bastardize with ketchup seasoning, butter employed only as an adhesive for the deliciously and dangerously sodium filled flavoring.

Tagline: Satan’s done waitin’.

2. Sleepaway Camp – Sadly, there is not a self respecting movie theatre in the world that would soil their screens with the highly disturbing yet laughably crappy final scene of this complete cow pie of a movie. So it looks like you will have to rent it when and if it ever comes to DVD and play it on your boss home theater system. The plot of this outrageous tale revolves around a troubled young girl named Angela. She is quiet yet seemingly disturbed and suffers endless torment from the other kids at the camp. When mysterious, violent deaths begin to occur, no one would ever suspect young Angela; young Angela who is so quiet, “she could be dead!” You don’t hear that kind of subtle foreshadowing anymore which is really why this movie needs to be enjoyed on a big screen in HD, with surround sound; especially for the revolting climax. For the ending, picture The Crying Game only with phenomenally worse acting and some of the worst special effects of all time; if I had had anything to do with the she-thing creature that exposes itself at the end of this movie professionally I would probably jump off a building. It looked as though a four year old crafted this final terror with MSPaint. The head of the female lead, Angela was sloppily placed atop the neck of the body of a man with absolutely no regard for realism or authenticity. Angela’s head was simply a picture of the lead actresses face contorted into a wicked, unmoving grin, and the body which was of a completely different skin tone was also immobilized in nudity. This is the kind of garbage that needs to be enjoyed in a top of the line home theater; one to rival even Tony Soprano’s.

Tagline: The perfect place to meet young girls might just be the perfect place to die!

1. The Paperboy – This classic features the cinematic stylings of the great Alexandra Paul formerly known as Stephanie Holden from both the original Baywatch and the devastatingly lame (and thankfully short-lived) Baywatch Nights (lasting two seasons, this show featured The Hoff playing a ‘gritty’ private investigator, protecting the beach from the sands by day and the streets by night; apparently neon lights and high-waisted, pleated pants make you ‘gritty’. Who knew?). This gem of an actress plays sweet Melissa Thorpe, a divorced mother of one who moves into her elderly grandmother’s home after she mysteriously dies. Upon arrival, Melissa and her daughter are introduced to young Johnny, a paperboy whose workaholic father seems to never be around to hang out with him. Melissa feels sorry for the young boy and allows him to come over for dinner and to baby sit her daughter, but when Johnny begins to behave strangely and act out violently, Melissa tells him he is no longer welcome in her home. This is when the terror really begins. Johnny goes on a veritable killing spree, murdering all of those who keep him from who he considers his ‘real’ family, i.e. Melissa and her wee daughter. It is quite a sight to behold; watching all of these horrendous actors pretend as though they might really succumb to the wit and strength of a prepubescent, 80 pound paperboy. The kind of completely unbelievable tripe that must be witnessed on the big screen of your home theater.

Tagline: He’s bad news.

How can you possibly deny yourself the pleasure of these films? There is truly nothing more hilarious than a bad movie, so what could be better than a bad movie played in an awesome home theater? Treat yourself to some frightful gems of the late 70s to the early 90s; it’ll be a scream…

These are the People in my Neighborhood (Whether they Like it or Not)

Working on the 18^th floor of a downtown building means two things: 1. riding the elevator is annoying and 2. I have a bird’s eye view of everything that surrounds me. I can say, with little hesitation, that I have become a voyeur – but it’s not my fault. Hundreds of lives are exposed to me daily; some I like, some not so much. Some people I would truly like to meet. They make me feel like, were it not for the panes of glass, the two lanes of traffic, and social decency, we would be pals.

Take, for example, Naked Guy. This isn’t like “Ugly Naked Guy” from Friends; this is a handsome, young, executive-type who simply prefers to complete menial tasks as he was born. I’ve seen him tidy up and wash dishes; oddly enough, he wore gloves for the latter. I envision him to be the type to shout “Gotta run,” as he grabs keys and flies out the door.

Or Preggers: a lovely young woman and her husband, presumably living with her mother. The woman, slight and pixie-like, save for the giant protruding belly that forces her to walk like a duck, finally came home with their bundle of joy, wrapped in neutral yellow to hide the sex. All I’ve seen since are a mass of black hair and a much more comfortable looking mommy, relaxing in the sofa while she is catered to.

