RAISING THE DEAD
It’s been said nothing’s better than a good number two. Yeah, the first issue is in the bag. What the hell do I do now? Well, as Johnny Rocco once said, “More!” As usual, LoCs are a rare item for any zine that doesn’t include stick figures, or something cuddly. Granted, outside of myself, there’s nothing really cuddly in these pages. A gander at the border around this page proves my point. I’ll save you the trouble of ego-scanning this issue; YOU ain’t in here. No gratuitous plugs just because you have a cat, or did a Jack Vance bibliography in ’75, those days are done. It’s “Ass, Gas or Grass (or LoCs).” And nothing described as “The Usual.” I’m betting it’s time to give Fandom the tailpipe. If I’m wrong, prove it. I’ve done zines ‘round and about Vegas; not by intent just because I can’t get anyone outside of town, and most people inside town to do anything. But a couple years have gone by, maybe things are different. Just look at the File 770 site. Mike’s spent the last two month’s featuring furry pets on book-covers. Doesn’t anything in Fandom have an edge on it anymore, or has the entire culture been Peace Bonded? I thought everybody had one of those Bearded Dragon things now. Can’t anybody slap one of those on a book? Or ain’t reptiles literary enough? Last ish - immediately upon uploading the thing to efanzines I found a couple typos from last minute changes. Damn, some things never change, so screw it. A Zine from Pixel Motel. Most contents by me, you lazy bastards, but for a few Rat Finks to remember Ed “Big Daddy” Roth. ©2018 Pixelmotel. Properties owned by donating artists (if any) and may not be copied without express say-so from whoever the hell that artist is. Seeking fannish creativity but we’re not holding our breath, fanboy! In case you haven’t been warned, PC doesn’t live here. If you need a warning about anything, this isn’t for you, and if you can’t take a joke, for god sakes, go no further. Alan White Space Cowboy
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Wasted Moments Are there still. . . Neighborhood Monster Clubs? I’m betting not. I’ll wager they were merely an extension of the Saturday monster movie matinees where for only 15¢ you could bless your parents with an entire day of undisturbed adult shenanigans which should best remain during hours when all that moaning and screaming stuff couldn’t compare to the moaning and screaming stuff shown on the big screen. I’m sure the term “Horror Show” could have been applied in both directions. Funny thing, as I got into high school, there was a complete roll reversal where I couldn’t wait to get the parents the hell out of the house and let the teenage hijinks commence within the comfy confines of home. Believe me, the thrills of “I Was A Teenage Werewolf," paled before getting your knob swabbed by the Enchantment Under the Sea Prom Queen with Dick Sinclair’s Polka Parade blaring from the Silvertone. But I digress. And then there was that flurry of monster magazines. If you could sneak them past the eyes of mummy and dadums; they were the closest you could get to bringing those grisly movies home with you. Maybe you could even thrill your friends with one of those Blackhawk 8mm hatchet jobs you bought from the crooked bastards at “The Captain Company.” Back in those days, we still had a black and white television, so there wasn’t any great leap from one picture quality to the other. The projected picture was a hell of a lot bigger, but you had to contend with someone constantly sticking their fingers into Professor Challenger’s nostrils, which left stains on the screen. And you seldom saw film on television incinerating before your eyes when caught in the film gate. That was known for turning your 200-foot reel of Chaney’s “Phantom of the Opera,” into a pile of flaming-motes in a matter of seconds; but it was cool! This was back when most of my library was provided solely by virtue of Columbia House Science Fiction Book Club, and paperbacks from that seedy liquor store around the corner where that guy behind the counter was always offering to show you his “shiny magnum” in the walk-in cooler. The following was the closest I ever got to start my own neighborhood monster-film-club. It was tough finding recruits, as bringing up monster movies was an absolute no-no to anyone who had a life. As much as I dreamed about living in the future, funny I never made the slightest plans to do so, and here we are. Oh well! 1956, I was nine years old; and found Bobby. His parents were religious crackpots that found watching television or the big screen tantamount to getting corn-holed by Satan himself. We weren’t two minutes into Rodan, as those miners were being tugged down the mineshaft to their sloppy demise when Bobby burst into tears, exclaimed in a voice loud enough to be heard in the parking lot “I don’t wanna be in no movie club!” and ran from the theater. I finished the movie, my popcorn, and whatever less-than-memorable co-features were included; and that was that. Bobby, I never saw again.
