It’s Christmas time again, and what better way to celebrate than with David Steiman’s spirited tale of the real story of good ol’ Santa Claus?  This week, good little boys and girls, in honor of the overflow of holiday spirit which is running amok within me, I bring you a special, mid-week Holiday version of Sunday Morning Sketch Cinema, featuring the 2005 instant holiday classic, Santa’s Slay.

A charming spin on the classic tale of old Saint Nick, David Steiman’s holiday horror fest spins a yarn of how Santa Claus came to be.  Far from the cheery, rosy-cheeked, happy old man we’ve all been raised to know, this film instead tells us of a thousand-year old bet between one of God’s angels and Satan’s son (played impeccably by Bill Goldberg), Santa.  Having lost the bet, Santa has spent the last 1,000 years being kind and generous to children everywhere, bringing yuletide gifts year after year.

Oh, did I mention Satan’s loss was endured during a curling match? Yep. Curling. Enjoy the ‘Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer’-esque clay-mation telling of such match.

Unfortunately for the township of Hell, the clock has run out on Santa’s thousand-year punishment, and he has certainly been keeping track of time.  He’s returned with a vengeance, ready to reap massive amounts of holiday horrors upon the masses.

Even more unfortunate for Nicholas Yuleson, he not only has to battle tasteless gifts from his family and girlfriend, but he also happens to discover (in the nick of time) that his own grandfather (portrayed perfectly by Robert Culp) is none other than the wager-making angel himself, responsible for dooming Santa to his millennium of magnanimity.

If you watch this movie for nothing else, the opening scene is more than enough of a holiday gift to keep you sufficiently enthralled with the rest of the film.  With cameos by James Caan,Fran Drescher, Chris Kattan, and Rebecca Gayheart (none of whom are spared – not even the family dog), Santa’s Slay is sure to quickly become a Christmas tradition.

Dubbed a ‘black comedy’, this movie is rife with holiday-themed slayings, tasteless word play, and the type of cinematic cheese you’ve come to expect from Sunday Morning Sketch Cinema.  Rather than tease you with plot details, I will simply leave you with Santa’s ‘naughty’ list – the official Santa’s Slay body count:

1-6: The Mason Family and their Dog, subjected to numerous fatal injuries.
7: Mrs. Talbot – Elderly Woman, run off the road by Santa.
8: Street Punk, beaten and stabbed with a candy-cane after attempting to rob Santa.
9: Strip Club Valet, eaten by Santa’s “hell-deer”.
10: Strip Club Bouncer #1, beaten, strangled, and gift-wrapped by Santa.
11: Strip Club Bouncer #2, thrown by Santa onto the bartender’s knife.
12-13: Bartender and attendee, crushed under a table by Santa.
14: Truck Driver, electrocuted by a stripper pole Santa kicks into a lamp.
15-20: The Strippers, trapped in a blaze from burning coal.
21-22: Two Children, blown up by explosive presents.
23: Mr. Green, beaten and impaled upon his menorah.
24-28: Chief Caulk and the Officers, tazered, stabbed, impaled, and generally killed by Santa.
29-33: Christmas Carolers, dispatched by a number of various wrestling moves.
34: Grandpa Yuleson, run down by Santa’s “hell-deer”.
35: Pastor Timmons, impaled after being blown out of Santa’s sleigh.

And now, my well-behaved kiddies, for this week’s SMSC quote of the week:

“Don’t use any of that political language shit with me; it’s Christmas! Wish me a merry Christmas!”

“I’m sorry, Merry Christmas Mrs. Talbot!”

“Thank you, and go fuck yourself.”

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I had this dream last night.  Multi-faceted, complicated, painfully realistic – and ultimately quite depressing.  Taking the three main images in my dream – being hit by a man I’m enamored with, being forced to work through my vacation, and having my personal possessions stolen by a 21-year-old douchebag – I can clearly see the theme of heartbreaking disappointment which ran through each dream sequence.

In relaying the story of dream image numero uno to a co-worker, she offered this insight:

“He is hitting you psychologically, and you can’t escape it.  If he literally hit you, you’d be done with him.”

And I can’t escape it. I can’t escape him – even though it means sacrificing everything I have ever stood for in love and romance and making an utter fool out of myself for all to witness.  I never wait for a man, yet, here I am pining away for over two months with no progress, despite how he claims to be ‘trying’.  Here I am allowing my nights to end at 7 pm or earlier when he has to rush home to his real love.  Here I am, with my heart in shackles, not allowing myself to look elsewhere for something that could actually be mine.

Is it easier this way? Is there a part of me that feels that this is enough for now?  Or could it be that small child inside me who has been brought up to never hope or dream of being worthy of the things which are granted to others?  I am easily slipping into that ‘not-good-enough’ mentality that had been ingrained in my being from my earliest days, when I was taught to accept that those around me would be entitled to the praise, support and love that I, myself, would not be privy to.

