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THE FRANTIC FLICKER
"The movie magazine that isn't..."
----Serving nonsense on a golden platter since 2004.----
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Issue #10: April 16, 2004
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www.franticflicker.com
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"Learned all I know/ by the age of nine..."
- The Cramps 'New Kind Of Kick'
IN THIS ISSUE:
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==>The Aluminum Anniversary
==>Desperate Living
==>All You Have To Do Is Ask
==>The Visiting of the Sponsors
==>Superatomic Giveaway of the Week
==>Whodunnit?
THE ALUMINUM ANNIVERSARY
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Yup, that's right. Here we are at aluminum anniversary issue #10 of The Frantic Flicker. I was
just sort of noticing the other day how much this thing has taken on a life of its own, and as
much as I've tried to guide it, I'm really not in precise control of what happens here as much
as I'm just making sure I get a story done every week and rolling with those things known in
France as le punches.
This week we salute a moviemaker that meant a whole lot to me at a certain point in my life,
the inimitable Mr. John Waters, the man responsible for such cinematic atrocities as Pink
Flamingos, Polyester, and a movie with the same title as this week's story, Desperate Living. I
met John Waters once more than 10 years ago after a talk he gave at the University of
Delaware (my alma mater, just so you know) and he was really cool. I was at the height of
my own Waters mania then (right after Serial Mom), and when I told him he was my hero, he
just smiled and said "Thanks for coming." The only movies he's done since then have been
Pecker and Cecil B. Demented, and though I enjoy them both, neither broke much new
ground as far as my personal fixation was concerned.
But this week, I thought I'd revisit some of those pleasant memories. The most prominent
one for me is the first time I saw Desperate Living. I was 17, at a party, probably drinking a
bottle of Riunite Lambrusco wine out of a paper bag, and I remember asking several times
what the name of the movie was because there was no way I wanted to forget it. By the time
Peggy Gravel said "Why are you going this way, Grizelda? You know I hate nature!" I was SO
hooked, really, that it was a big deal life-changing thing. I'd seen Rocky Horror and Plan 9 by
that point, but I had no idea that a movie like Desperate Living existed, and it made me feel
like a mole sticking his head out into the sunshine for the first time. As a teenager who
thought he was into weird movies, living in a world with Desperate Living as a piece of the
puzzle was a lot more intriguing than just knowing such pieces exist. Like Steve Martin in The
Jerk, I thought "If this is out there, think how much more is out there," and I stood in front of
the house trying to hitchhike to St. Louis the next day.
I just called them weird movies then, and I still do, for the most part. I think genre
terminology is overrated. Sure, you could call them "cult cinema" or "midnight movies" or
"sub-art-house films" or a zillion other things. I personally prefer to just call all the movies I
like either WEIRD or GOOD, (whether they're good in the traditional sense or not isn't the
point). And here's a special tenth issue secret I'll let you in on: If you wanted to say that a
movie was good, but you happened to live in Harlem in the 1930s, do you know what you'd
say? "Boy, that was a frantic flicker!"
Eric
No real fanfare here; I wasn't really trying to write a story that related directly to my feelings
about the title in question, but it turned out pretty cool anyway. At least much better than
last week's Matrix Revolutions, but that's (you guessed it) another story. At any rate, here's
what I came up with and yes, it is called:
DESPERATE LIVING
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I get my change and put my first load in right away. You have to put at least one load in
right away or else you're just hanging out aimlessly at the laundromat, and then people think
you're a creep or a pervert. I'm not like that at all - I just love the laundromat. You always
know what kind of people you're going to see at the laundromat. Real people, normal people
- people with dirty clothes. Of course, since I have a washer and dryer at home (and I make
sure my clothes aren't too embarrassing before I go), I don't exactly fit in, but I almost do. It's
okay, though. The people at the laundromat aren't too picky.
As soon as I see her, I want to hit myself. There she is, reading a magazine, and I didn't
bring anything to read. How could I be so stupid? Girls love guys who read. It makes you
seem smart. But that's not me now. I don't seem smart at all. There I am, stupid me, just
sitting right there in the laundromat and not reading anything. At least she's not reading a
book. If she was, I'd probably be too embarrassed to stay.
She didn't look up at me yet, but I can already tell that maybe there's a connection
between us. The only ring she's wearing is on her pinkie. My guess is that it was a gift from a
male friend, maybe a guy who always wanted to ask her out, but never had the guts. When it
comes right down to it, I realize I might have to have to kick that guy's ass. That's one of the
prices we sometimes pay for love. Not that I've ever paid it before, but for her, I would do it.
