Ghost Stories for Christmas Eve

Once again, my ambition outreaches realistic limits. The second installment of Christmas, A Ghostly Time of Year will not make its appearance until after Christmas. All three kids have been released from school for the holidays, and Lois is home due to her company’s recently adopted policy of mandatory holiday vacation. Thus I forgot to factor in having to battle for computer usage time, having to fend off the constant barrage of interruptions and questions from the little ones (three kids badgering you with holiday related requests are not conducive to serious scholarly research – I love you boys!) as well as my required (and enthusiastic!) participation in Lois’ extensive reconstruction of the living room to enable maximum holiday socializing - I love you, honey! Let the sound of the miniature violins swell as we come to the end of pathetic excuse making. Besides there are twelve days of Christmas, right?

To keep my readers from rioting in the streets over this revoltin’ development, I’m offering ten ghostly pleasures to enjoy if you're overcome with the urge to participate in this most august of Christmas Eve traditions. The first list is geared towards the novice reader, or towards those who maintain a staunch love for the classic tale. The second list has been provided for those more well-read in the genre, offering several delightful examples of the ghost story’s adaptability beyond the confines of gaslights, decrepit mansions and antiquarian interests. Due to my own self-imposed limits, I had to leave out renowned and worthy authors such as E. F. Benson, Oliver Onions, Edith Wharton, Henry James and a host of others from the classic era, and Joyce Carol Oates, Stephen King, Robert Bloch, Glen Hirshberg and many others from the post-WWII era. In addition I left out a few of my favorite classic stories, including The Upper Birth by F. Marion Crawford and How Love Came to Professor Gildea by Robert Hitchins. The work of J. S. Le Fanu and M. R. James deserves lists of their own. It grieved me to limit myself to one tale from each.

Feel free to e-mail me with your own suggestions or post them on the comments page. We here at the Journal are always on the lookout for a good ghost story.

5 classic ghost stories to curl up with on a cold winter’s night:

1. Green Tea by J. S. Le Fanu
2. The Monkey’s Paw by W. W. Jacobs
3. The Ash Tree by M. R. James
4. The Damned by Algernon Blackwood
5. The Red Lodge by H. R. Wakefield

5 Twentieth Century Ghosts:

1. Smoke Ghost by Fritz Leiber
2. House Taken Over by Julio Cortázar
3. The Inner Room by Robert Aickman
4. Out of Copyright by Ramsey Campbell
5. The Specialist’s Hat by Kelly Link

Christmas, A Ghostly Time of Year: Part 1 – The Origins of the Literary Ghost

The dark of winter has descended over the northern hemisphere and the holiday season springs full upon us. For holiday revelers, the month of December ushers in a whirlwind of religious celebrations, gatherings with friends and family, office parties, decorations, carols of every musical genre assaulting the airwaves, open fires, and, for the materialist Western world, loads of shopping. Naturally for us here at the Journal of Weird Studies, the holiday season evokes different associations: namely, the time-honored, seasonal offering of the ghost story.

While ghosts in literature can be traced back to Homer, I suspect the true origins of ghostly tales extend far beyond the written record, down into the deep, dark ancestral well of prehistory, first raising its spectral form shortly after humanity became cognizant of death as a fact of life. The literary ghost story, however – a distinct form separate from true accounts of ghostly apparitions, fictional rewriting of true accounts or the use of ghosts as plot devices in literary works such as in The Odyssey or Hamlet – made its first appearance roughly two hundred years ago (1).

The question naturally arises: what characteristics comprise this distinct form? The best template I’ve found so far is from scholar Michael Cox’s introduction to The Oxford Book of English Ghost Stories.

“The ghostly protagonists must act with a deliberate intent; their actions - or the consequences of their actions –rather than those of the living must be the central theme; and, most importantly of all, each ghost, whether human or animal phantom or reanimated corpse, must unquestionably be dead. From this it follows that there can be no rationalization of the ghost, no explanation of the events by natural causes.”

In other words, the ghost assumes primacy in the story; it’s conscious actions drive the plot and impact the fate of the story’s living protagonists. However, I would also put forth a few exceptions: (a) the ambiguous ghost - hauntings and encounters that could have a rational explanation, but which the author leaves purposefully open ended and uncertain; and (b) hauntings of the mind, where the ghost could also be interpreted as a manifestation of psychological elements warring within a character’s tortured psyche - conceivably a subcategory of the ambiguous ghost.

With these basic criteria in mind, the first true literary ghost story appears to be The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving (2). Collected in The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. (published serially in 1818-1820, and in one volume in 1820), Irving’s tale of a gangly schoolteacher’s late night encounter with the ghost of a Hessian trooper is one of the most famous American stories ever, thanks in large part to Disney’s animated adaptation. Irving leaves the ultimate fate of Ichabod Crane a mystery, though one character conjectures the theory that rival suitor “Brom Bones” Van Brunt, disguised as the Headless Horseman, scared Crane out of town. Tales of a Traveler (1824) proves that Irving’s earlier outing was no fluke. Part 1 of the collection, subtitled “Strange Stories by a Nervous Gentleman,” provides several fine examples of the form, the most successful being The Adventure of the German Student, a savage little tale with a gruesome denouement.

