Sunday Is For Vampire But Beware

…. my grandson is here so there can be nothing too graphic, sensual, or generally give-you-nightmares scary. Hmm… there go my favorites… but not all of them. The Littlest Vampire will do it nicely.

I’ll be plugging it in in a moment.

How bright the sun… the sun!

Better close those blinds…

Sunday Is Still For Vampire But I’ve A Book To Read

 

The first cardinal rule in Philosophy is never assume. Isn’t it amazing in a very sad way that’s what most people do from just a glance and what piss-poor attitudes they have when it turns up they’re dead wrong? What makes it worse is everyone else’s attitude toward the assumptor / assumptorette when it becomes apparent there was 100% no truth anywhere. The vanity scale goes through the roof but there’s no one else to blame, after all; you’re the bonehead who believed without knowing a damn thing, without instinct or thought process. Is there a lecture in this? Nah, but Petra’s mind was still rattled from the last staff meeting. “Does she honestly think we’ll all believe she’s that kind of intuitive, like a mystic or something and we’ll fear our thoughts because she’ll know them before we even think them? She’s in our minds is she? If it’s a joke it’s a bad one.” The director had opened the meeting with a shocking revelation in her menopausal mind state to startle everyone into unquestionable obedience and servitude through fear. She knew everyone’s thoughts. She knew what everyone was thinking without speaking. Intangible objective knowing was simply her state of being, her job. The other side of that bad joke was Emma, the lead on the floor who got caught taking 30-minute 10-minute breaks, using her laptop to write a book instead of doing her job, and utilizing the office equipment to print everything off. She had actually gone on a tirade blaming Petra for her actions although at first it seemed like generalizations of bad excuses. It turned out it was her fault because she was efficient on the floor. She got so much work done so well that it burdened Emma and left her no other choices. There was just nothing left to do. The kicker was the director allowed it to be dumped in Petra’s lap. She hadn’t even realized it until the director’d asked, “Does anyone have anything to say?” Petra had been listening and thinking how glad she was this catty, petty complaining had nothing to do with her to get sucker-punched with a baseball bat that the meeting wasn’t an emergency staff meeting but her personal lynching trial. The director was looking right at her as Emma ranted on about how she wasn’t going to apologize to her for her abusive language and berating in front of the staff and students. “You aren’t paying attention”, the director had said. “I am… I’m listening.” “Do you have anything to say?” Petra was briefly stumped. “Well, I had no idea this was going to turn out to be a meeting about me.” Her voice cracked a little. The director and Emma thought for sure they had her. What they didn’t understand was it wasn’t an indication they were breaking Petra down, she was pissed, mortified at the utter absence of professionalism with the open-door policy permitted that if there was a complaint about another co-worker to come to the director’s office and tell her. Instead of diffusing the director would go to the person complained about and level accusations. It was as bad as allowing catfights as opposed to cockfights. The facility was run by women. There would be none of those although some of them thought they had spiritually acquired the specific appendage. “What’s next, inviting people in off the streets to place bets?”

 

One thing Petra knew and had been observing since she was a kid, “You learn a lot about people when they think you’re weak or stupid.” Didn’t most of them love to think she was stupid or they each were lord over her? Oh yes, they sure did. “Let them have go. Hopefully I’ll survive it.” She knew, well suspected already but would find out exactly what was running this place. If she played it right, it might just get its long time coming spring-cleaning.

 

Sunday Is for Vampire: Eggs And Mama Lupe’s

 

And sometimes it’s not about vampires at all. Or it could be… nah, that’s repeating myself. Scratch ‘or it could be’. Ok.

 

“Horror always has sad endings” or at least that’s what the horror book said to the little boy. I watched a horror movie earlier yesterday and it did have a sad ending although evil was defeated. Clairvoyant, well more than that and our hero’s girlfriend survived the shooting we thought, but he sees dead people and saw her. He knew but he couldn’t acknowledge, couldn’t face it until friends, good friends like family stopped by and woke him. He’d been staying at her house and they’d been living, laughing, loving together, then he saw her as she was blood dripping from her wounds and my heart broke for him. He had to move on without her but a couple of the last lines stuck out that she believed life is a boot camp, we have to persevere through the obstacles and hardships to earn the way to the next life but he thought the training is sometimes unnecessarily painful.

 

True enough… sometimes…

 

On a roll with horror I watched a second one that had an honest-to-goodness happy ending. Evil was defeated, the family lived and the wrap-up was if we stick together, we can get through anything. Sappy, but after what had been going on and the way especially when it comes to evilness and you think it’s over it’s not over yet leaving us exhausted with no relief in sight by the end of the credits, I felt good, you know, glad they made it and what evil was trying to get a hold on it was deprived of.

 

It’s about time love won out.

 

 

 

Sunday Is For Vampire: You Just Never Know

It’s midnight madness movies at 3 a.m. Hercules this time and as I watch the all too familiar scene that for years I thought was a female stunt double driving the chariot it occurs to me it’s not a woman but a man, a man in a wig. In fact as I focus I’m certain the features, the face is much too strong, that it is definitely a man’s face in charge of those runaway horses who brings the chariot to the edge of the cliff struggling not to plunge into the sea beneath as Hercules grabs an entire tree, roots and all with that mystical-spooky music playing implying he’s not like everyone else, and throws it in front of the charging beasts saving the damsel, the female actress, in distress. Of course it’s been her the whole time the close up tells us as she collapses into a graceful faint. I get that same sensation, that excitement-warmth I felt as a young girl watching Steve Reeves, when WOR-TV had Sunday movie marathons and Hercules, Hercules Unchained, Jason and the Argonauts, Sons of Hercules, et al would play again, again, and again. I could shut the television, have Sunday dinner, put it back on and possibly watch from where I’d left off because the movie was playing one more time. TV was free, granted there were commercial interruptions but for these things they were limited, and there was always excellent programming, movie marathons being one of my favorites. Nowadays we pay a fortune and there’s never anything good on, or we’re paying big money to watch that one station not included with a basic cable package.

I feel an espresso coming on right after this fit of sneezing stops. I’m dusting today, no two ways about it.