But Wait, There’s More! Steve’s father ran a movie theater down on fourth street; a very neighborly affair though a bit of an old stink pit left over from the 20s, but they had their monster matinees, raffles, giveaways and such. So it came to pass that Steve’s dog had a litter of pups and they ruminated over what to do with these things. I suggested raffling off a puppy-a-week for the next four weeks, and for some reason, they bought it. The next Saturday, Steve’s mom drove Steve, David, Danny, Johnny and myself, to the theater delivering the healthy-turd-sized animal in a white cardboard box stuffed with a filthy blanket that wasn’t even worth spitting on and pushing through a wringer. We all got a handful of ticket stubs that we might win extra popcorn, free movies tickets and such, then took our seats for the ensuing gore-fest. Following an afternoon of hairy carnage, long legs, and subtle titillation the audience sat in rapt anticipation of the raffle. Crap, we won no tickets; crap again, we won no free popcorn. Steve’s dad read the numbers on the next ticket, and the first thing I heard was Danny saying, “HEY, I don’t want no dog!” Sure enough, Danny’s number came up. . . he had won the dog! “Go get the dog,” said Steve, “But I don’t want no dog,” said Danny as the audience looked about looking for the lucky bastard who won the pup. “But my dad is standing there looking stupid, go get the damn dog!” Ok, ok, so Danny went to collect the dog amid envious applause from much of the audience, and people going “Awwwwwwwwwwwww.” “But I don’t want no dog,” said Danny “It doesn't matter, we can re-raffle the dog next week, no harm no foul.” I replied On the Way home, Steve’s mom remarked, “Well, I never saw anything so stupid in all my life!” We couldn’t help laughing at the irony of the damn dog returning to the same home, in the same car, in the same cardboard box, on the same shitty blanket, with the same fellow passengers. Danny pulled the sorry ass puppy from the box and gently laid it in his lap. I thought we were about to witness a bonding moment here, but suddenly, the dog seemed to explode from both ends as if he’d been hit in the belly with a carnival hammer! Everyone began screaming; mom emitted a non-stop barrage of “What? What?” What?”, quickly throwing the car against the curb, and surveying the situation, which concluded with “Oh, my god! Johnny exclaimed, “I think the dog died!” A distressful thought, but nobody could argue the fact as the animal couldn’t be found! Maybe it did explode! I remembered the old saw “The proof is in the pudding," and the interior of the car was covered with pudding. Suddenly the car got very quiet but for the exhausted farting of the dog which had rolled under the front seat like a hairy burrito when Danny stood up. I think Steve’s mom was about to cry, but being a woman of fortitude, calmly slammed the car into gear, pulled away from the curb and drove us all home. Being that I fortuitously called “Shotgun” early on, I was in the front seat unscathed by the melée but for a small gob on the back of my head discovered by my mother upon my return. Over the next few days, the pups were doled out here and there, and Steve continued grousing over having to clean the interior of the car that still smelled like exploded dog. “Wait! I said, I have a great idea!”
Probably Continued. . .
I Own One Suit Over the course of the last two weeks, I’ve been to a funeral for someone I’ve never met, immediately followed by a wedding for a couple I’ve never met. I have one suit that pulls double duty for occasions glum or glee. It can’t be claimed those of a graphic bent are known for dapper attire. Only coming up for air between 11pm and 6am doesn’t lead one down a path of optimum hygiene nor sobriety. I have one suit bought in some blurry epoch of the past worn whenever Levi’s just won’t do. When I retired in 1996 by virtue of Cancer Plague, I swore to never wear it again but for funerals or weddings; and whatever you do, don’t bury me in it. Yeah, I look like one of those guys who follow the president around, but older and not the least effective. ◀
Work buddy Jim, pouring me a little hair of the dog after an all-nighter; Landmark Theater Corp. 1984
STANDARD ATTIRE FOR ALL OCCASIONS FUNERAL
Lifelong History of hair:
Blond • Dark Brown
Salt and Pepper • Now just Salt
WEDDING ➤
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Las Vegas funeral held in blaze of day.
Î Shades: de rigueur
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Tired-ass sawtooth pocket square
came with coat.