On the English literary scene, critics unanimously agree that Sir Walter Scott’s Wandering Willie’s Tale, an episode inserted in the novel Redgauntlet (1824), was the first masterpiece of the genre, if not the first composed (3). Willie relates an account of his ancestor Steenie Steenson and his descent into hell in order to retrieve a rental receipt from his recently deceased landlord, Sir Robert Redgauntlet. Despite having several undeniable ghosts, the story falls squarely within the supernatural fantasy category, sharing characteristics of folk tales that deal with journeys to the realm of faery and of encounters with Satan (4). After being summoned to the hellish counterpart of Redgauntlet parlour, Steenson faces three tests, the failing of which leads to the loss of his soul; he refuses to consume offerings of food and drink (consumption of faery edibles always led to a mortal’s perpetual entrapment in the realm), declines a request to play a musical tune with satanic associations, and rejects Redgauntlet’s demand that he return in a year’s time to pay his master (presumably Satan) homage owed for his former landlord’s otherworldly protection. Six years later, Scott presented a work solidly situated in the ghost story genre. The Tapestried Chamber tells of a retired soldier, General Browne, who is scared out of his wits by a late night visitation from an evil ancestress of his host and good friend, Lord Woodville. Scott’s contributions to supernatural fiction, though remarkable, were surprisingly few in number. In general, he remained wary of using supernatural motifs in his fiction (possibly due to the stigma of his early association with “Monk” Lewis), preferring to keep his historical fiction grounded in realism.

Over the next decade, two prominent authors associated with spectral fiction made their publishing debuts. Irish author Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu ranks as one of the greatest writers of supernatural fiction from the Victorian era. By the time of his death in 1873, he had left behind a substantial body of work, including classic tales such as Schalken the Painter, Green Tea, Carmilla, Squire Toby’s Will, Mr. Justice Harbottle, and The Familiar, as well as the novel, Uncle Silas. In his best work, the natural and supernatural worlds are deeply entwined, inseparable forces linked within the consciousnesses and subtle perceptions of his protagonists. Noted scholar E. F. Bleiler observes that in Le Fanu’s work

“…The supernatural is an unconscious element in the mind and it may leap into emergence when the barriers protecting the conscious ego are temporarily broken down….the larger implications of the mind as a microcosm of the universe also loom out, and potentially evil mental fragments may become hypostatized into semi-independent existence, to ally themselves with larger evil forces of which we are fortunately unaware.”

Unlike many Victorian era writers of supernatural fiction, Le Fanu had a clearly developed aesthetic of how the supernatural operates in fiction. It wasn’t enough for his stories to have the trappings of ghosts, haunted houses and supernatural creatures. The important factor for Le Fanu was examining the subtle effects these visitations had on the states of consciousness of his characters. Le Fanu’s impact on the ghost story deserves closer study, an effort that falls outside the realm of this particular article.

Even today, almost 140 years after his death, Charles Dickens remains one of the most famous and best-loved authors in the world. His novels, with their vivid depictions of lower class characters and their struggles to survive in a harsh and uncaring England, struck an immense chord with his Victorian readership, granting him immense celebrity during his lifetime. It’s hard to imagine how the novel would have developed without his overshadowing influence. Though his impact on the ghost story will be examined more fully in the next post, it should be pointed out that he published five ghost stories in 1836 (5), as part of his serialized first novel, The Pickwick Papers. The last of the five, The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton, published in the December 1836 installment, was, in retrospect, a foreshadowing of a future Christmas work to come.


Footnotes:

(1) Some scholars put forth Daniel Defoe’s story A True Relation of the Apparition of One Mrs. Veal (1706) as the first literary ghost story. In truth, the tale is little more than a fictional retelling of a then famous contemporary haunting. Defoe’s ghostly protagonist has the dubious distinction of being one of the chattiest ghosts in literary history, engaging in almost two hours of discourse with her good friend Mrs. Bargrave on topics ranging from Christian theology and the merits of religious verse to the nature of true friendship.

Later in the 18th century the Gothic novel, which shares more than a passing relationship with the ghost story, rose to prominence. These excessive and often quite sensational novels were steeped in supernatural trappings. More often than not though, the supernatural elements had rational explanations (the Scooby Doo cartoon mysteries have provided millions of children the world over with an excellent, albeit simplified, introduction to the common methods of plot resolution in Gothic novels, attributing the Scooby Gang’s run-ins with supernatural wonders such as UFOs, ghosts, vampires, and monstrous sea creatures to trickery employed to cover up the evil machinations of scheming old men hungry for money and/or property. Personally, I blame their encounters on the hallucinogenic properties of the Scooby snack). Acknowledged masters of the Gothic novel include Horace Walpole, Charles Robert Maturin, Ann Radcliffe, and Matthew Gregory “Monk” Lewis.