She's got dark hair, and it's cut straight across in the front. It sort of reminds me of Bettie
Page. I've always liked Bettie Page. She's like the girl next door. This girl's like the girl next
door, too. We're like neighbors. When we move in together, we won't even need to rent a
truck.
I know that we're perfect for each other. If we're not, I can change myself to make it so
we are. I can be whatever sort of man she wants me to be. My personality means nothing to
me anyway, at least not when I'm faced with a choice between being myself and being
happy. It's settled, then: I will change. I've just got to figure out what she wants, and I will
instantly become exactly that. She's going to love me.
But what kind of man does she want? Short of actually going up and talking to her, how
can I find out in such a short amount of time? What is that magazine she's reading? She's got
it set on a machine, and she's been looking down into it since I got here. Is there a way to
find out without asking her? What could it be? Dog World? What?!? Dog World? Where did
that come from? Why would I think that? She's not a dog, she's a beautiful woman. And if I
want to have any chance with her at all, I really have to know that for a fact in my most
secret heart of hearts. Dog World. What a fool I am. I'm about to ruin the whole thing
already.
Her wash is done and she's putting it in the dryer. It's just one load. That makes her pretty
conscientious, doesn't it? If there's only one load of wash to do and she runs right over to the
laundromat to do it, that speaks volumes about her personality. Her house is probably nice
and neat, just like her hair. I'm beginning to grasp an overall picture of this person and I like
it a lot. Yes, I do like it. She really is turning out to be wonderful.
But now I just had a thought. What if she just came to the laundromat to do certain pieces
of laundry because she needed them for tonight? What if she's got a date? It must be really
special if she's making a special trip to the laundromat for it. Man, I'm doomed. I really am.
What if it's a first date, and she's nervous about it? What if she kisses him goodnight? What if
she invites him in? I feel a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach as I picture MY dream girl in a
compromising position with another man. I've never been more jealous in my life. I'll kill that
asshole. I'll have to.
Or maybe I won't have to. Certainly this is the stuff that fairy tales are made of. She's
getting ready for her big date with a big shot lawyer or CEO, and I happen to see her at the
laundromat, and I meet her and sweep her off her feet and just through sheer force of will, I
carry her destiny in a completely different direction. Would she be happier with me or with
him? With me, because I'll treat her so good. That guy doesn't care about her at all, he
probably beats her or something. Yeah, that's why she's got jeans on, her legs are probably
covered with bruises, the poor girl. It's really up to me to save her, and now that I've made
up my mind, I know that I can do it.
She smiled at me. I guess I was looking at her this whole time and she finally looked up
and I just felt like a total moron that I'd been gawking at her. I felt bad. I was really getting
into fight or flight mode, and it was just awful. And then she smiled at me. Just like that, out
of the blue. And it was the most beautiful smile, like a ray of sunshine just for me. I'm back to
reality now, and the reality is that this girl is hot for me. Maybe that's all I need to know to go
talk to her.
I need to talk to her. I can tell from her smile that she'd understand everything. I only want
what's best for both of us. But what if she didn't understand? What if I started to talk, but
nothing came out? Would she love me anyway if I was struck mute by her beauty? Would I
have to pretend I couldn't talk every time I saw her? How could I explain it if I accidentally
said something on our third date? She would know I was a phony, and she'd hate me. If I'm
going to talk to her, words have to come out of my mouth or I'm completely sunk.
She's picked up the magazine and I'm looking at the name of it. "Desperate Living." I've
never heard of it. What kind of a magazine could "Desperate Living" be? Some sort of dating
guide? Could it possibly be true that she's every bit as lonely as I am? Could she be secretly
sizing me up as a potential mate, even as I sit here, deliberately trying not to stare at her?
My laundry is done. I've put the first load into the dryer, and now I'm contemplating my
next move. If "Desperate Living" is a singles magazine, then I am home free, and the
situation is as follows: She's a neat and clean young woman at the laundromat, minding her
own business, but also keeping her eyes open for the man of her dreams. She happens to
look up, sees me looking at her, and smiles. If all of that's true, and I think it is, then that
smile really was 'the' invitation to go over and introduce myself.
