Shattering screams pierce the stillness of a dark and stormy night as a savage, butcher knife-wielding maniac stalks a bevy of overwraught actresses in a haunted mansion on the edge of town.
Starring NEVE CAMPBELL, JODIE FOSTER, SHARON STONE, and HILLARY SWANK.
Written by CHRIS PUDLO Directed and Edited by MIKE JUSTICE
About 20 years ago, I purchased a Beta tape from a flea market for $3.00. Little did I know, this Paragon Home Video release would become an obsession. An all-consuming passion that would span decades and out-live jobs, college majors, friendships, roommates, and boyfriends. Truth be told, I've never loved a man as much as I love Boardinghouse (1982).
Boardinghouse, for you ignorant philistines, is one of the first shot-on-video horror films, and surely the first to receive a theatrical release. Have you ever seen analog video blown up to 35mm? It's breathtaking.
The plot, resembling a cross between The Amityville Horror and a Playboy Playmates video, is deceptively simple.... A telekinetic lothario (writer/director Johnn Wintergate) with a thing for synthetic fibers inherits a split-level suburban house somewhere in Los Angeles, promptly filling it with a bevy of sexually liberated twenty-somethings. Little does everyone know, the house has a mysterious past, and the girls start dying one by one. After 90 minutes of cheesy gore effects, gratuitous breast shots, and music video montages, the evil forces are laid to rest when our hero teams up with his star tenant (played by his real-life wife, singer-actress Kalassu) to defeat the bad energy via their 'special powers.'
Watch Kalassu, lead singer of the band Lightstorm, perform her hit single Love Starved from the original Boardinghouse soundtrack. In particular, pay attention to the 2:25 mark where she fellates a mic stand. God, I miss the 80's.
On April 29th, Boardinghouse was finally given a long-overdue DVD release by Code Red. I, in turn, developed an intense, almost psychotic need to have my photo taken in front of the filming location. However, the internet is strangely devoid of information in regard to where to find the boardinghouse. Ever the intrepid, resourceful go-getter, I contacted Johnn and Kalassu directly via their Myspace page to find out exactly where the house was.
I wouldn't exactly say Kalassu was reticent to divulge information, but her hints about the location of the eponymous "Boardinghouse" got more and more esoteric as I pressed for details.
"The house was in the Valley, you silly goose!" Kalassu teased. "How could I forget? A part of my heart is forever nailed to the ground there."
So, this past Sunday, after canvassing Burbank and North Hollywood with Sam Schulman for hours on Kalassu's tip, I was frustrated. Rather than just straight-forwardly telling me the actual address, she would give me another Memento-esque piece of the puzzle which only served to confuse the situation more.
"No, whackadoodle, not the San Fernando Valley. The Conejo Valley! You know... Thousand Oaks?"
"Oh, of course. That's the first Valley that comes to mind in Los Angeles."
"Well, don't waste your time, honey. They knocked that house down in the 90's and built a crematorium. Some say that the spirits of the Boardinghouse still haunt the Red Robin by the Chesebro Road exit!"
"They built a crematorium in the middle of a residential neighborhood?" I asked incredulously.
"Um... yes," Kalassu stumbled. "Thousand Oaks has very flexible zoning laws!"
Sam and I embarked on the 50 mile trek up the 101 to the Ventura County line, to look for the Boardinghouse on Kalassu's tip.
"Oh my God - there's the Red Robin!" Sam swerved off onto the exit and we rushed into the front door. A pimply teen greeted us at the front counter.
"Welcome to Red Robin. Table for two?"
"Where is the local crematorium?" Sam inquired.
"Sir, our burgers are grain-fed and hormone free. I resent the implication."
"No, I'm looking for directions," Sam pressed.
"I'm not sure," the teen responded, looking around. "Hey Lupita, where's the crematorium?"
"It's up on Thousand Oaks Boulevard," responded the minimum wage earner working the fry bin. "Right past - ouch! Damn!"
"What happened?" the teen asked.
"This fry bin - everytime somebody comes in to ask about that crematorium, the hot oil burns me. It's weird!"
Sam and I exchanged a nervous look and darted out, ignoring the plaintive pleas of the teen for us to 'let sleeping dogs lie.' When we got to the parking lot, we dialed up Kalassu.
"Kalassu, we're getting warmer! Now just tell us - where is the Boardinghouse?"