M. R. James posited the ballad form as “the direct line of ancestry of the ghost story,” and hesitated over bestowing first place honors to Sir Walter Scott’s verses, Glenfinlas and Eve of St. John, collected in the anthology, Tales of Terror and Wonder, edited by “Monk” Lewis.

(2) I’m sure British scholars will cry foul over this choice. How could an upstart Yankee possibly have composed the first undisputed entry in a genre typically considered as distinctly English?

(3) Note the publication date of Redgauntlet. Even discounting The Legend of Sleepy Hollow on grounds that the haunting could be explained rationally, Irving still shares primacy with Scott due to his undisputable contribution, The Adventure of the German Student, a minor masterpiece of the genre.

(4) Subtle distinctions between the various subgenres of supernatural fiction appear to be non-existent in the earliest parts of its history. The term “ghost story” is liberally applied not only to fiction containing actual apparitions of the dead, but also to stories that feature goblins, faeries, devils and other supernatural creatures. Perhaps these various beings were all considered denizens of different kingdoms within the immaterial (or spiritual) plane, thus accounting for their common grouping within the blanket term “ghost story.”


(5) These tales are The Lawyer and the Ghost, The Queer Chair, The Ghosts of the Mail, A Madman’s Manuscript, and The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton.

At Christmas, He'll Devour Your Soul

My wife is in league with the Elder Gods.

A few days ago, she returned from a business trip bearing a sealed shipping envelope. "This is for you," Lois said, quickly averting her eyes. She left the room in a hurry, slamming the door shut behind her. The package throbbed in my hands. What the hell could this be?

As I opened the envelope, a sickly green light emanated from within, filling the room with its nauseous tint. For a brief moment, the thought crossed my mind that Lois was trying to kill me, that she had somehow got her hands on a small particle of discarded radioactive waste, that I was now going to die a horrible death from being exposed to it. Then I saw the tentacles and the Santa hat.

Gingerly, I removed the idol from its faux wool bedding. Astonishment and horror filled me, yet also wonder and a strange sense of liberation. Humanity's struggle is over, I thought. The Old Ones have arrived to hurl death and destruction on mankind. I ran out of the room. Upstairs, in the living room, Lois stood by the Christmas tree. I proclaimed jubilantly, "We must situate the idol in a place of prominance on the coniferous throne of pagan worship!" Odd, that didn't sound like something I'd say. "Yes," Lois said, her voice dull and mechanical. "We must place the idol on the Christmas tree."

All through the night, the tree vibrates at a low frequency, an unhealthy glow radiating from its center. In a highly improbable turn of events, our children are begging us to cancel Christmas, anything to get rid of that corrupted tree, that horrid ornament. Even worse, our cat has gone missing. We last saw him writhing beneath the tree, scratching at the branches, yowling in unearthly fright. Late at night, I still hear his uncanny howling, faint and far away, sounding as if it originates from deep within the heart of the tree's trunk. I now suspect our Christmas tree houses a portal opening onto R'yleh.

Ever since Lois gave me the "ornament," its dead black eyes seem to be trying to communicate with me. My mind is not right. I've been having bizarre dreams of a jagged island looming in the midst of storm-tossed seas. Exploring its circumference, I come upon a doorway leading into a gargantuan building, conceived and constructed from alien geometries. As the doorway opens, tentacles wreathed in tinsel slither forth. My mind hovers on the verge of collapse as an immense voice, deep and gutteral, reverberates within my cranium.

MWRAWLKABRAHA BAKAXIKHEKH ZEPRAKLAXOSZOSO

"What's that, Mr. Cthulhu? You want me to compose a Christmas carol in your honor?"

IA! CTHULHU FHTAGN!

"But what of my immortal soul? Won't I be damned to hell for such blasphemy?"

ANTAKLOS MRADUK FHORN'N TEKALILI

"Oh, you've already eaten my soul?"

IA! CTHULHU FHTAGN!

"In that case..."

(sung to the tune of O Come All Ye Faithful)

O come all ye Old Ones
Loathesome and repugnant
O come ye, O come ye
to reign and destroy.

Tremble and fear him
from outer dimensions
O come let us abhor him
O come let us abhor him
O come let us abhor him
Cthulhu fhtagn!

I'm straining with every ounce of my being to stop myself from typing this next bit, but Cthulhuclaus compels me to tell you that you can purchase your own Christmas idol, I mean ornament, at the Etsy shop.

What doom have I wrought upon mankind?

I mean, merry Cthulhumas, or rather, Christmas.

Education of the Horror Kids, Part 2

I just helped my four year old draw and color a picture of a bald headed zombie, adorned in tattered, bloodstained clothing, with bloodshot eyes, menacing teeth and a bloodsmeared mouth.

Is that so wrong?