There are others who I’ve never really bonded with. The Bad Kid, who threw all his toys out his bedroom window when he was sent there, likely for poor behavior. Or Angry Man, who was either shouting very aggressively at someone, or was channeling his inner rap star, complete with wild arm gestures. My least favorite is the Realtor, who can’t quite sell the corner apartment, due surely to his surly nature; he refuses to wave back at me, no matter how high I jump or frantically I flail my arms.

These people, whether they like it or not, have invited me into their homes. For eight hours every day, I turn my head and peek into the open curtained rooms and visit with my friends. I hope to witness the baby’s progressions through life, or the Realtor’s finalizing handshake. I will, without doubt, be devastated should one of my friends become offended and force me to purchase an observation tool, like a classic Telephoto Lens or a convenient LED Nightlight. Perhaps the surest way to securing my new friendships in advance would be to invest in some Digital Audio Monitors so as to make supportive comments throughout their days. If I really commit myself to these friendships, the baby’s first word could be Cymax.

Sans somnolence and the A.M. reclamation project

Experts say over the course of a lifetime we will spend an average of 1/3^rd of our lives asleep. Am I the only one who feels like I’ll need to develop hibernation skills to approach anywhere near that number? I still feel like I’m paying the body-clock price for burning the candle at both ends during my UVIC years and being a Madden and NFL Gameday juggernaut is little consolation when I feel like dung at 7am on a daily basis. Fact is, I’m not a morning person and that die was cast long ago – so very long ago.

I’ve poured orange juice on my cereal. I’ve started to brush my teeth with a dry toothbrush. I’ve arrived at work only to be snickered at on account of my belt passing through only two of the five loops on my khakis. You get the idea; I’m an pre-10A.M. zombie and I’m resigned to the fact that if it wasn’t for the venerable Juan Valdez and his Colombian Supremo such incidents might pale in comparison to the manifestations of incoherency I could muster up.

It was a few years back that a friend made some sort of feng shui- ish suggestion that I orient my bed northwards to “align” myself or something along those lines. Apparently it would allow me more restful and rejuvenative sleep. I was up ‘till two-thirty wondering if I was comfortable with my noggin being right below the window in a ground floor apartment. ‘Nuff said.

Lately I’ve been thinking – What if I had had an aesthetically pleasing bedroom to repose in during those late teen / early twenties formative years? Granted my financial shortcomings had much to do with it but, having recently become aware of the expanse of competitively priced, stylish and well made bedroom furniture available through Cymax Stores, I’m beginning to realize things could’ve been very different for me.

As a result, I’m here for the next generation with a most sincere plea. Don’t be like me. Don’t be in a fog from 7 to 10 each morning. Get the sleep you need under the stylish security of a sparkling new headboard – something conducive to your catching some Zs.

Perhaps your bed feels overwhelmed with the scrutiny of being the focal point of your downtime. Why not provide it with a sidekick in the form of a nightstand? Bedside tables on either side of your crash pad would surely do the trick, and adding a bedside table lamp might also be a consideration if you’re too cool to ask your parents if they still have your Smokey the Bear nightlight. Only YOU can prevent forest fires, remember that.

Still watching Jerry Springer’s choreographed white-trash gong show banished to the witching hour? Still testing the resolve of the snooze bar every morning? (Futility I assure you) You may well need a whole new spread of bedroom furniture and to that end I recommend investing in a selection of South Shore furniture. South Shore beds are a great place to start. They’re solid, reasonably priced and easy on the eyes. What about your immediate surroundings? South Shore nightstands and South Shore dressers are equally as appealing. I’d recommend a South Shore TV stand but I don’t know how helpful that would be unless it housed a personal stereo with an “ocean sounds” CD rather than a TV. Who knows – but be open to suggestion unless you want to end up as a slumber-challenged individual like me.

Lastly, if all else fails there’s the pharmacological band-aid known as Nytol, but I strongly recommend trying furniture first.

Ahhh, tax season.

It’s the time of year when people start to madly grope their way to the back of closets in search of receipts, papers from workplaces and a dog-eared, highlighted, underlined copies of Taxes for Dummies. And face it, you are a dummy. Most people are when it comes to their taxes. Did you know that the number one reason people receive a delayed tax return is because they’ve forgotten to sign their papers or have written down their Social Insurance Numbers incorrectly. Seriously.

The worst part is the advertisements hawking easy do-it-yourself tax packages that show a happy couple on the front, her holding a calculator and him with a pen. Installing a program into your computer may solve simple problems, like organization, but when it comes down to it, no one – NO ONE – understands taxes. Even accountants feel their collars get a little tight at this time of year. And it has nothing to do with the volume of clients they serve; it’s more to do with them trying to hide their own copies of Taxes for Dummies without clients seeing them.

