Burrowowl

It’s an election year, so normally any musings on my part regarding the Mighty Cthulhu would center around his election to the presidency of the United States. But this time we’ve got another Great Old One from the trackless times undreamt of beneath the sea, so instead my thoughts wander to Hollywood. You see, later this month there’s a movie coming out named Cthulhu.

I had heard some time ago that there was to be a Call of Cthulhu remake featuring Tori Spelling. I thought that was a bit amusing, going from Beverly Hills 90210 to Lovecraftian horror. Figured I’d give it a shot for pure kitsch. Probably catch the matinee and laugh about it with Chunkbot or Daniel. Why not? It’ll have a big CG sea monster, crazy bayou cultists, it’d be a hoot.

Then I saw the trailer. Oh my. The Apple site describes it as “Adapted from a story by H.P. Lovecraft.” Well. Really, now? Are you sure it wasn’t adapted from 99% of the half-baked Chaosium RPG plots that have sprung up in basements and rec rooms over the past twenty years, a hodgepodge of creepy tales of Deep Ones and the Esoteric order of Dagon, with a sprinkling of “daddy never understood me” family angst. A manhole cover with a tentacled form etched onto it? Really? It’s set in coastal Oregon?

Maybe I’ve just grown too used to indie interpretations of actual Lovecraft stories, but this may take a few weeks to get my head around.

Hoo, boy.

This past weekend, I took my wife and son to the county fair. We did not go to see the flower hall. We did not go for the rides. We did not even go to see the livestock exhibition. We had done all that on our previous trip. This time we had a single goal: the Demolition Derby.

This is one of those odd American subculture things I always enjoyed as a child, and now get the pleasure of sharing with my own little one. There’s nothing quite like watching a half-dozen beat-up old junkers with gaudy paint-jobs shoving each other around, kicking up mud everywhere, and crashing left and right, punctuated by the occasional geyser from a popped radiator or flare from a burping carburetor. Yes, somebody got shoved all the way on top of the four-foot burm surrounding the track. Yes, somebody’s car caught on fire. Yes, somebody showed up with a Confederate flag painted on his Impala. Yes, the Batmobile was trashed.

If you’ve never had the pleasure of attending your local demolition derby, you’re really missing out on something. I never understood the appeal of auto racing, not as a spectator sport. I never got the appeal of tractor pulls and monster trucks. But a bunch of guys in salvaged late-model cars duking it out for a prize that maybe represents two weeks pay, smashing and scraping and steaming and burning, well that’s just good times.

Pardon the photo quality, it’s from my phone.