Strictly for show, not for blow
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Necktie still smells of PotFest 1975
where used as headband
and bong filter
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Box of tissues for
spontaneous bout of grief Box of tissues for
spontaneous bouts of joy
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Pants: True hero of this story
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Shoes: Testament to thick
and repeated application of Kiwi polish
have caused shoes to petrify,
and sounds like approaching horse
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But It’ll Come to Me. . . Oh yeah, I Bought a Cell Phone Personal phones are technical marvels, a computer you can hold in your hand; astounding! I am amazed, and yes, baffled just by watching commercials about them on television. Truth or Dare: I select “Truth” and confess, I’ve never had a desire to own one. I think of myself as fairly high on the nerd scale, but in several areas. . . Five pups short of a six-dog team. I felt not having a phone a sign of technological freedom that has taken 20 years to persuade everyone not to call me for anything short of free beer or the second coming, and only one of these I believe could happen. I lost a few marbles following a stroke several years ago; none of the big ones, but a lot of little ones (an aggie and a catseye). The blade has dulled, from surgical to butter, and the grey matter has begun it’s oneway transformation into a somewhat rancid pudding. I now hate being put on the spot for the most simple questions, but I’m never unavailable at my perch at the computer, and would happily return an email over chatting on the phone. I remember the 70s when Beepers were the thing, and friends were continually summoned off the pot, for some menial task to keep the bigwigs from getting bored. There’s a hypocrisy here. I chain myself to this computer, and for so long, and by day’s end, I don’t know if I’m holding up four fingers or five, O’Brien. It could be worse. I see kids today focused on phones with complete indifference to the rest of the world. There are family members (on DeDee’s side, I assure you) who are dragged screaming across state lines to visit us and remain riveted to those things the entirety of their stay without uttering a peep as if becoming human wallpaper. It was DeDee who persuaded me to buy the phone which, frankly, I have yet to use to any practical degree. DeDee has a good time with her iPhone 6, but as yet, I remain unmoved. “Why the hell did you get a phone then, Mr. Crankypants?” some may be compelled to ask. OK, there is a tale that takes place over last Thanksgiving weekend. I know it’s not genuinely summer, but in Vegas, winter is more of a “suggestion” than a reality. DeDee and I were duty bound to visit her relatives in Palm Springs. Some of whom have reached that delicate age where this may conceivably be the last time they’ll be giving thanks for anything, and believe me, they don't let you forget it for a minute! But fair is fair, and I volunteered for the first time in years to go along for the ride.
Now, about that phone. I have nothing to say to these people, and they, nothing to me. We live in separate worlds of which I’ve never participated, and none have a clue what I’ve been doing the last sixty years, and would never dare to ask. They merely see me as the old guy that shows up for the food, and booze. But, I stay out of the way and let them do as their traditions demand. Everyone speaks what they know, which for the most part is: kids, rotten kids, horses, death, foot pain, death, bad backs, constipation, The End Days, and that Fabulous/Fucking Trump. The great thing about being at the end of your rope is that you can tell everyone to go fuck themselves, and they still have to feed you. I could see it in everyone’s eyes; just waiting for the old timers to kick the bucket so they could put all that old crap on OfferUp and buy drugs. DeDee planned on staying an inordinate amount of time there; a dreadful concept. Frankly, if I had to stay one second past dessert, I’d sooner stick my dick in the Bene Gesserit’s Pain Box. I had two alternatives: slit my wrists, or take a bus back to Vegas immediately following Thanksgiving dinner. I opted for the bus, though I realized it would be a nightmare. But, if things didn’t pan out, I could slit my wrists on the bus. Sort of eating my cake and having it too. The rub is, the I-15 freeway traversing the wastelands between Palm Springs and Vegas is a fivehour journey in the best possible scenario. But the day after Thanksgiving is notoriously, the worst possible day for travel in the country. Millions of people heading for Vegas and all territories beyond must take that highway, and those without foresight must share the road with the population of a major metropolis trapped in their cars and needing to take a crap at the same time. To the east and west sides, you are surrounded by dead zones of sand, and things that can kill you. On sides north and south, you are hemmed in by enraged motorists who would gladly kill you and your family, just to take a major dump of yesterday’s turkey, with all the trimmings in the backseat of your car. You see, merely by adding a quarter million people into the mix; what is normally a freewheeling scenic cruise, becomes an eight to fourteen-hour endurance test at the drop of an engine block. All it takes is the tiniest highway kerfuffle to make it worse, and there you are, all dressed up and nowhere to go (literally). In all her wisdom, DeDee considered “How will you get home from the bus station?” “Good thought,” and I had hardly turned around before an appreciated volunteer was happy to pick me up. All I had to do was call when I arrived, whatever time. So I paid a surprisingly agreeable $30 for a Tracfone, whatever that is, and with a $15 prepay, it was cheap enough and promised to get the job done. Knowing what was going to happen, I brought a DVD player and borrowed a half dozen movies from the library, shucked the boxes and put the disks in my pocket. Packed enough munchies and fluids into a carry-on as if I were scaling Everest, and was ready to go. Pluses and minuses of taking a bus: Pluses:
• Someone else will bear the 270-mile drive in 5-foot increments for the next 10 hours while I kick back with a box of HoHos, popcorn, and MadMax: Fury Road. • Availability of WiFi, and a power source. • Only $35 to make the trip; the cost of a tank of gas which I would have purchased anyway. • There is a restroom, greatly diminishing the need to crap in one’s pants. • Any problems, I have a phone.