"Boarding what?" Kalassu responded absently.
I was beginning to wonder if Kalassu had developed early onset Alzheimers from ingesting too much iron ore during her microphone-stand sucking days in Lightstorm.
"You know, the movie you made? The one you and your husband wrote, directed, and starred in together?
Kalassu began rubbing a hairbrush on the telephone mouthpiece. "Uh oh, we have a bad connection. I think the spirits are trying to prevent me from telling you where the Boardinghouse is. Om ashtangi guru!" Click!
With nothing to go on, we finished the afternoon using Sam's geotechnical kit to collect soil samples from outside every crematorium in Thousand Oaks.
"We can use these to run DNA tests to see if Kalassu's been here," Sam informed me. "Now all we need is Kalassu DNA."
I recently celebrated three days of smoke-free bliss by getting screamingly drunk at the Abbey and sucking down half a pack of Marlboro reds. This is why quitting cigarettes is dangerous. I used to smoke half a pack of yellow American Spirits a day. Now I've graduated to inhaling the equivalent of fifteen feet of two-lane blacktop in a four hour period.
It's not my fault. It's my boss's fault. He's the one with the Marlboro-loving out-of-town friend. He's the one with the frustrating 8-1 shooting ratio. How am I supposed to not smoke and construct a three-minute scene from six-dozen, 17-minute takes? I can't. It's impossible. You try it.
Last night my boss and Marlboro Lover were itching to get out of the house. "Let's go to Big Dick Thursday at Fubar" they shrieked in unison, fiendishly clasping their hands while my boss's world-weary boyfriend looked on with an expression of both disgust and horror. I somehow managed to convince them that Obar would be a classier alternative. "People there have big dicks too," I assured them. "They're just inside their pants." They grudgingly obliged.
Upon arrival at the overcrowded nightspot, we located a six-inch space near the bar and bumped and shoved our way through at least sixteen different cologne clouds to get our $22 alcoholic beverages. On the way, we ran into our Friday the 13th-obsessed friend, Peter, who writes reviews of HD DVDs. As luck would have it, Marlboro Lover was quite the fan, so we took Peter outside so we could chain-smoke while bombarding him with such nerdy questions as, "Is there any truth that a Blu-ray drive will become part of the XBOX 360 eco system?" and "Who was sexier: 3D Jason or Final Chapter Jason?" I'm firmly in the latter camp, although Marlboro Lover and Peter share a thing for 3D Jason. Personally, I thought 3D Jason was too tubby.
Despite double-takes from horrified queens with waxed chests and plucked eyebrows who were clearly horrified by my down-home wardrobe, I was having a good time until my ferocious wombat of a boss decided to attack Peter for having the nerve to say, "I find that relationships that start off hot-and-heavy usually end quickly."
MY BOSS: I don't think that's true. I don't think that's how it is. I don't think that's the way it is at all. No, no, no, no, no. No, no, no, no, no. That's not necessarily the way it is. That's bullshit.... My partner and I....
[dissolve to]
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER
MY BOSS: (continuing) ... That's not true at all. Relationships that ... No, no, no, no, no. What you said is wrong because I've always found that....
[dissolve to]
FORTY FIVE MINUTES LATER
MY BOSS: (continuing, with sweat pouring down his face and spit dripping off his lips) So, that's why you're wrong and I'm right!
A BARBACK approaches holding a dish tub.
BARBACK: I'm sorry, I'll need to collect your glasswear now.
MY BOSS: (grabs his glass with both hands and holds it to his chest like a child threatened with the removal of his favorite toy) You don't understand. I'm drinking water.
BARBACK: It's in a glass, right?
MY BOSS: Well, that's debatable. What's your definition of the word glass?
BARBACK: (seizes the glass and tosses it into the tub) Just gimme the fuckin' thing.
The Barback moves on. My Boss folds his arms and sticks his tongue out.
MY BOSS: Why are they taking my glass? I don't see why he has to take my glass. Did he need to take my glass? I don't see a sign that says they'll be collecting glasswear at a certain time. What if that was my glass? What if I brought a glass from home?
ME: You have a problem with authority, don't you?
MY BOSS: I do not. I don't have a problem with authority at all. I never had a problem with authority. Why would you think that? What would make you say that? I don't have a problem with authority, I just have a problem with STUPID people who are obviously INCOMPETENT and don't know what they're doing and who take my GLASS!!