But what if "Desperate Living" is some other kind of magazine. What if it's a music
magazine, or some underground lifestyle magazine for people on the run? What if it's a
magazine about pinching pennies, like "Consumer Reports" for cheapskates? Or what if it's an
"extreme sports" magazine? Yeah, that really would be a disappointment. I can read the title,
and there's a photo on the cover of a man's head and shoulders. He looks sort of hip. Maybe
it's Beck or something. Maybe it's Eminem. Oh, man, what if it is?Could I change myself that
radically that I could make the grade with the sort of beautiful woman who hangs around at
the laundromat reading puff pieces about Eminem? I just might have to. I know that her love
would be worth it.
Her dryer is done and she's put the magazine aside. She's folding her clothes now, and
putting them into a partially broken green plastic laundry basket. So she's not exactly perfect
after all. That's good. I'm glad that I've seen the breaks in the green plastic. It makes her
more real to me. She's human too, after all, and we all have our faults; although I'm willing to
bet that the broken laundry basket is about the extent of hers. She really is just about
perfect.
I really have to go talk to her. As soon as she's done folding, she's going to leave, and I'm
going to be here all alone until someone else comes in. And when someone does, it'll
probably just be an old bachelor who works at a bank washing white shirts with sweat stains
that will never come out. I have to say something to her, but what? I've been sitting near her
for an hour or more - I can't just say "Hi." That would make her laugh and if she laughed, I
think I'd just crawl into one of those big dryers and die. What's something good that would
throw her off guard, so that before she knows it, we're having a conversation that will last far
beyond the duration of her folding? What can I say?
She's still folding and I'm still thinking. The time is now, and if I mess this up, I might never
see her again. I can't do anything that sounds like a pickup line. It has to be perfect, and I
just don't work well under pressure. Dammit, why wasn't I thinking about what to say an
hour ago? If I'd just walked in and seen her and said hi, that would have been great, but
now the time for that is long gone.
I really have missed my shot. She's going to be done soon and then she'll leave and I'll be
alone without anything. But what if she comes back another day? Well, I'm in here a lot, and
I've never seen her before. Dammit, why didn't I just say hi? It's so stupid to not talk to
people you want to talk to. If I'd just brought a magazine of my own, this could have been
the best day of my life. Instead, I've just reinforced my own brand of societal alienation. And
that sucks.
There she goes. The door's open and she's outside. Next time, I'll have to remember to
make sure the door is closed so that I can at least open it for her. Whoever "her" ends up
being next time. Man, I wish it could have been that her. I can hear the car engine starting up
outside. There goes happiness. There goes love. There goes, man, about the coolest girl in
the whole wide world. In a fit of absolute nostalgia for ten minutes ago, I glance over at the
place she'd been sitting.
She forgot her magazine. "Desperate Living," the exact issue whose pages my ultimate
dream girl was just turning, is sitting not ten feet away. I race over and snatch it off of the
counter. "Desperate Living" is the title, and then right below that it says, "Beck - A Man On
The Edge." At least it's not Eminem. I really don't know that I could have pulled that off. It is a
music magazine, though. So she was a music girl, not a desperate single girl. And so that
probably means that all the stuff I thought about her having a date with a lawyer and the
bruises on her legs was pretty accurate. It makes me feel bad that she could have had me,
but chose instead to be with some schmuck who doesn't really care about her or know what
she's worth.
It's amazing though, that she, the actual she, was holding this magazine just moments
ago. I hold it in my hands. I open to a random page, and it's an ad for a new album by
Weezer. I wonder if she really likes that kind of music. I hold the open magazine up to my
face and sniff it. Magazines smell so good. I imagine that the smell permeating my nostrils is
actually my dream girl's perfume. Or maybe her hair smells like that right after she dyes it.
Does she dye it? Or maybe the inside of her apartment just sort of naturally has that fresh
magazine smell. What would the apartment look like?
She taps me on the shoulder. I'm sniffing her magazine right after she left, and I come to
the instant conclusion that it doesn't get much more pathetic than that. She smiles anyway,
and I smile back. And finally, she's standing right there in front of me, and I have something
to say:
"You forgot your magazine."
"Did you ever read this magazine before?" she says. She's talking to me. I just shake my
head. "It's a music magazine. Isn't that dumb?" I don't know what she means, but I nod.
"It's called 'Desperate Living,' I thought it would have ideas about how to meet people.
Instead it's just about bands and all this crap. Isn't that stupid?" I nod.
"Well, yeah," I say, "Here you go." I hand her the magazine. As she takes it, she smiles at
me again. But this time she's looking right at me, and it's a really overt sort of smile, the kind
of leering smile that dirty old men have when they stare at young women as they drive by.
To say the least, it made me feel sort of uneasy.
