An Ode to Halloween, Pretty Countryside, and Hairy, Masculine Legs

Roomie scarpered off to the nearby pizza shack and brought home a couple of pizzas, and I've been parked in front of the television, watching episodes of The Most Terrifying Places in America. It's that time of year again, when networks trot out their moldering trove of horror movies and paranormal programming, and I eat it up with a spoon. Got a countdown of the most terrifying movies of all time? Count me in. A tour of haunted hospitals and asylums and creepy backroads that boast women in white? Hot damn. Reruns of The Scariest Places on Earth(the episodes before they turned it into Ghost Hunters with dorky yuppie suburbanites in lieu of posturing, deadly-earnest plumbers)? Jackpot. I love Alan Robson and his cool melodrama, delivered in that lovely Gaelic lilt, and I'm still cheesed that copies of his books are only available at astronomical prices from Ebay or Amazon resellers.

This is the time of year when I can revel in my love of monsters and grue and vengeance from beyond the grave. There's just something about the combination of pumpkin pie and falling leaves and cocoa spiced with nutmeg and topped with marshmallows that lends itself to stories of ghosts and poltergeists and zombies and unholy creatures that move silently over the drifts of dead leaves, a flash of silver and blood glimpsed through the branches. It's a season of belief that is all too brief, crowded out by the frenzy and false cheer of Christmas.

I wish there were more to say, but my life is in a dead space right now, quiet and unassuming and reassuringly boring. I did find a few new pictures of Richard Kruspe:

( Richard Kruspe and California Country )

OMG, feetses! And hairy, masculine legs. He just looks so settled and content. But I'm thinking someone needs to skim that pool.

An Ode to Halloween, Pretty Countryside, and Hairy, Masculine Legs

Roomie scarpered off to the nearby pizza shack and brought home a couple of pizzas, and I've been parked in front of the television, watching episodes of The Most Terrifying Places in America. It's that time of year again, when networks trot out their moldering trove of horror movies and paranormal programming, and I eat it up with a spoon. Got a countdown of the most terrifying movies of all time? Count me in. A tour of haunted hospitals and asylums and creepy backroads that boast women in white? Hot damn. Reruns of The Scariest Places on Earth(the episodes before they turned it into Ghost Hunters with dorky yuppie suburbanites in lieu of posturing, deadly-earnest plumbers)? Jackpot. I love Alan Robson and his cool melodrama, delivered in that lovely Gaelic lilt, and I'm still cheesed that copies of his books are only available at astronomical prices from Ebay or Amazon resellers.

This is the time of year when I can revel in my love of monsters and grue and vengeance from beyond the grave. There's just something about the combination of pumpkin pie and falling leaves and cocoa spiced with nutmeg and topped with marshmallows that lends itself to stories of ghosts and poltergeists and zombies and unholy creatures that move silently over the drifts of dead leaves, a flash of silver and blood glimpsed through the branches. It's a season of belief that is all too brief, crowded out by the frenzy and false cheer of Christmas.

I wish there were more to say, but my life is in a dead space right now, quiet and unassuming and reassuringly boring. I did find a few new pictures of Richard Kruspe:

( Richard Kruspe and California Country )

OMG, feetses! And hairy, masculine legs. He just looks so settled and content. But I'm thinking someone needs to skim that pool