Minuses: • Being in a submarine where every stranger knows you’re heading for the can. • Seats and aisles are amazingly narrow. If your nickname has ever been “Lard Ass,” you’re in big trouble; not just from the overhang, but from being the speed bump on everyone else's trip to the can. These seats are the size of that big-ass spoon used to shovel those mashed potatoes onto your plate the day before. • Wifi didn’t work. After all, we’re still crossing the desert.
Haven’t been on a bus since the 50s when mom would pin the name of a city on my shirt, toss me aboard, wave goodbye, and run off clicking her heels. But that was then; this is now. Dropped off at the station, consisting of… a bus bench. I paid on line, and waited…an extra 30 minutes; the nightmare had begun. Bus has an engine of an Infinite Improbability Drive and roars as if heading for Mars; First stop: San Berdo transferring Vegas Bound. I knew what would happen, but the added sensation of sight and smell give it a life for which no one could prepare. You’re aware of those horrible bus crashes in sorry-ass backwaters where an overstuffed bus driving a dirt road the width of a surfboard tumbles into a river half mile down a mountainside. If you can imagine it, that’s what the inside of the San Bernardino Station looks like the day after Thanksgiving. It’s an international amalgam of rural chicken-swingers, hostel escapees; not the hostels from catalogs, but those sordid places where instead of a name on the building would have a poorly drawn lizard claw or the head of a chicken with Xs for eyes. Oddly, there were several international hipsters in their Toni Sailer Rhea Jackets standing there as if wondering when the artisanal cheeses would be served. Speaking of overstuffed, the bus had indeed become so, and I was forced to cool my jets another hour while they pulled a fresh bus off the rack and to the door. Finally, we were away into the very heart of the beast. Yes, we inched across the burning wastelands like a big slug heading north-east, and yes, about five hours in, where normally I’d already be home. There were points where I saw people from my window in their vehicles turning the wheel over to lesser passengers, abandoning their automobiles and heading over the berm. We knew where they were going, and they would have no trouble catching up to their vehicle on their returned. I sat next to a young couple from Sweden on their way to the Luxor. Up Cajon Pass, through Victorville, Barstow, past Peggy Sue’s lousy diner, Zzyzx Rd., and the world’s tallest thermometer where the bus driver pulled off the road to keep everyone from getting blood clots, and buy lottery tickets. Nearing the ninth hour, darkness settled across the land, and the light of Las Vegas became a welcome beacon in the distance for the weary traveler. An hour later we rolled into the station, where groggy riders pulled it together long enough to find their bags spilled across the tarmac, and everyone went their way without comment. I called my bud; was picked up, dumped off at the house, broke into the two bottles of cold champagne for this very moment; turned on the tube, kicked back on the couch, fired up a fatty, so glad to be home and thought “Ain’t this the life?” Observations: Would I travel by bus again? I’ve had it with long stints of driving. For the price, it’s a deal. All I wanted to do was save a few bucks on this phone, but I realize, when all was said and done, that one phone call cost me $45. I still have the phone. It’s well charged, prepaid and “Programmed to receive…” (said the night man). It will no-doubt cost me well over a hundred dollars to make my next phone call, so it better be a damn good one. ◀
The Pod Squad
Or: While We’re on the Subject Old Timers might remember fondly the “House of the Future” in the early days of Disneyland where finally, the time traveling house caught up to the future and had to self destruct. Evidently nobody cares where we’ll be living in our future. I guess overturned Airstreams in landscapes of radioactive sewage might be too gloomy for the Magic Kingdom. Today, Brenda Dupont, DeDee and I meet under the giant, fire spewing Mantis at the Container Park on Main Street to beta test one of the autonomous busses set to scurry about Vegas like little bugs in the near future. Entering the vehicle, you punch a button denoting potential destinations; doors close, you place your fate in the hands of technology, and away you go, traveling at a family friendly 121/2 miles per hour. The car dutifully turns several corners, avoids jaywalkers, stops at all signals, and pre-set destinations, including The Donut Bar which can give you a heart attack on the fly. One more corner, and the bus rolls neatly to the curb, and opens the doors. This is just a test of things to come; just the beginning as driverless taxi service testing starts in August. One day this may be as obsolete as the House of the Future, but until then, it’s pretty damn cool. ◀
Tabe! Bala kum nono hi. Bala reri! Tasko! Tasko! Vana di humya? Malem ani humya? Ani saba! Malem ma pakapo wa bisa! Kowbisa para! Kara Ta ni. O Taro Vey! No, that’s not Esperanto, but the native language devised for the original “King Kong” in 1933 which I still use to call the cat. I remember my first visit to “The Nut House,” a two story, wood frame Slan Shack in Los Angeles in the early 60’s. There was a banner from jam to jam reading: “Civilization”. Yeah, this was the place that caught a bullet during a party some time back, and now a vine you could shake hands with entered the house through a bullet hole over the window seat. The interior was warm if austere, but for a book shelf bloated with paperbacks. On closer inspection, many of them were printed in Esperanto; Edgar Rice Burroughs, Heinlein, and others. This language, to which fans found As a doctor, we can end your days of fancy was touted as “Intimately tied to the common destiny social dumb-assery! Learn a language in of the working class,” And when I think of the working class, seconds, from Gajurati to Gibberish and I immediately think of Fandom. Forry Ackerman was a your favorite imaginary entertainments longtime proponent, and never missed a chance to drop a too! Yes, you can gab like people who may be canceled in a heartbeat! Spin the partopreni on ya’. Some thought it would be the real deal one wheel and take a chance!