"What's your name?" she says.
"Roger."
"I'm Kim."
"Nice to meet you," I say, but my heart isn't really in it.
"Likewise. I come in here a lot. Do you?"
"Once in a while." She looks sort of nervous now, and I'm not sure why.
"Hey, do you wanna, um, - " She trails off, and the dryer stops at the same time. No cars
are going by or anything, and the laundromat is completely silent for the first time since I've
been here. She smiles yet again, a big, desperate, I-want-something-from-you smile. "I guess
your laundry is done."
"Yeah. Nice to meet you, Kim." I smile back, but let it drop before she looks away. I head
for the dryer, and thank my lucky stars that it stopped when it did.
"Nice meeting you, too. Bye, Roger."
"Bye," I say it over my shoulder without even looking at her again. Man, what a
disappointment. I can't believe I thought I'd like her - she was a nightmare waiting to
happen. That's just great. Now she'll be in here every day looking for me. I'll never be able to
come back without looking over my shoulder. Dammit, I wish I'd thought fast enough to give
her a fake name. This is about the worst day of my life.
THE END
Desperate Living is also a movie that any fan of the (very) weird and (very) wild really ought
to see. Even if you've seen Pink Flamingos and Female Trouble, you really haven't seen it all
until you've experienced the insanity that is Desperate Living. In a very, very wrong way, it's
a beautiful movie. I honor you, Queen Carlotta. VERY wrong.
ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS ASK
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In this section, I will happily answer any question you might have, whether I know the
answer or not. Just send them to eric@franticflicker.com with the subject line "I have a
question.". I especially like questions about regular school-type subjects, advice, or stuff
about movies.
QUESTION: In what country would you be able to find the most sexually depraved
individuals? (Not that there's anything wrong with that...) - Martin
ANSWER: Our little Martin sure is growing up fast. I just checked the introduction to this
column, and yes, it does include the phrase "I will happily answer any question you might
have," and so, with a nice broad smile on my face (and fair warning to our more
impressionable readers), here we go:
Sure, when you think depraved, you're thinking Japan, Germany, Brazil, maybe even the good
old U.S. of A. But all of these pale in comparison to the absolute worldwide masters of
perversion. Of course, I'm talking about Canada.
Canadians are the most sexually depraved people on earth! And their perversion is so
blatant and so ingrained in their culture that no one even questions it anymore. I warn you, if
you have a weak heart or stomach, you may want to skip the rest of this answer.
Canadians are responsible for one of the most morally reprehensible sexual fetishes yet
devised by man. Proponents of this disgusting practice call it "the old H and B" but it's more
commonly known in the states as either "hockey and beer" or the "Canadian isolation fetish."
In fact, I would go so far as to say that the entire English-speaking Canadian culture (the
French-speakers have their own problems) is based on an unhealthy sexual fascination with
denying sex as a part of everyday life, and that this fetish is extremely detrimental not only to
the health of those involved, but also to the moral well-being of the world at large.
The cycle of abuse starts during puberty when Canadian teenagers are coerced by their
families into putting heavy clothes on. Canada is cold, so this seems perfectly natural at first,
but as you delve into the depths of the twisted Canadian psyche, you come to realize that it's
really the first step towards a culture-wide sexual hangup that has turned Canadians into
slobbering goons for generations. Once they're dressed for the outdoors, the teens are then
"encouraged" to go outside (or inside) and either play or watch ice hockey for hours at a
time.
In more civilized cultures, a man will sometimes fight another man over a woman, or maybe
over a piece of food, without any bizarre sexual undertones. When men play sports in the
U.S., they think of sex only occasionally. However, in Canadian ice hockey, things are much
different. These men constantly fight each other over a small piece of rubber while thinking
ONLY of sex. The puck is a surrogate woman, a wanton harlot who never minds being pushed
around or bent to a man's will. For these hapless great white northerners, hockey functions
as a false, but very serious, sexual outlet.
But what of the beer? Where does a malt beverage come into play in this discussion of
northern North American perversions? Well, the beer comes after the hockey (either watching
or playing) and deadens the senses to the pain that should normally accompany the
traditional Canadian lack of human interaction. When you're passed out, you don't feel lonely.
But not only do the Canadians not mind putting their torment to rest in such a superficial
manner, they actually achieve sexual gratification from it - not in any normal way, but in a
cold, unfeeling Canadian way. Maybe even in a David Cronenberg way.