After being kicked off the porch for unruly behavior, we were moved inside where--thankfully--the crowd has dissipated. "Everyone's at Big Dick Thursday," the exhausted bartender with Greg Brady hair told me. "If you hurry, you can still catch the floor show."
I assured him that I was fine where I was, and ordered a double Cape Cod. When I turned to find my boss, I saw him verbally mauling Peter over something Peter said. Probably 'Where is the bathroom?' or 'I've always found that cloudy days are colder than sunny ones.' Whatever it was, my boss was having none of it and was engaged in a heated debate. "I don't think cloudy days are cold. I don't think cloudy days are cold at all...."
I promptly finished my drink and went over to the dueling twosome to say my goodbyes. I tapped my boss on the shoulder.
"Don't take my glass!" he screamed, spinning around and grappling for his pepper spray. "Oh, it's you. Where are you going? Your friend Peter is SO EXHAUSTING. God, he just won't quit. Why must everything be a contest?!"
Pork Sausage, Chicken Sausage, Meatballs, Pasta, and a Leaf of Spinach
My boss spent all day in an edit in West LA, which meant that I spent my time relatively free from emotional and physical maltreatment--aside from frequent threatening text messages and profane emails I received throughout the day from a very hurt, very outspoken Jorge. His ex, the infamous Mr. X, sent him a copy of my break-up blog not 24 hours after I wrote it, ostensibly because Jorge asked for it, but mostly because Mr. X is a self-righteous, shit-disturbing drama queen.
"Thanks for sending your ex-boyfriend my blog," I told him today via the medium he respects most, AOL® Instant Messenger™. "Now Jorge is sending me malicious emails.""Ugh!" he grunted. "I need to excuse myself from your self-imposed episode of Gossip Girls [sic]. Just because I dangled your blog in front of his face and rejoiced in the angry reaction it got is no reason for me to listen to your whining. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must shop for mushrooms with my long-suffering boyfriend and spend all night talking about myself while he slowly loses his mind and/or learns to block out the sound of my voice." Dealing with my psychotic ex gave me quite an appetite, so my boss invited me to stay for Irish/Italian* dinner and afterward, he and his intern and I watched The Exorcist 2 and laughed at the serious parts.Tomorrow we're going bar hopping to celebrate my third day of being nicotine free. *pork sausage, chicken sausage, meatballs, pasta, and a leaf of spinach.
With my Trusty Commit Nicotine Lozenges by my Side
My two-month prison sentence began yesterday. That's right, I'm in prison. The prison is called Los Angeles, California and my sentence includes hard labor. I will, in fact, be editing the most confusing motion picture ever produced and I will be doing so under the watchful, wrathful glare of its director, one David Kittredge.
David has already beaten and scolded me for "infractions" ranging from needing a bathroom break every four hours to "not anticipating his need to vent frustrations in two 20-minute increments, twice an hour." But he made me a chicken omelette and served pizza for lunch, and booked my plane ticket when I was too busy breaking up with my boyfriend and getting screamingly drunk a minimum of four days a week to do so. So I'm willing to let it slide.
What I'm not willing to let slide, however, is the fact that he made me disembark my airplane in the worst clusterfuck since the Nanking Massacre: Los Angeles International Airport (LAX).
First off, I don't do LAX. LAX is for shrieking, turban-wearing foreigners, pissed off businessmen shouting at airline personnel about their unanticipated layovers en route to a business conference in Thailand, and Hari Krishnas. Indeed, I was harassed by two New Agey meditation jockeys yesterday, both of whom initially ingratiated themselves by complimenting my beard, and saying they felt compelled to talk to me because I looked "so good." In the old days, some bald-ass weirdo would force a flower on you; today, cute, smiling guys in burberry ascots ask what you're listening to on your ipod and praise your facial hair. What's next? A blowjob while soliciting a donation?
Anyway, I don't like LAX and avoid it like the plague, preferring instead to fly in and out of the Greyhound bus station known as Burbank. No traffic, no Hari Krishnas, and an overabundance of English-speaking white people is how I play the game. I've reiterated this at least several dozen thousand times to my boss, who--between fits of hair pulling, movie bashing, and profanity spewing--accidentally "forgot" and booked my flight through the dreaded LAX.