Working through vacation.  Once again, the details of that particular dream image were pretty cut and dry – I was asked to work through my two week vacation so that my coworker could take vacation, though she had no vacation time left to use. Again, going back to not feeling good enough.

I can’t help but recall a third-grade experience which has always stood out in my mind as a perfect example of my role in the world:

In my elementary school, we had bus patrols and hall monitors.  Students would be selected on a monthly basis and would get to sport a sweet, orange, official-looking crossing guard belt – and should they happen to be picked for bus patrol, the belt even came with a nifty little badge.  Every kid dreamed of getting his or her chance to do this.

Then came the day I had waited for all year long.  My teacher read my name off of a list, and instructed me to head down to where they were distributing new belts and collecting old ones.  When I returned, triumphantly, with my bus patrol badge and belt, my teacher ensured my joy was short-lived.

“Oh no, dear – I sent you down there because I thought you had already been a bus patrol.  You weren’t supposed to be getting a badge or belt!”

She then made me go back and return my items.  I never got the chance to be a bus patrol or a hall monitor (although every child in class was to get their turn).

As for the third dream symbol, I simply believe that the frustration and anger which had built up  within me throughout the dream needed to be unleashed.  So, upon the discovery of said 21-year-old douchebag stealing my possessions, I made it perfectly clear that beating her ass would be the perfect way to end my day on a much better note.  I’m fairly certain I even quoted George Costanza.

“…and if you think I’m kidding, just try me. Try me. Because I would love it!”

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I’m on my last full day sans-internet at my brand new apartment, and Comcast can’t come soon enough.  No cable, no internet, hell – not even the ability to watch regular old television due to inactive jacks and that stupid DTV transition.

The good news from this is an over-abundance of material with which to pen my next Sunday Morning Sketch Cinema, as I’ve been forced to take in movie after movie to pass my quiet nights in the new place.  So, there’s that.  The Dead Pit, Pot Zombies, Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead – you don’t want to miss any of these gems.  So stay tuned, as this week I promise to deliver SMSC on Sunday morning. What a concept!!

My new role as Boston Comedy Scene Examiner is keeping me sufficiently distracted, though somewhat at the expense of this site.  Impending vacation means finding that delicate balance.

So that’s it for now.  I’m counting down the hours until I’m let out of my work-cage and welcomed into my first-ever TWO WEEK vacation.  I might start to appear mildly retarded as I gravitate towards not using my brain at all.  But, I leave you with a jealousy-worthy picture of my new, massive living room, and my tiny-looking dog.

Oh, and happy holidays and all that jazz too. Smooches!

Oh, and since the title of this post might pop something into your head, I figure I’d help damn you today by just putting it in there myself.

The Muppet Movie Movin Right Along

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Another weekend has rolled past in a haze of to-do listing.  My impending move dictated much of the weekend’s activities as I tried to neatly pack tiny bits of my life into poorly-assembled corrugated boxes.

I’m excited to be relocating, even if it’s only ten minutes away from my current residence.  The rose-colored glasses with which I viewed the Hills have long since been smashed in, probably by the same drunkards who felt the need to kick in the drywall in the building lobby. Onward and upward, my friends.

Saturday was something special, though I won’t go into details.  Following a bubble-gum flavored vodka spree Friday evening which ended far too early, it was just the day I needed to set heart and home upon a better, less frustrating path.

Dolphins and Marlins are not land animals.

Things, they are a’happening.  Made amends today, made new friends yesterday, and can barely sit still with all that’s going to be coming my way this month.  We’re about 85% done with a preliminary plan for the Greater Boston Comedy Relay, and my pal and yours James Yantis is hard at work planning the same magic for Los Angeles.  But, as Yantis pointed out, Boston’s going to have to top “firetrucks, booze and hookers” if we want to beat LA.  How will we beat firetrucks??

And a little shameless self-promotion before I go.

You can now follow me – aka the Boston Comedy Scene Examiner – on Twitter (@BosComExaminer) and on Facebook! Huzzah!

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and I don’t think it’s

all that fair

when you cry about

your life’s

injustices

on my shoulder

expecting my

tenderness

and my

empathy – while

knowing,

always knowing,

of this

land-mine

love

that is sure

to drag

my heart

deeply through

your warzone

because you

still love

her.

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This past weekend, my sketch-loving friends, I had searched high and low for a film sketchy enough to grace the SMSC column of Inside My Head.  Having spent the past several weeks under the spell of the B-movie genre, I decided to peek my head out of the window a bit and delve into something a bit more…current.

In my search for something a bit more frightening (since I’ve come to realize that I simply do not scare easily in my older years), I settled upon Oren Peli’s ‘found footage’, low-budget blockbuster Paranormal Activity.

Originally premiering at the Screamfest Film Festival in the U.S. on October 14, 2007, and soon shown thereafter at the Slamdance Film Festival on January 18, 2008, Paranormal Activity tells the tale of college student Katie and her live-in boyfriend, Micah, as they deal with a rather ill-spirited and increasingly dangerous demon which seems to haunt Katie wherever she goes.