of these days; an international language instrumental in Eroné to Esperanto! The only thing you making the world a jolly paradise. have to lose are your few remaining For a heartbeat I actually considered picking up the libro friends! Just LOOK at the fame and until I realized there was already an international language: fortune following those who speak English, and I already knew a smattering of that one. “Phew, Klingon! Don’t just sit there, sit HERE off the hook”. And would likely remain so until we are and you’ll soon be able to ask: “NOW overwhelmed by the Chinese Overloards in the near future. what do I do?” in dozens of languages! Yeah, I saw Shatner’s Esperanto Homage Incubus. Too much Bergman, not enough Woody Allen. But think for a moment, if Esperanto had gone as mainstream as Dr. Zamenhof could have hoped, what would we be spreading across our coffee tables today? What mainstream publications would we be pulling off the rack, and running home to enjoy each and every page of a language we gave up English for. . . If you’d like to speak with someone who cares, please dial 1 for Esperanto, 2 for Spanish, 3 for Authentic Frontier Gibberish, 4 for English. ◀ Alan White
Get the first issue as free as Flu!
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IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII II Before the Pixel Monsters devour them all! Then we’ll have to charge vast amounts IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII II of money to recreate each copy by hand, carved through leaves of human flesh. IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII II IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII Yes, it could happen, despite what you’ve heard to the contrary. Believe you me, II IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII you don’t want that on your conscience do you? So fasten your seat belt, and click II IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII that damn picture on the left if it’s the last thing you do! Don’t force that poor girl to II IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIII stare off into the sun till her eyes burn out, you bastard. II IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIII
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After the death of Dick Tracy and Flash Gordon, Alpha 60 threw the planet Alphaville into upheaval and the stricken population had been turned into uber-demons. to serve the evil consciousness. over the past 60 years, the giant computer system had transformed into Alpha 90, now with the power and plans of reaching far into the galaxy to conquer other systems and planets. Agent Lemmy Caution must now return to rid the galaxy of the Uber Demons and Alpha 90! Watch. . . he is coming in from hyperspace for a landing now. . . .
Ahh, There’s that shithole planet I never thought I’d see again. But If han solo is still alive, Perhaps he can find Natacha Von Braun. who Besides myself was the only survivor of Alpha 60’s first rampage that brought the planet to its knees.
a fan fiction sequel to the movie Alphaville directed by Jean Luc Godard in 1965.. Lemmy Caution created by Peter Cheyney in 1936. story & Art by alan White with some dialog from the movie
HAN SOLO! It’s Lemmy Caution COME IN!
rrrr
Brrrr brrrr b
lemmy? holy fuck, I THOUGHT HE WAS DEAD as grunthos! hand me the Fonx honey bunny.
Han! Han Solo! This is Lemmy, Are you there? Damn Lemmy, Long Time no See! What the Hell you doin’ here?
Your father Napoleon AT U.N.C.L.E. sent me to PICK YOU UP AND clean house here, you in?
Hell Yeah. Follow my signal!
Damn Dude, It is you! the past 60 years been good for ya! can’t be too careful around here now.
Yeah han, I was much older then, but My timeline is in flux., so I’m glad to be anywhen.
U.N.C.L.E. files were unclear what I would find here, hence the necessity of locating you. First hand knowledge should prove useful. though I saw nothing unusual coming in. you’re seeing a projection of what Alpha 90 wants you to see. Reality can be too complex to be conveyed by the spoken word. Here: take a pull on one of these sliders.
sliders?