"Dave, I don't mean to be a complainer," I began, screaming into my cellphone amid the cacophany middle Eastern languages, "but I broke up with the love of my life a week ago, quit smoking three days ago, and I really, REALLY didn't think I'd be landing at LAX!"
Dave gasped. "Oh, I read your last blog about what your boyfriend did to you at that birthday party. If it makes you feel any better, I had a horrible night last night as well."
"Really? What happened?"
"Oh, we got really drunk and had too good of a time and woke up with hangovers."
"That's it?" I carped incredulously.
Dave sighed. "And the DJ didn't play Ain't No Other Man by Christina Aguilera the whole night! Girl, I was ready to leave at 1:30am!"
So, with the support of my sensitive, empathetic boss, I began work this morning with nary a whimper nor complaint, with my trusty Commit Nicotine Lozenges at my side. Ready to start my two-month prison sentence.
Mrs. Robinson, are you Trying to Seduce Me?—m4w--22
Mom, I know you're out there, reading this.
How do I know you're out there?
Let's begin with that ad of mine that you recently responded to, shall we? You know the one I'm talking about. It was entitled, "Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?—m4w--22" That ad ran for three days before I got a response, and I can't tell you, Mom, how my heart fell when I saw the photo that accompanied the response. It was your Realtor's headshot, the one on your business card. Even worse was the text of your response. I'm so, so sorry I know now what you'd do to me if we ever "hooked up." On the other hand, Dad must've been a very, very lucky guy back in the day. I dunno, maybe he still is.
I guess, Mom, when I think a bit about it, that I should resign myself to whatever it is that you are doing. After all, you're an adult and I'm an adult. I can't tell you what you should do with your life.
But Mom, I'd like to raise a few points.
The first point I'd like to raise is that you're still married to Dad. Please, please PLEASE tell me that you have his blessing. My mind is reeling now, hoping that you're not the people who posted "Fun Couple Looking For Others—MW4MW—57" I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that it is you. Now that I know you're cruising CE, I suspect that there aren't too many other 57 year old swingers from the Westlake area posting on Craigslist.
The second point I'd like to raise is that you owe it to whoever you're trying to hook up with to be honest. I mean, I lived with you and Dad for 18 years. You're not that fun.
Finally, I'd like you to stop responding to my "College Stud Needs a MILF—m4w—22" ads. The only one who should find you to be MILF-y at all is Dad. For me, you are just an "M". Got it?
Your son.
PS. I'm going to swing by at around 7-7:30-ish to do a load of wash, is that okay? I tried to call you at the office, but they kept telling me that you're busy.
All Lesbians to Henceforth be Referred to as Tazmanians!
Look, you guys, I don't mean to be a bummer. Lord knows I'm probably one of the most tolerant, personable people on this (or any other) earth. I'm very live-and-let-live.
However, as you all know, I have a healthy respect for the law. I'm also a crusader against abuse of any form, be it mental, physical, or self. Seriously, I haven't masturbated since that fateful day at camp 18 years ago when I shook my penis off a little too aggressively after urinating and went to the hospital with what I thought was a deliriously exciting testicular infection. I haven't spent the last half of my life in a chastity belt and burqua because it's comfortable.
So, as you can see, I have a very relaxed attitude toward things. Nonetheless, I must insist that everyone in the world henceforth cease using the term lesbian to denote gay women. Lesbians are, in fact, residents of the isle of Lesbos. I think that's in Greece somewhere.
If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with Dimitris Lambrou!!
Thank you for your support. I must now get back to my daily ritual of beating myself with a cat o' nine tails while tapping my foot under a bathroom stall.
I absolutely love this video. Apparently, it was filmed by someone named Emmanuel in Tulsa, Oklahoma at Nordaggios coffee. I read that this lady had been arrested before for causing scenes in public.
In addition to her beef with "Sharon Daugherty" and Victory Christian Center ("They're all going to hell!"), she also has a problem with Black people according to a blog written by one of the customers present...
"You'll notice too that she shrinks the window on the computer and doesn't close it. she was actually writing a letter to mike huckabee warning him that black people were going to kill him. the workers found it after she left. hmmm. you would think in the south it would be white people wanting to kill obama, but who am i to speak on behalf of rednecks."
The blog author is also quick to mention that the woman "was from arkansas, not oklahoma."