I know. How cliché can a movie get?

PA surprisingly delivers all that other found-footage films seem to lack – substance. There are no tricky camera angles and heavily-implied terrifying moments (a la Blair Witch Project, which left much of the plot to the viewer’s overactive imagination rather than providing visually-spine-chilling scenes).  Instead, thanks to the couple’s desire to catch the demon on film (thus filming almost every waking moment of their lives), viewers are left just as (if not more so) terrified than the incredibly realistic characters.

For example, witnessing Micah’s borrowed Ouija board suddenly start to move then burst into flames just after the couple has left for the evening.  Scary shit.

I will say that, had I been Micah, I would have been gone ages ago – his girlfriend is clearly of the queen bitch variety, and she berates him at every turn.  Why he stuck around for demongirl, I’ll never know.  Love makes people do stupid shit.

Major kudos to Peli for bringing scary back.  With a mere $15,000 budget and a very sly marketing tactic leading up to it’s national release, this first-time director has successfully restored my hopes for any scary-movie genre.  Be sure to check out all three versions of the film, as each has a slightly different take on the same ending – all of which are horrifying and will leave you shocked and afraid to go to bed at night.

And now, my frightful friends, I leave you with this week’s Sunday Morning Sketch Cinema quote of the week.

Micah: [Trying to communicate with the entity while doing an EVP] “What is your quest? What is your favorite color?”

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Check out Jimmy Dunn this Saturday at Mottley’s Comedy Club!

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Comedian Kevin Knox

On Sunday, November 29, Boston will celebrate the life of local comedy legend Kevin Knox in a special memorial at the Collins Center for the Performing Arts in Andover. Knox passed away earlier this month at…

Click to read full article…

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I’m excited to say that last week I was reunited not only with my back-from-the-dead computer, but more importantly, with my Netflix online account.  I must confess, in the weeks in which I was separated from my dear friend, FearNet left me profoundly disappointed in its lackluster post-Halloween programming lineup.  There’s only so much Sleepaway Camp I can take.

Perusing the selection of deliciously-sketchy B-movies and cheese-laden zombie flicks, I decided to settle in for a Sketch Cinema masterpiece which is lovingly brought to us by none other than Lt. Donald Thompson himself, John Saxon.  From nightmares to zombies, I present to you Saxon’s 1987 unintentional zom-com, Zombie Death House.

Derek Keillor’s having a rough time.  He’s trying to break free from his boss, mob kingpin Vic Moretti, after being Moretti’s driver for some time.  This is tough to do, particularly as he’s conveniently servicing his boss’s girlfriend in his off-time.  Moretti solves one problem for Keillor by killing said girlfriend, though he manages to frame Keillor for the murder, sending him off to prison.

We soon learn that at said prison, Colonel Burgess (Saxon), a bio-weapons engineer, is testing out the latest in chemical warfare and is using death row inmates as his test subjects.  Everything goes swimmingly to plan until the attempted execution of a recently infected inmate – an opportunity which presents the convict with the opportunity to demonstrate his super-human, zombie-like prowess – and all hell proceeds to break loose.

A lesser director would have simply settled for a prison-based zombie apocalypse, but not our pal John Saxon – and this is why we love him.  Keillor has managed to spring most of the inmates from their cells, while the government has quarantined the entire prison, leaving guards, staff, the warden (and his wife and children), and a local hot-blonde-scientist-turned-TV-reporter all trapped within the prison grounds.

Keillor clearly sees the opportunity laid out for him, and he and his fellow inmates begin to take hostages and make demands – particularly in order to get Moretti to the prison, where his homosexual brother has been taken hostage as well.  Moretti happily obliges, eagerly awaiting the chance to point and laugh at Keillor, unaware of the quarantine on the building.  How will Moretti react once he realizes he’s trapped?

Zombie Death House is a gore-filled, laugh-a-minute mash up of cheesy-action-drama and take-it-for-what-it’s-worth violence, reminiscent of an undead version of Miami Vice. Obviously Saxon is taking his cues from his Napoli violenta days as the movie desperately tries so hard to be much bigger than it is.  Lucio Fulci you are not, Mr. Saxon, but I, for one, appreciate the effort.

And now, my little sketchy friends, I leave you with this week’s Sunday Morning Sketch Cinema quote of the week:

“Got no bananas here monkey ass. Keep walking.” (Death Row Inmate)

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He’s been coming around here for awhile now, almost so often that should a day pass during which his towering frame happens to not cross my threshold, I’m left, in a way, out of sorts. He’s not mine, or at least, not yet – but that’s no way to think about things like that.

The natural pout of his lips has a tendency to infiltrate significantly more pressing thought processes, knocking the mind off-course with fanciful gale-force winds and a sly smile that speaks of nothing in particular but conveys everything, altogether.

I brace for the impact, while concurrently dangling bare feet from open doorways, manipulating his current in delicate ways before falling turns to landing.

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