Let’s cloak your vehicle before the uber-demons catch wind we’re here.
one drag and your perception of reality slides just far enough to see the truth of it all.
uh.
Yes, I understand now. sky is darking, feeling too close, The Landscape is nodding on arch and mysterio, and brain feels wrapped in an old newspaper soaked in dog shit!.
Sounds About right! How you feelin’?
Excellent,
Looks like ya got visitors.
expanded.
Uh Oh. . . . These the projections you were talkin’ about?
They’re the real deal. Suggestions?
RUN!
Crap! All I wanted was a cold beer!
This is wearing mighty thin. . .
You said it, let’s. . .
FUCK’EM UP!
Lemmy thought quietly to himself: “I am afraid of death. But for a humble secret agent, it”s an everyday thing, like whiskey, And I”ve been drinking all my life.”
When Vincent Price agreed to finally sit down with me in Los Angeles In 1987 to tape
what would become VINCENT PRICE: The Sinister Image. I promised him faithfully he would then have an interview that would address only his film career as the reigning Horror icon of my generation. He joked at the time that afterwards if any of his fans wanted to know about his horror films he would just give them our show. Of course the problem with that is simply one hour was hardly enough to cover a career so vast. It is wonderful to know that before he passed away in 1993 he had some idea just how much he was loved by his fans around the world and this continues to this day. I am convinced that one of the reasons his films endure is because of Vincent's superb sense of humor regarding image as an actor. I also believe that he is now appreciated for his acting skills and talent that he always possessed but rarely if ever got the proper respect he deserved as a working actor in Hollywood. This is why he loved one of his final films so much Theater of Blood because it reflected his own personal sense of accomplishment as well as the horror personality that he finally became with the "MTV" generation voicing Michael Jackson's monster hit Thriller or touring with Alice Cooper. This then brings us to the SIX feature films represented here for the first time in Blu Ray from Vincent Price's diverse collection of Horror films from AIP. House of Usher was not only the first of the now legendary "POE" films to be directed by Roger Corman starring Vincent PRICE, but was also a continuation of Vincent's good fortune with films that have the word "House" in the title. Both House of Wax and House on Haunted Hill helped create the persona that playing Roderick Usher would solidify making Vincent Price the legitimate successor to Boris Karloff as the King of the Horror genre. House of Usher seemed a gamble for all concerned at AIP when Sam Arkoff green-lighted the project. House director Roger Corman assured Arkoff that the true monster in this film would be the House itself and only a truly Baroque actor like Vincent Price could knock this project out of the park! Vincent Price's performance as Roderick Usher is masterful in every detail by bleaching his hair white and by removing his iconic facial hair became as he described to me "I created a character that had not been seen in the cinema since the days of Conrad Veidt, he was so pale and withdrawn that the sunlight never ever touched his flesh" The film was done for the modest sum of $270.000 with a cast of four, on sets that Daniel Haller worked miracles with giving the film a lavish look that became the signature for the seven films that would follow. Richard Matheson weaved a spidery script that was tailored for Vincent and since Matheson was also a film buff he wisely referenced Vincent's earlier excursion into Poe territory with Dragonwyck a Gothic melodrama for 20TH Century Fox where all of the elements of the 'Poe film were brought together. For the first time pre Corman, the haunted aristocrat with the dead or dying wife living a hermit like existence in a vast mansion or castle. All these things were there in the character of Nicolas Van Ryn. The moment we see Vincent standing by the portrait of his dead wife while
wondering if that harpsichord music he heard was played by a ghost, we are already well within what would follow in Matheson's script for Pit and the Pendulum. House of Usher proved to be a summer box-office hit as fashioned by its inventive director Roger Corman. This modestly made film with a cast of four took full advantage of the cinemascope lens to prowl around every cob-wedded corridor and stare every rat in the whiskers on the staircase. The surreal paintings by the tragic but gifted artist Burt Schoenberg wickedly enhanced the plot line where Poe had never gone. The tainted Usher line is beautifully realized in Matheson's script where later, in one of two dream sequences the Usher family portrayed now by wonderfully ghoulish replicas risen from their graves for one final reunion. Prior to this film only France's Jean Epstein had ventured into the Usher material with equal success in 1928 with a young Luis Bunel. USHER made enough money that summer to create a need at AIP for a follow up and Corman unable to film Masque of the Red Death chose the only logical choice Poe's wildly popular short fiction Pit and the Pendulum. This time Richard Matheson outdid himself creating a script influenced by (as was everyone else after the 1960 release of) Hitchcock's Psycho. Nicolas Medina is the ultimate tortured nobleman hyper-sensitive like Usher yet soft and totally in touch with his feminine side to the point of madness, in this case he tends to slip into the