Growing up, my dad did the taxes. He refused to take the road most traveled and stop in at the local H & R Block, which led to the quietest weekend ever in our house. That was the one weekend a year when we literally had to tip toe though the kitchen to avoid disturbing dear old Dad, whose hand did not leave his forehead for two days straight. My brother and I had a normal childhood relationship (read: we hated each other) but for that fateful spring weekend, we were like best friends in a silent movie. It was also the only weekend we were allowed to eat in front of the TV. There was no other option; the kitchen was splayed with papers and receipts. For us, eating in the living room was like magic. It symbolized hell for my mother who kept a dust-buster in the living room as if it were a piece of furniture to prevent any crumbs from trying to trick her into letting them stay a while on the brown shag.

It wasn’t for a few years when a file cabinet was purchased and the weekend o’silence ceased. Suddenly, every day was back to its regular zoo-like atmosphere and my dad didn’t spend a week looking like the victim of a forehead slapping. The filing cabinet reduced the papers normally stuffed between the flour and sugar canisters and created space in what I later learned was a china cabinet; up until then, it was the paper cabinet.

Turns out china looks nicer when properly displayed and taxes are easier to file when everything is neatly organized into a file cabinet. There you have it: the gist of Taxes for Dummies. I just saved you twenty dollars and a lifetime of headaches.

I. Am. An Ascot Wearer!

I decided many years ago that I was destined to write the next great novel. I walked around town saying “I. Am. A writer!” and awaited applause. I quoted famous novelists at McDonalds while ordering my McNuggets and began wearing an ascot. I started smoking pipes and toted around leather-bound notebooks. I. Was. A writer!

I went on sabbatical from school, and locked myself in my house. I bought a typewriter in order to produce an authentic looking manuscript. Fitzgerald, be damned! You too, Hemingway, I thought. I was the writer now. People will make movies out of my work, much to everyone’s disappointment because, as we all know, the movie pales in comparison to the book. I lit candles and an oil lantern and discussed with myself how smart I was. Or was I?

How could I, a soon to be critically acclaimed writer, forever doomed to become a shot-gun wielding hermit, even attempt to write what would be a brilliant novel without a proper writing desk? Dickens must be rolling over in his grave! My old TV tray with a decorative floral pattern surrounding a boat harbor just wouldn’t do.

I perused Cymax.com for a while, and discovered the perfect writing desk. It had an antique finish and plenty of room for my typewriter, so I ordered it immediately. When it arrived, creative juices flowed through my veins once again. I cracked my fingers and stretched my neck in preparation. I sat down and marveled at my new desk; the key to my would-be success was before me.

After staring at the keyboard for roughly eight hours, I decided maybe writing wasn’t my true calling; that wearing an ascot could be a fashion statement on its own. But what would my new passion be? I sat down at my writer’s desk and made a list:

• Basketball player
• Florist
• Sailor
• Trumpeter
• Juggler

I weighed the pros and cons of all, and have now, finally discovered my real passion; the true reason I was born. I am forever destined to search the internet and find great deals on quality furniture items. Everything else is too difficult. But I’m keeping the ascot.

The Good, The Bad and The Leather

It was a quiet evening at Dorothy’s Saloon. A relaxed game of poker was being played at the table in the corner; everyone was breaking even so there were no hard feelings tonight. The player piano filled the smoky room with a happy melody that had even the usual grimacing customers tapping their feet on the dirty wooden floor. Ice cold brew and warm whiskey flowed, keeping Dorothy busy and the atmosphere light. All was well tonight. That is, until Charlie Daniels walked in.

He pushed through the swinging doors with such speed and force, a loud bang made everyone stop in their tracks. Charlie Daniels had on dirty chaps and a dirtier hat. His shirt, once of a fine quality, looked like it had seen him through several rough nights. The whiskers on his cheeks cast a dark shadow on his face, implying several days on the road without stopping to clean up. Charlie was on a mission, and no one in the saloon wanted to find out what it was.

Ladies averted their eyes to the floor as he approached the bar. Cards were quietly laid on the table while hands slyly fingered their revolvers. Everyone tried to act natural in this most unnatural setting. No one dared speak; no one dared move. Nervous patrons quietly slugged back their beverages to make time at the bar disappear.