Led Zeppelin Redux

For millions of Zeppelin fans the world over, today is a momentous occasion. In a few short hours, the surviving members of one of rock's most legendary groups take the stage at London's 02 Arena. I, for one, am excited, but filled with trepidation. Previous reunions have been bombs, even by the band's reckoning. It would be nice to see Page, Plant, Jonesy and Jason Bonham add one more masterful performance to the band's mythology.

The evidence will soon be out. By tomorrow, the concert will be circulating among bittorrenters the world over, and judgement will have been passed. I wish them the best. And if the magic has returned, I hope they see fit to keep riding on to new lands, unleashing the hammer of the gods.

Lord of the Rings: a text of transformation?

Much scholarly ink has been spilled examining Professor J. R. R. Tolkien’s spiritual views and how they influenced and permeate his magnum opus, The Lord of the Rings. Many naysayers (most recently Philip Pullman, author of the His Dark Materials trilogy) claim that the work is hampered by Tolkien’s spirituality, that Tolkien didn’t address the “big adult questions” because he believed that the Roman Catholic Church had all the answers. Personally I disagree with that claim. Within the pages of the LOTR, as well as his monumental history of Middle Earth, Tolkien tackles many of the big themes and questions - loss of innocence; the importance of friends; the solace of the natural world; the devastation of the natural world by the rise of industrialism; the nature of war; the nature and corrupting influence of power; what things are worth fighting for; how one copes with the tremendous burdens life unexpectedly lays on us. It may be a no-brainer to longtime Tolkien fans, but I would further argue you don’t have to be Roman Catholic or even Christian to appreciate the LOTR’s philosophical and religious underpinnings. If you possess a love for the ancient epic, Norse mythology, quest literature or excellent fantasy, you’ll find much to savor in Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

I would argue though that the LOTR is a deeply spiritual text, one that transcends its creator’s Christian faith. To a sensitive and receptive reader, the book invites and even initiates personal transformation, acting as a catalyst in much the same way Joseph Campbell proclaimed myth does. I’ll illustrate my point with an example from my own life.

During the spring of 1995, I began re-reading the LOTR for the first time since high school. To my delight I found the books still spoke to me. Not only were they entertaining, but they also touched a deep place within me, reserved for certain transcendent pieces of music, beloved books, or films. As I went further into the trilogy, I found myself adopting an odd rhythm in my reading. I would devour entire chapters, and then, inexplicably, put the book down for an indefinite time, sometimes for weeks. After a while I would feel the urge to resume the quest. Around The Two Towers, I noticed a pattern: whenever I started reading after a break, the events taking place in the book, at that moment, echoed real-time trials in my own life. It was almost as if I was subconsciously waiting for my life to catch up to the adventures unwinding in the book before I could resume reading.

One specific example rings clear in my mind. At the time, I was involved in a band and I had misgivings about the founder, who I’ll refer to as Bjorn (not his real or stage name). We were friends and fellow explorers in occult ritual and philosophy, as well as band mates. Lately though, I had come to suspect he was hiding his true motives from me. After a grueling late night session auditioning drummers for our band, I returned home, uneasy in spirit. While unwinding with dinner and a bottle of good beer, I found my thoughts turning to The Two Towers. It had been a good two weeks since I had rejoined the broken fellowship. I had left off at the point where Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas arrive in Rohan to discover King Théoden enslaved by Wormtongue’s bewitchment. As Gandalf worked to dispel Wormtongue’s dark, insidious influence, encouraging Théoden to step forth to resume his kingship, a flash of insight exploded in my brain. Bjorn functioned like a real life Wormtongue. Over a relatively short period of time, his influence had become paramount in my life, looming over every move I made. In a few months time he had slowly steered me from my true wants and needs, undermining my relationship with my wife, my brother and other close friends, to usurp my power for his ends. Suddenly, the basis of our “friendship” became clear, and I saw my interactions with him over the last few months in a very different light. Bjorn was more or less the equivalent of an emotional vampire, feeding off my talent and life energy, instigating me to relinquish people and ideas that were dear to me, so he could enlist me in his own dark service. It sounds melodramatic (I’m withholding several personal, yet telling details), but it was a very real instance of someone trying to subtly assume control of my life’s direction, and I almost willingly bestowed him the power to do it. In a matter of days, I ended the professional and personal relationship.

The rest of 1995 proved to be a tumultuous year. Against reason, I attributed this to my journey through the LOTR. The book spooked me. Over the course of the next twelve years I often thought of returning to Middle Earth again, especially in the days leading up to the release of Peter Jackson’s film adaptation of The Fellowship of the Ring. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The emotions stirred up by my last reading would flare up, and I lost my nerve.

During my recent illness, I watched all twelve hours of Jackson’s extended cut versions of the films. Despite my lingering emotional trepidation, I suddenly felt the time was right to revisit Tolkien’s original vision. Already the books seem to be working their magic, reflecting real life in their fictional mirror. This time The Hobbit, a work that I initially excluded from the “transformative” books, seemed to have a similar effect. After experiencing personal upheaval that left me feeling lost, helpless and longing for outside help, I came across this passage wherein Bilbo has to figure out a way to liberate his traveling companions, the Dwarves, from the prison of the wood elves in Mirkwood: “He often wished, too, that he could get a message for help sent to the wizard, but that of course was quite impossible; and he soon realized that if anything was to be done, it would have to be done by Mr. Baggins, alone and unaided.”