persona of his late father Sebastien a sadist and for one of few times in his career actually plays a monster and he is terrifying to behold a Norman Bates with a daddy complex instead of mother. The sheer physical presence of Horror diva Barbara Steele mades "Pit" stand out from the rest of the series since these two play off each other like no one else in the genre so it is our loss that these two icons never made another film together because they were literally the male and female versions of each others screen persona. So overwhelming was Vincent's performance that it overshadowed almost all that followed in the actor's long career. On the night of his death most television stations chose the "Pendulum" scene as the one to represent his entire career as a star for their broadcast tributes. Vincent and I sat in front of a television monitor while we were filming my show and when the sequence played where he does his speech beneath the pendulum with face in his hands in mock despair.."that was way over the top David and very hokey" I instantly reassured him that it was this kind of bravura acting that made him a Horror star and he simply smiled at me and said "whatever dear boy if you really enjoyed it then I did my job.â&#x20AC;? < Vincent and Ethel Barrymore in "Moss Roseâ&#x20AC;? Corman told me Vincent Price was his first and only choice to play Roderick Usher. The role established Price as the on screen voice of Edgar Allan Poe for a generation.
I was one of those lucky 11-yr-olds who stood in line for that first matinee to see THE HOUSE OF USHER at the Pix Theater in Hollywood during the summer of 1960. Not since 1939 had so many great films come out in the same year, not the least of which was Hitchcock's PSYCHO. Seeing Price for the first time as Roderick Usher caused one critic to refer to him as "decayed plush". I prepared for the character of Roderick Usher by going on a crash diet before we actually started filming, the result was astonishing as I looked in the mirror I saw an albino version of Nicolas Van Ryn. I watch Dragonwyck on television no too long ago and was struck by the similarities in the two characters. That was really no surprise, since Anya Seaton had placed references there in her novel in the first place. Our screenwriter Matheson is a great film buff and must have seen the film, it was obviously a reference he had in mind when he began to put the screenplay together. Roger had pitched the project to AIP as the house being the monster and it really is, especially when you see the matte work for the house itself and that coupled with Les Baxter's music just invests the house as a living breathing entity of pure evil looking back, Usher might be the best of all the Poe films we did, although I still think very highly of Tomb of Ligiea with those marvelous ruins to work with as an actor, simply wonderful. PIT AND THE PENDULUM was a much bigger production and far more attention was paid to it in the press. I remember countless set visits from every trade paper in Hollywood and a few New York ones as well. The set and costumes were more elaborate than USHER and for once we had a pretty good cast. The young woman playing my wife was especially effective as she had this amazing face and presence that was tailor-made for this type of film. We got on almost at once. Barbara Steele was her name, although we didn't get to know each other well; we certainly had fun making this one film together. I remember that she was rather shy and dear. She arrived on her first day barefoot - the opposite of what one would expect an ingenue to be. She was without pretense and head over heels in love with Italy at the time." Vincent expressed his admiration for Roger Corman during an interview in his home while discussing the making of Pit: "Roger had this one mapped out to perfection as far as what he was going to do with his camera and we rehearsed with the little time we had, knowing full well what was basically expected of us on the floor. Marge Corso found a beautiful dress for my wife while I wore the most uncomfortable collar since the one I had to wear over at Warner Bros years before when I was playing Sir Walter Raleigh with Bette Davis. I loved the cowl that I had to don when I was playing the evil father. That outfit is how I am remembered whenever the Poe films are brought up. I took a lot of flack for that performance with some members of the press at the time of the film's release and even later on. It was of course my choice to go out like that, I imagine it was to be expected. Roger and I had discussed this at length and since my performance in USHER had been so mannered and fragile, I really needed to try something just the opposite in the next one. The screenplay was filled with all these grand gestures and florid dialogue. It seemed everyone was expecting this kind of performance from me simply let go whenever I could, hoping I was in the moment.â&#x20AC;? â&#x2014;&#x20AC; THE PRICE OF POE Written by David Del Valle. Cover art, Alan White pixelmotel.com. @2018 by David Del Valle. No part of this text may be copied by any means or transferred to another medium without written consent from the author.
Things we may have doneâ&#x20AC;¦
Took in Paris Chansons
Tried to Iron Out a Few Wrinkles
Visited the Dog Park without a Dog
Amazed by the Squirrel Nut Zippers
Took in Skyship Chronicles at the Fan Bar
Other Things we may have doneâ&#x20AC;Ś
Hit the fabulous Davina and the Vagabonds
Danny Green Trio
Jimbo & Cella Blue from Squirrel Nut Zippers
Rambletorial. . .