Charlie Daniels clomped up to the bar. His boots jangled and banged with each step, causing everyone to wince with his rhythm. Doc Holloway was shaking so badly, his eye glasses nearly fell off his face. He knew he should stay to tend to the impending injured, but he was a small man and carried no weapon. He jumped up and flew out the door in one fell swoop, careful not to cross paths with Charlie.

The sudden commotion from Doc caused a ruckus in the saloon. Every man cocked his gun; every woman gasped and shielded her eyes. Dorothy stood bravely behind the bar, like a captain about to go down with her ship. Charlie chuckled at the sudden sight of the room, even though every gun was pointed at him.

Dorothy’s son Jackson peeked out from behind the bar. He was a brave boy; losing your dad at a young age will do that to you. Dorothy whispered his name, but he didn’t listen. Jackson approached Charlie, and with his toughest, meanest voice said “You can sit in this chair, Mr. Daniels,” and pointed to Doc Holloway’s abandoned barstool. Charlie tilted his head to one side. He pulled out the stool and walked a full circle around it, nodding his head. It had a fine leather seat that, despite its age, looked brand new. The wooden legs were sturdy and had a lower foot rest for comfort. “Thanks, boy,” said Charlie as he settled in to his chair. A deep exhale of relaxation blew out of his mouth. He adjusted himself and discovered most happily that this leather barstool also had a swivel. His eyes widened in appreciation and declared, “Miss Dorothy, this is the best dang barstool I’ve ever sat on in my life! Whiskey for everyone, on me!”

A cheer rang out that could be heard for miles. Men who had contemplated shooting him on site gave him an approving pat on the shoulder. Things at Dorothy’s Saloon returned to normal – cards were dealt, music was playing, and every toe was tapping on the peanut shell-filled floor . . . even Charlie Daniels’.

A Brief and Completely Untrue History of Futons

It was the year 1612 and Japanese Emperor Makaturaki, known as Empy M for short, kept insisting that he was hearing strange noises in his room at night. He was convinced that they were coming from underneath the bed, though numerous inspections proved without a doubt that there was nothing there. He was tired and irritable as these noises, coupled with his intense suspicions of the underside of his handsome king size bed had kept him anxiously awake for nearly a week. He demanded that one of his many servants devise a solution for him, and quickly. Empy M didn’t like to threaten death but he would if it came down to it.

Luckily, one of his men was in the process of developing a space saving mattress that could simply roll out onto a tatami mat and roll back up in the morning. It was made from thick, comfortable cotton batting and, in those days, left absolutely no space between the floor and the bed. It was a dream come true for Empy M. Pleased as punch, he had his sleeping quarters prepared with this newly invented futon and readied himself for his first deep sleep in a week.

Unfortunately, Empy M didn’t last the night. Incidentally something really was in his room; however he was hiding in the closet, not under the bed. He was an assassin and had been attempting to poison Emperor Makaturaki for the past week, but developed an incessant case of hick-ups. These hick-ups are what caused Empy M’s debilitating paranoia and his inability to sleep prevented the assassin from quietly poisoning his victim and making a clean escape.

However, as soon as Empy M nestled into his new futon, his fiery anxieties were cooled, and he zonked out like a drunk baby as soon as his head touched the pillow. A whole week of restless sleep can really do a number on a guy, especially a busy emperor. The assassin took this rare, slumberous opportunity to deliver his lethal poison; just a drop in Empy M’s wide mouth, down his open snoring throat and that was that. Empy M was no longer.

The tale itself is certainly not one to be boastful of. If I were a futon mattress, I would be somewhat ashamed of my treacherous roots. But I am not a futon mattress and if I was I would be an inanimate object…so…there you go.

Most people find themselves a little wary of the futon mattress despite the fact that they are unaware of its scandalous beginnings. They have recollections of staying overnight at friends’ house or spending the weekend at hip Uncle Bernie’s and waking up with an aching spine and riddled with knots the size of cantaloupes. Fortunately those days are over. Today’s futon mattress is much different from how they were made in the 70s, the 80s, and even the 90s. And there are a multitude of options too; not just a fat slab of padding like they once were. Today you can get mattresses filled with memory foam, or mattresses reinforced with a cotton crown.

Futons are no longer something to dread, which is nice considering trips to hip Uncle Bernie’s have revealed themselves to be trips to my creepy, trying-too-hard Uncle Bernie’s and sleep is my only real escape from his never-ending acoustic renditions of Berlin’s 1987 mega hit, Take My Breath Away.

So there you have it. The very brief and very untrue history of futons.