I’m over halfway through The Fellowship of the Ring and my own journey has proceeded to the point where turning back is no longer an option. I felt a great kinship with Frodo just before the council of Elrond. As he stared off into the woods, he expressed to Gandalf his wish to go wandering in the pines, to reconnect with the natural world and possibly shed a bit of the darkness that had been stalking him over the course of his journey. “’You may have a chance later,’ said Gandalf. ‘But we cannot make any plans yet. There is much to hear and decide today.’”

I long for more carefree days, but the road I still have to travel beckons me. I’m afraid of what lies ahead, and saddened by what I've lost; yet I'm optimistic I’ll make it though this journey, changed for the better, happier and more fulfilled. The only thing I’m sure of is that Tolkien’s books will be at my side, my traveling companions through the wilderness of the coming months.

Anyone wishing to share their own unusual experiences reading The Lord of the Rings can contact me at wavegenerator1@gmail.com. Perhaps if I get enough entries, I’ll post the best of these experiences (with permission from their authors) at a later date.

Back soon

A week ago, I developed a mysterious pain that, after a few hours, bloomed into something intolerable. After writhing, pounding the walls and the bed, convulsing with pain, my wife was advised to take me to the hospital by my on-call doctor. I spent the night in the emergency room, leaving with a prodigious collection of prescriptions, memories of a very surreal night - including an encounter with a CT scan that spoke with a British accent - enhanced with doses of hospital strength pharmaceuticals, and phenomenal, nausea-inducing pain. It was serious, but not life-threatening, at least by the time we capitulated to the medical establishment. At this point, I am definitely on the mend, but am not able to spend a great deal of time walking upright or sitting up straight. If I keep travelling the healing path, I should be back to normal, and posting more, very soon.

In the meantime, I've enjoyed re-watching all eleven hours of the extended version of Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings trilogy (not in one sitting, mind you), reconfirming to my own taste that its one of the greatest cinematic achievements ever. I've also been able to finally sink into China Mieville's epic novel, Perdido Street Station. My extended stay in the hypnogogic regions of consciousness meshed perfectly with his feverish, phantasmagorical creation. I still shudder at the thought of the slake-moths.

Best Horror from 2006

Last night the winners of this year's International Horror Guild Awards were announced at the World Fantasy Convention in Saratoga Springs, NY. Notable winners included Conrad Williams for his novel The Unblemished, Norman Partridge for his novella Dark Harvest, Glen Hirshberg for his short story collection American Morons, and S. T. Joshi for his reference work Icons of Horror and the Supernatural. A complete listing of award winners and nominees can be found here.

"What Would You Say, Kenny?"

My brother, Steve Pettit, has posted on his Divine Monkey MySpace site a recent radio appearance where he performed a song I wrote, titled "What Would You Say, Kenny?" Personally, I'm touched that the song means so much to him that he would perform it on a radio show, in lieu of one of his own songs. Since I have yet to record a demo of it, Steve's memory of the song derives from the two or three times I played it for him during a visit to Florida two years ago - an impressive feat of recollection in its own right. In my opinion, Steve is a brilliant song writer and performer whose work springs from a deeply personal, emotional well. I could be biased - he's my brother after all - but his work speaks for itself. Check it out. And by the way, that's me playing bass on "Mane" and bass and backing vocals on "Hold Your Breath."

In keeping with the weird theme of this blog, "What Would You Say, Kenny?" had an unusual genesis. Late one night, after playing a gig with The CoStars, I ran into a few casual acquaintances. An hour of hilarity and drinking ensued, and they invited me back to their place for an impromptu game night. Little did I suspect I was on the verge of being initiated into a Kenny Rogers cult - sounds like the beginning of a Reader's Digest true life adventure, right?

Now this group of people (a shout out to the Word Worms, y'all!) weren't your typical Kenny fanatics. It wasn't about the music, see...or the hairy chest, or his demonic frisbee throwing, or his undeniable sexual magnetism - though certainly these factors played a part. Really, it was all about the Gambler. It was about knowing when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to walk away, and when to run. My companions, and soon to be fellow cult members (Kelly, Melissa, Merv and Jenny), pulled out a cup of dice with a gleam in their collective eyes, and asked me if I'd ever played Ten Thousand. People, let me testify - I was a Ten Thousand virgin. At this point in the night, under various stages of inebriation and exhaustion, the rules were head-spinningly complex. Even now, sober as a judge, I couldn't explain them. But the important thing I came away with that night, the capper that launched the night into the realm of the absurd, was the Word Worm's unique variation added to the rules of Ten Thousand - every time your turn came, you invoked Kenny Rogers as the Gambler before rolling the dice. If he favored you, "Kenny walked with you." More often than not, Kenny was a cruel bitch god.