(Courtesy of: Insta-Crank®)
If someone were to ask, I’d say. . . Seems Fandom is no longer in charge of Fandom. It’s Dr. Fandomstein’s monster run-rampant. Or maybe one giant Langolier eating up everything that smacks of authentic Fandom. The cons I now visit seem more like legions of devotees, like Moonies, waving youth and cash; two things I don’t have, so already I’m envious and pissed. “It’s success will be it’s downfall” said the ancient fanboy in the cave. Fandom lost control when science fiction, and fantasy went Hollywood, I think. It was comfortable when all things were between the pages of a paperback with the occasional B-movie thrown in for good measure. There was only one genre club in town, but everyone was there, and I would drive Ray Bradbury back and forth to meetings. Back when sources were tangible. By virtue of the book you had to imagine what the characters looked like. I’ve been to Masquerades where four people dressed as the same character from a Jack Vance novel, and were all completely different, and for good reasons! This was when fandom was not just a commodity you could purchase on line, tire of, put on eBay and order another Fandom off the rack. I’ve been to costume shows where the winners were a pair of guys in store-bought Stormtrooper outfits, blowing off anyone who designed and built their own costume. What a fucking rip. Now it’s mimickry instead of creativity. People make costumes that are what they see on the screen, not from what they see in their heads. Spoonfed fandom gives you a handful of identical Iron Man’s at the same con, and anime is the most ridiculous of all. . . . Odd, it’s the hall costumers that are spectacular in their reproducery, but on stage, not only are they identical to the characters on screen, but they actually lip sync the dialogue! We’ve already had the buffer generation growing up without books. I visit homes who have neither bookshelves, nor art on the walls and whose visual space is the size of their phone, and they are fine with that. Fandom is no longer controlled by you who designed your own worlds in your own brain. Spoonfed fan’s worlds are designed by Hollywood and they pay to go there. All we need is a few cinematic stinkers, (they’re coming believe me) and the entire thing will crumble like the comic industry in the 90s. Where will all those billions of dollars go when the world tires of endlessly gritting teeth, and sequels. Not to a world as simple as the contents of a paperback, I’ll bet. Yeah, I know. . . Harry Potter sold millions; blah, blah, blah, but you can’t put the genie back in the bottle. I think the bottom line is, there was once a time when you could repair your own television that would last for twenty years. Now you throw it out after four. All the fabulous costumes left behind will have no value on any level, because they were originally designed, and worn by somebody else in last year’s blockbuster made by. . . not you. I went to a LosCon several years ago, for a smaller group of old timers, they looked like bored and hungry jungle animals drawn to the dwindling pond for a drink before the nourishment evaporates, and only their bones, and piles of oversized clothing will be left scattered about the prairie. Guess I’m just cranky and jaded, but I’ll take the lid off the fannish pot in say, two years and see what has congealed therein. I think the pendulum is ready to revisit the western. I’m ready. Me: Corriganville 1954 >
One From NICFAREY This explosion in the grafix factory could not be mistaken for anything other than an ALAN WHITE FANZINE, could it? Only February, and already a contender for Best Cover FAAn award next year, shurely? (I'll have to see something a fuck of a lot better not to vote for it.) Obviously I went gaga for the egoscan pages, and thank you for drawing an atypically restrained veil over the "roast", at which I was, predictably, drunk as fuck, though probably not as drunk as at mine & Jen's wedding, an achievement difficult to surpass. Many, many great photos, including my bruv Martin somehow; he can be a shy shrinking violet, especially when searching for Guinness. My favorite shot there has to be Anthony's "Vulcan birthday pinch"; the only pic of me & him together I've seen, and very welcome for it. Only a small cavil for information both outdated and inaccurate: "Fifth Friday on Thursday" never actually existed, since it was in fact "Fifth Saturday on Thursday", and due to a longrequested change in my days off, will henceforth be "Fifth Saturday on Friday": this year, March 30, June 29, September 28, and a December-shifted Waifs & Strays on the 26th (not a Friday, or a Thursday, but there is a Fifth Saturday, not that it matters eh?). Looking forward to the next one mate! Good arrers! Thanks Nic. Be seeing you for a fifth on the fifth of one week or another at some point in the future.
Apologies to Teena Marie
Apologies to StĂŠphane Pompougnac
Apologies to Louie Austen
Lyrics by Ross Parker and Hughie Charles