FEELS

Now Kids, Put Down Your Guns and Let Me Tell You A Story

If you grew up in Canada and are of a certain age, The Hilarious House of Frightenstein was part of a complete childhood. I learned a few weeks ago that it is currently available for binge-watching on Tubi. Originally produced by CHCH-TV in Hamilton, Ontario in 1971, it aired for only one season. Yet that one season would be shown in syndication for nearly two decades thereafter, where it would find its way into the cockles of the collective heart of Gen X Canada. A sketch-comedy/sitcom hybrid for the whole family with a regular cast of oddball characters (most of which were played by the same actor), set in a medieval castle where Halloween never ended. A diminutive vampire character on this show (specifically the one who was always talking on the phone in Count Frightenstein’s coffin) allegedly served as the inspiration for Mini-Me of Austin Powers fame. Vincent Price was a regular contributor to boot…

Vincent Price was a god who walked among men.

One of the recurring segments on Frightenstein was Grizelda the Ghastly Gourmet, which was a take on TV cooking shows featuring a witch as the star chef. Since a picture’s worth a thousand words, I’ll just post a clip of one of those segments here…


Whilst watching Frightenstein at 4:20 the other night, I was suddenly reminded of how convincingly female Grizelda seemed to the sensibilities of my eight-year-old self. The fact that she was actually portrayed by a man in drag never dawned on me until junior high school. It might shock some people to hear this, but my young impressionable mind found nothing traumatizing or world-crushing about that revelation at all, and was even somewhat amused by it. You see, drag performers have been entertaining audiences young and old for literally centuries, and for most of our history it was actually possible to have a man in drag entertaining a group of kids without a permanently enraged mob of cultists throwing a violent temper tantrum.

I totally get that these cultists are out to avenge their dogmas. But it has to be said that the rest of us are not at fault for their own costly public relations failures, and their actions are thus unwarranted. Decades of sleazecorruption, pointless scapegoating and trying to attract flies with vinegar (to say nothing of coöptation by a political party) arguably contributed way more to the recent spate of ecclesiastical bankruptcies than any drag queen. Drag queens don’t text dick pics to fifteen-year-old girls. Pastors do.

May you be touched by His Noodly Appendage, and Happy Festivus.

SIGHTS

I Created an Oviform Monster

This is part of a science experiment I did for school. I was curious as to what the end product would taste like, so I cooked it up and ate it. In short, it was a culinary abomination. Had to slather the whole thing in generous amounts of salsa just to make it palatable. Smelled like roadkill as it cooked, and gave me a colossally bad gutache that lasted for the next twenty-four hours. The havoc it wreaked on my digestive tract admittedly didn’t ruin the Grey Cup for me as much as A.J. Ouellette’s touchdown in the fourth quarter. But still, it was bad enough to convince me that raspberry purée is a terrible thing to marinate an egg in.

It looked and tasted like a puddle of raspberry juice before I cooked it.

…but for whatever reason, marinating a different egg in blueberry purée (as opposed to raspberry) gave the end product the taste and consistency of yogurt. It was like eating a dairy product that never involved a cow. There were no subsequent violent rumblings in my intestines to boot.

I still think I’m gonna use HP Sauce if I ever try this experiment again.

SOUNDS

She’s Quite the Mediator

Figured out how to fully adjust the settings on the new Google Chromecast sometime after the first week of having it. By that point it had become a regular part of my network, with least two other devices frequently talking to it. I immediately reckoned it ought to be bestowed with a proper name, upon learning that the name actually can be changed. For easy identification on the network. Just like I do with all my other devices. “Chromecast” (the factory default) is just not a memorable network identifier. It’s the technological equivalent of naming your dog “Dog”.

After weighing the pros and cons of several worthy options (and at least one completely inappropriate one), I named the Chromecast after a song Bob Seger once wrote in homage to a certain Windsor radio legend. Although it was Thin Lizzy’s better-known cover version of said song that ultimately inspired the name.


Further investigation revealed that Rosalie’s remote control is a Bluetooth-enabled gizmatron that can also be given a name. So I called the remote control Eddie Willers, because it’s been pretty much abandoned and left for dead since I figured out how to control it all with my phone. Which I call Little Suzi.

There’s a story behind all those neglected Facebook notifications…