Carving Up a Storm and Watchin’ CSI

Happy All Hallows Eve!

Tonight was all about preparation for the party at ‘Casa del Horror’. I lugged my enormous bag o’ wicca goodies, which weighed about twelve tonnes, out to the west end to avoid carrying it tomorrow when I’m all geared up in my fetching bunny outfit. It shouldn’t have been so heavy, but I persuaded myself that if I was going to trek over my own chalice, athame, and casket of white sage, I might as well bring the altar stone, too. Not to mention any number of tools of divination for the more curious party goers: fortune telling teacup, tarot deck, bag of runes, and a scrying bowl.

It was a great night, and very productive. Four of us ladies spent four hours sitting on the floor, scooping and carving 5 large, 2 medium and 4 small pumpkins. So many guts. So much mess. Ye Gods.

I spent most of the evening feeling particularly medical, performing meticulous surgery on my big orange gourd while parked in front of the telly watching some freaky-assed CSI episode. It involved this weird counter-culture where people get off on wearing plush furry animal costumes. I was completely grossed out by the visuals of the PFA (Plush Furry Animals) convention, and appalled that they went into some detail regarding terminology for the sexual encounters of these freaks.

Appalled, that is, until I realized 1) I am also a counter-culture convention-attending freak, and 2) tomorrow I am dressing up *to go to work* as an enormous pink bunny in a full-body plush suit complete with pink plush mitts to cover my hands, spats to cover my shoes, and a headpiece with ears that leaves only my face exposed to view. I mean, sure, it’s Hallowe’en, but I’ll be traveling on public transit in this getup for goodness’ sake. At that realization, I pretty much went back to carving my pumpkin.

Ah, my pumpkin. A modern masterpiece of jack-o-lantern style. Amy took about a whole roll of film post-carve, so there will be pictures posted here shortly. I tried to think of the scariest face possible, and then at work today it came to me in a flash. Underworld! Kraven! Complete cranial bisection! I sliced my pumpkin in two on a diagonal and carved a horrifying creased vampire face onto it, pupils looking disbelievingly downward at the widening incision that is slowly separating his forehead, eyes and nose from his mouth and chin. It’s hilarious, scary, weird and awesome. I also did a mini-tealight pumpkin, no bigger than my fist, which is a little mini-galaxy of moons and stars.

Alyssa’s piece de resistance was a struggle against the oppression of the traditionally carved pumpkin and it’s slavish adherence to the arrangement of the human visage. A Picasso homage, it involved many oddly sized and cubist facial features migrating to new and different areas of the head. She also did a number of smaller pumpkins, usually involving the ‘boo!’ round eyes and mouth concept, which were truly adorable.

Amy got out the big guns, and tackled the two gigantic mofos with great aplomb. She turned the tall, lanky gourd into a street sign indicating the house number; while the round, portly gourd became a monster whose gaping maw gapes so gapingly that you can actually see its TONSILS. Fabulous.

Christie departed from her usual role as Designated Scooper and Cheering Squad, and produced several menacing vegetable creations of her own. The big project was a fellow I like to call “the greasy Mexican” in honour of my long-lost friend Gustavo. It has a jaunty chapeau and a long, curvaceous moustachio that flickers greasily with the light of its internal flameio. Her tiny pumpkin (or ‘pumpster’, as they are colloquially known) was more of a psychological piece. It features an “X” on one side and a “Y” on the other, in a nod to chromosomal labelling. Reflective of the inner horror of studying for the MCAT, it can be interpreted on a deeper level as exploring the horrors that women have suffered through the ages at the hands of the male of the species. Deceptively simplistic in its execution, this is truly the most scary pumpkin of all.

Time to get to bed, although I’m sure I won’t get to sleep for ages yet. I am one excited little witch right now! Hurrah for Samhain!!!

Why so blue, Scott?

Went to see ‘Underworld’ tonight with Christie and Chrissy and Co. Then went to the Foxes Den and got drunk off my ass on Strongbow cider. Can’t believe I have to drink again tomorrow at Rob and Alyssa’s -1 year Wedding Anniversary party. Jesus. **Warning: movie spoilers ahead**

The ‘Most Sassy Award’ for uncalled for comments during the movie goes to Christie, who, when Kate Beckinsale bares her vampy fangs to get a taste of the lupine-a-licious Scott Speedman, said, “Mmm… finger lycan good!” She’s so funny sometimes she makes me want to throw up, but in a good way. In the opening sequence, where Kate’s character, appallingly named ‘Celine’, is posed dramatically on the dark and stormy, rain-battered stone turret of what seems to be a castle rooftop, she leaned over and whispered, “Are you suddenly jonesing for a pint of Stella Artois?” And when Viktor, the vampire clan leader, beat the living daylights out of a werewolf with his bare hands and then shish-kebabed him with a broadsword purely for effect afterwards, we simulataneously blurted out “Yes! Kickin’ it old school style!” God, we were obnoxious, come to think of it. There were a lot of loud remarks about telemark landings coming from me when vampires and the like would jump out of sixteen storey windows and land on their feet. And some amazed murmurs about the fact that anyone could perform in the role of Irishman-turned-bloodsucking-fiend with a less convincing accent than David Boreanaz (amazingly, the actor who played Craven achieved this, sounding even more like he’d lost his lucky charms than Angel). Other totally unnecessary exclamations included “Bad doggie! No biscuit!” when Scott Speedman first started to change into his lycan form, and “Why so blue, Scott?” at his anguished screams when he turns into the indigo-toned half-breed at the end of the movie. And of course the inevitable comparisons to the soap opera “Days of Our Lives”: really, the resemblance was striking, elaborate sets and costumes, horrible dialogue and delivery, a sleeping patriarch named Viktor, and all that jazz. I suggested that instead of a sequel (which will undoubtedly happen), the producers should consider turning it into a new, edgy daytime serial called “Nights of Our Deaths”. It could become the hip new hit for housewives everywhere who want to escape from Maury Povich, Price Is Right reruns, and As the World Turns.

We sound like complete assholes after this description of our behaviour, I know, but sometimes you’ve got to make your own fun at the movies, and this was one of those times. It was either get down with our snarky MST3K selves, or start playing scissors, paper, stone in the dark. Besides, by the end of the film, the whole audience had joined us in mockery. The death of Viktor was a masterpiece of gore-hilarity, taking the old trope of the time-delay beheading to a new and inglorious level. After a ten second staredown with Celine, a thin line of blood bisected his face diagonally and one eyeball started to slide away from the other (still managing a shocked facial expression, despite synapses and capillaries being severed). Roars of laughter rolled up and down the aisles. Sadly, although the whole point of the movie was getting the audience to ponder the question “Why can’t we all just get along?”, I think my crew pissed off Jamie’s girlfriend Erin mightily by laughing too loudly throughout the performance, which she was clearly trying to take really seriously. I’d have felt worse if the film had been an Ingmar Bergman classic, and I’d have felt better if she’d come out to the pub afterwards and let us buy her a pint in apology.

Tired now. Must go to sleep before I do the bad drunk thing and pick up the phone and start calling people.