But again, the truth rears its head in telling ways: Have you ever wondered why Canadian
beer comes in green bottles? Well, the "official" answer is probably unrelated, but at the
Frantic Flicker we deal only in the truth. And the truth is that since the Canadians are too
repressed to express their sexuality in any normal fashion, they express it not only through
the aforementioned disgusting hockey puck-woman abuse, but also by drinking beer from
"horny green" bottles by the truckload.
Between "the old H" and "the old B" lies a broad chasm of dysfunction. If this perversion of
the natural order is allowed to continue unchecked, it may yet infect other parts of the world,
even down to and including Canada's immediate neighbors to the south. I hear you saying it
now: No, it couldn't happen here. But what if it could? Imagine a day when everyday
Americans would enjoy repressing their sexuality. Imagine a day when Americans might
purposely do ridiculous things like buying sports cars, banning radio programs, and starting
wars just to take their minds off of a normal, healthy thing like sex. It's impossible, you say?
It could never happen in the land of the free? Don't be so sure.
Eric
THE VISITING OF THE SPONSORS
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The Superatomic Giveaway of the Week awaits, but first you must cross the dreaded chasm
of commercialism!
EBAY!
I have my grand master black belt in eBay (username mothra911, feedback rating 894 and
counting). Buy my ebay stuff! It is good. It is excellent. It is so good and excellent and cheap
that you feel like you must buy it. TONS of 7"s this week, including early 90s garage stuff and
some 70s and 80s pop. Check it out!
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since=-1&sort=3&rows=50
PREORDER THE ORIGINAL STAR WARS TRILOGY ON DVD NOW!
Star Wars / The Empire Strikes Back / Return of the Jedi and an extra disc of bonus material.
Sure, they're the "special editions" and not the "original" original trilogy, but lighten up,
they're almost the same. They come out in September and the current price via this link is just
$42.99.
http://www.dvdempire.com/Exec/v4_item.asp?item_id=601761&partner_id=90841311
FULL-SIZE ALIEN HEAD BUST - IT'S 3 FEET LONG!!!
Check out this crazy item - a 3 foot long Alien head. It's an exact replica of the creature's
head from the original movie in a limited edition of 500. You can preorder it now, and it's a
steal at just $899.99 (but even if you don't want to buy it, it's still cool to look at).
http://www.sideshowtoy.com/cgi-bin/affiliates/clickthru.cgi?id=franticflicker&page=http://www.
sideshowtoy.com/cgi-bin/category.cgi?category=props^item=2903
SUPERATOMIC GIVEAWAY OF THE WEEK
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Part of my whole reason for being here is to expose people to cool and/or weird stuff that
they might not otherwise know about, and one of the main ways I want to do that is by
giving stuff away for free.
This week's giveaway is a BRAND spankin' NEW DVD of the latest (but not quite recent) epic
from sleaze-meister gone mainstream John Waters, CECIL B. DEMENTED starring Stephen
Dorff and Melanie Griffith! See the website for further details!
To win, send an e-mail to superatomic@franticflicker.com. Put your NAME (first and last) and
ADDRESS in the BODY of the e-mail, and use the SUPERATOMIC SECRET PASSWORD in a
COMPLETE SENTENCE as the SUBJECT line. Your information will not be used for any other
purpose.
The SUPERATOMIC SECRET PASSWORD for this week is... FRAMED.
Visit the superatomic section of the website (www.franticflicker.com/superatomic) for
complete rules, more details and a photo of this week's prize. Contest ends late Thursday
night, April 22, 2004 (if the message says Friday, that's too late Thursday night), and the
winner will be contacted by e-mail and announced on the site on Friday.
By entering, you confirm that you are 18 years of age or older. US or Canadian entrants only,
please.
WHODUNNIT
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Written, compiled, researched, edited and published by yours truly, King Boss Man Eric
Henderson! Thanks for reading it!
The Frantic Flicker is a weekly e-mail newsletter published by Eric Henderson.
The official Frantic Flicker website is a site to behold. If you visit it, it will make you cool, and
for the first time in your life, people will start to like you. I mean, uh, dang... just go.
www.franticflicker.com
If you have any questions or comments, pass 'em on to the guy in charge. No, not God. Me.
Eric. Gimme a holler at: eric@franticflicker.com. If you don't want me to print your letter, let me
know.
I'll talk at you again next week.
Yours Truly, Eric
P.S. I've never been to Canada, but I've seen Videodrome about 20 times.
All content copyright 2004 Eric Henderson. All rights reserved, but feel free to forward this
e-mail or link to my home page. Thanks.
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THE LIVING END
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