That night Kelly, Melissa, Merv and Jenny held me down while Kenny filled me with his essence. By the end of that night, I didn't know where I ended and Kenny began. I recall that Kenny and I walked together a lot, though not as much as Merv and Kenny -Merv was Kenny's chosen one. Upon waking the next morning, it all seemed like a crazy dream. Further game nights conclusively proved that it was no dream. Kenny donned his cowboy hat, his best dusty suit, and worn travelling boots, descended to our gaming table and walked among us mere mortals, bestowing a smidgeon of his gambler's luck on his chosen few.

Weeks later, stilled brimming with the essence of Kenny, I got to thinking - what the hell would the real Kenny Rogers think of all this? He wasn't even dead yet, and here we were invoking him like he was the pagan god of gambling. Kenny has always struck me as a down to earth guy. He probably goes to church, drinks moderately, holds no truck with far out supernatural nonsense, and, though women around the world have thrown every conceivable article of clothing at him while he does his thing on stage, considers himself just a really lucky guy. But a god? No way. Not even a demigod.

But why not stretch this basic premise even further? Inspired in a roundabout way by The Archaic Revival, I thought what if I wrote a song from the point of view of a guy who really did believe that "magic breathed" in him (whether inspired by the gambler or not - I'll let you decide), who was able to channel wisdom from the past through the medium of song, opening portals which initiated a program of evolution towards the next stage of consciousness.

While I personally believe in the potential of such a vision, and have spent a good portion of my life travelling such a path, I find the idea of a wide-eyed mystic confronting "everyman" Kenny Rogers with his personal plan for spiritual evolution incredibly hilarious. Despite this humorous premise, this inside joke to myself, I do believe "What Would You Say, Kenny?" is one of my better efforts, successfully fusing folk, psychedelia and mystical/mythical imagery into something...well, magical. Though I think my wires got crossed and I ended up channelling Donovan instead of Kenny Rogers.

Take a listen. Let me know what you think. Let my brother know what you think. Let Kenny know what you think.

Tim Lucas interview

DVD Talk has posted an interview with Tim Lucas, noted film critic, the editor/publisher of Video Watchdog, an obsessive blogger, novelist and the author of a monumental, physically formidable biography Mario Bava: All the Colors of the Dark. Film historian Stuart Galbraith IV discusses with Lucas the challenges encountered during the period it took to write and self-publish his magnum opus, the state of film criticism in print and online, the possible death of the DVD format, and the conditions that an online film library would have to meet before Lucas could be convinced to relinquish his extensive film library.

I can't recommend Mario Bava: All the Colors of the Dark highly enough. It's a one of a kind work, a Proustian biography encompassing the history of Italian cinema as experienced through the life and work of an underrated "genre" director. As Lucas reveals, Bava was so much more - a highly skilled technician, respected cameraman, innovative special effects developer, an artisan, the list goes on. It is profusely illustrated with rare photos, stills and poster artwork. Truly a labor of love on behalf of Tim and Donna Lucas.

I bought my copy seven years ago, grumbling over the steep price of $100. After the book failed to materialize year after year due to Lucas' neverending research and, not surprising for a book of its dimensions, production problems, the running joke in my household was that Tim and Donna would crack under the pressure, run away to Mexico and live off the pre-order proceeds for the rest of their lives - we'd never see the finished product. On that fateful afternoon in September of this year when the Post Office finally delivered my copy, I almost cried as I carefully opened the box it was shipped in. The joy and excitement I experienced could only have been a small fraction of what Tim and Donna Lucas felt when seeing their baby for the first time, and finally having the opportunity to send it out to astonish the world.

If you get a chance to see the book, you'll realize early supporters got a heck of a deal. Copies now run $260 in the U.S ($290 throughout the rest of the world), and to my mind, it's well worth the price.

I will post a full review once I work my way through this monumental work - hopefully it won't take me as long to read it, as it took Lucas to write and publish it.

The education of the horror kids, part 1

One of the joys of the parenting experience, at least for me, is introducing my two boys (ages 4 and 11) to classic horror films.

The ambition of my oldest son, Milo, often exceeds his actual tolerance for the creepy. Two years ago, while on vacation, he convinced me that he could handle watching all four consecutive hours of the made for TV miniseries It. In my recollection, it wasn't all that scary, although Tim Curry's portrayal of Pennywise the clown certainly bestowed the movie its few high points. However I had seen the original broadcast through the eyes of a somewhat jaded twenty-something, one who bore no truck with Stephen King's "lame brand of horror." Milo, on the other hand, was a very impressionable nine year old who now, understandably, hates clowns. He didn't sleep for two days. Lois, my wife, certainly let me hear about it, banishing me to his very small guest bed to provide parental comfort. It was a punishment I accepted as suitably appropriate, even though my back ached for almost a week after. Now whenever I suggest showing Milo a new horror movie, she has to bring up the It incident. Fortunately, I can counter with the time she decided to show him Robocop because she didn't remember it being "all that violent." But that's a topic for another post. And yeah, we really are responsible parents.

Over the years, I've found that awareness of a particular child's sensitivies, what he or she can psychologically handle, is a crucial key to judging whether a particular horror film is age appropriate. It should go without saying that there's no way in hell I would show either of my children psyche-scarring movies like The Exorcist, The Shining, The Texas Chain Saw Massacre or any Italian horror film from the last thirty-seven years... yet. There are a number of great horror films, however, with minimal bloodletting that can serve as "training wheels" for those soul-jarring experiences.

When I took Milo to see a 3-D screening of The Creature from the Black Lagoon, he loved it. The literature major/film critic in me was so proud when he made the astute observation that the creature wasn't really a bad guy, but was just defending his home from human invaders. He wasn't all that impressed with the "crappy special effects" of the original King Kong, until I explained to him how ground-breaking they were for the time (and really, up until the 1970s). He still prefers Peter Jackson's remake, but has a soft spot for the original. Julian, my four year old, was drawn to horror imagery at a very early age. While barely a toddler, he would stare at the cover of the Arkham House edition of Dagon and Other Macabre Tales (in this portrayal, Dagon looks very much like the Creature from the Black Lagoon), growling "monster" over and over again. I've recently watched The Mummy, the original starring Boris Karloff, with Julian. He was fascinated with it, but couldn't understand why "the mommy" was the bad guy. He currently loves Casper the Friendly Ghost, vampires, spiders and black cats. Both boys are big fans of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Hellboy.

As he's growing into puberty, Milo is on the verge of desiring stronger stuff. A few weeks ago, he became obsessed with zombies, mainly from reading video game reviews of Biohazard. I briefly pondered showing him Night of the Living Dead, and tried to find a time where we could watch it unaccompanied by Julian - he's way too young for that kind of terror. That idea was laid to rest when Milo had an apocalyptic nightmare about zombies and begged me not to show him anything featuring zombies. Perhaps, I'll start him out with Val Lewton's I Walked with a Zombie after an appropriate time has passed. There's always next Halloween!

For more reading on this topic, stay tuned. In the meantime, check out this article by New York Times reporter Wendell Jamieson for more "chillers that should scare (not terrorize) the kiddies." For a different perspective, Entertainment Weekly correspondent Christine Spines shares her recollections of being psychicly scarred at a premature age by horror films during the halcyon heydays of the 1970s. Raised by her single mom, who couldn't afford babysitters and was a film buff with liberal ideas of what was appropriate viewing for children, Spines was dragged screaming to theaters, starting with The Exorcist at the age of 5 up until she drew the line after screening The Shining in 1980. Nowadays, I can't say I support exposing kids to such terrors prematurely, but oh, how I longed for such a parent when I was growing up.

Two Human Species?

Science fiction meets science fact (or at least scientific theory) in a recent study on human evolution conducted for the Bravo TV channel. Evolutionary theorist Oliver Curry of the London School of Economics predicts humans will eventually evolve into two distinct sub-species: a superior genetic ruling class whose members will be physically attractive and intelligent and a dim-witted, squat "goblin-like" underclass. First, about a thousand years from now, humans will come to average 6 to 7 feet in height and live for 120 years. By the year 3000, Curry postulates the human race will reach its evolutionary peak. Selective sexual partnering based on physical and mental characteristics will lead to the division of the human race. Curry states furthermore that racial differences will not play a factor in devolution since racial characteristics will be eliminated due to interbreeding, producing a "uniform race of coffee colored people."

Contemporary men obsessed with the size (or lack thereof) of their reproductive equipment can rest easy with the knowledge that, in the future, men will possess larger penises, as well as square jaws, deeper voices and symmetrical facial features. Women will develop "smooth, hairless skin, large clear eyes, pert breasts, glossy hair and even features."

Curry goes on to delineate the decline of the human race, citing over-reliance on technology as a critical factor that will ultimately contribute to the loss of essential social skills and basic human emotions such as love, trust and empathy. Future humans "could come to resemble domesticated animals" (anyone familiar with the "theory" that so-called grey aliens are humans from the future who have lost their emotions due to unchecked scientific progress could have told you that).

While the BBC article linked to above presents Curry's theories in an even-handed, respectful manner, I prefer this report from the Daily Mail. Illustrated with stills from both film adaptations of The Time Machine, the article really drives home the obvious parallels with H. G. Wells' classic science fiction novel.

I can't wait to see the backlash over Curry's work.

Indoor Life - Archaeology

I came across this track while reviewing B-Music: Cross Continental Record Raid Road Trip for the upcoming issue of Ugly Things magazine. Released by Finders Keepers Records, this fantastic compilation is absolutely essential for connoisseurs of Krautrock, world psychedelia, acid jazz, or European soundtracks from the 1970s. For readers possessing the peculiar tastes championed by this blog, the song Archaelogy should be nothing short of a revelation. This tasty prog rock rarity features performances by J. A. Deane, a trombonist and experimental synth musician who pulled a stint with the Ike and Tina Turner Review horn section, as well as DJ/synthesizer wizard Patrick Cowley, a pioneer of electronic dance music better known for his disco collaborations with Sylvester and his 15-minute remix of Donna Summer's I Feel Love. Considering the ensemble's collective track record, this piece is quite the oddity, sounding less like standard disco fare and more like a lost soundtrack nugget from an Italian horror film circa late '70s and early '80s. With its sinister synthesizer motif and howling, elephantine trombone lick, the song would cap off the opening sequence of Lucio Fulci's The Beyond perfectly.

Hailing from an unspecified society on the edge of collapse , the main character seems to be a power-mad villain who looks forward to a future era when archaeologists will unearth the remains of his city and unwittingly set him free to wreak havoc upon the new world. His main motivation is unclear. Does he want to bring about the apocalypse? Summon up the Old Ones? You be the judge. The complete lyrics follow:

They will know who I am
They will recognize me
They will make out my name
by a mark on the street

When the cities fall
Here we will remain
Embedded in cement
with only science to explain

The fated behemoth
The man who tames the beast
will not lie forgotten
never old, ever deep

And dig and dig and dig
the future waits beneath
until they excavate
until they set us free

We will meet again.

The lyrics, delivered in a creepy operatic voice by singer Jorge Cocarras, combine with the previously mentioned synthesizer and trombone parts, another disorienting phased synthesizer riff, and a buzzing guitar which evokes the sound of a giant insect invasion to create an effect that strikes this listener's sensibilities as positively Lovecraftian, and definitely weird. Topping it all off, a chittering sound fades in towards the end of the song. Initially, I wondered whether it was supposed to represent the clattering mandibles of the behemoth. I was reading too much into it. As the song fades, the noise becomes identifiable as a jackhammer! Even better, the jackhammer gets its own solo. Brilliant!

Though I do have to ask - what self-respecting archaeologist excavates with a jackhammer?

You can hear a 30-second sample of the song at the Finders Keepers website or download an .mp3 of the track here for a whopping $0.15.

Fortean Times - A Saucerful of Secrets

The Fortean Times website has posted A Saucerful of Secrets , penned by Andy Roberts, from their current issue. The article explores the connection between the hippie underground in the United Kingdom and the explosion of interest in the UFO phenomenon. Fueled by a burgeoning LSD mystical consciousness, psychedelic music and a conscious rejection of the materialistic values of previous generations, the culture latched onto the UFO phenomenon, viewing it as a harbinger of a radical shift in human consciousness. Sacred sites, especially Glastonbury ("embedded in the public consciousness as a centre of all things strange"), were focal points of sitings, inextricably weaving the phenomenon into a new mythological tapestry blending elements of the holy grail legend, ley lines and other earth power centers, expanded consciousness, and interstellar contact. As the underground was co-opted by marketing forces, the heavy interest in the phenomenon died down and became just another "hip belief to be 'into.'"

Long time readers of psychonaut Terence McKenna, comic book author Grant Morrison, and the literature of UFO encounters will have already noted a connection between the use of psychedelics and UFO spotting and/or contact. I was surprised by the serious interest in the UFO phenomenon expressed by several noted celebrities, including author Barry Gifford, Brian Jones and Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones, and David Bowie, who actually worked for a UFO magazine at one time. Roberts' article is well worth a look at by those interested in the cultural history of the Summer of Love, the hippie movement, and Fortean phenomenon.

You might have to create an account at the site to view the article.

And We're Off...

Welcome to the Journal of Weird Studies. I'm your host Joe Pettit Jr., and I'm a life long fan of things weird, wonderful, cosmic and terrifying. I plan to use this blog as a forum for critically discussing weird, horror, and fantasy fiction, genre films, comics and graphic novels, the occasional metaphysical tomes of both the popular and esoteric kind, fiction and nonfiction authors, music off the beaten path, weird happenings in our material world, and anything else I determine falls under this admittedly wide-ranging umbrella. Entries will range from short, off the cuff items, to longer, developed pieces.

I welcome serious and intelligent discourse and feedback. Please refrain from comments such as "crap," "bollocks," or "it's true because the lizard men from the fourth dimension told me so." The internet is overrun with illiterate, boneheaded pundits who believe they can definitively settle an argument solely with the use of an expletive. Unless you're willing to back your position in a serious, reasoned and respectful manner (which I wholeheartedly welcome), I don't want to hear it. As much as I'm a fan of fourth dimensional lizard men, I want to personally choose which crazy ramblings I read, not have them thrust upon me by someone in dire need of medication.

Thanks for reading, and I hope this will be fun for us all.

Coming soon: a discussion of 28 Weeks Later, a film I can't seem to stop grinding my critical axe against, and a look at Brian Lumley's Necroscope, the first novel in his long-running series.