The 13 Days of Friday the 13th: Day Two

Released within a year of the original film, Friday the 13th Part 2 (1980) brings nothing new to the table, but somehow manages to outdo its predecessor in almost every way.

Tales around the campfire. The small group of young camp counselors huddle together, roasting marshmallows and telling tales of Jason Voorhees, the youth who seemingly drowned decades before. The events from the previous film, in-continuity having occurred five years prior, are simply regarded as an urban legend. A scary story to pass the time before a night on the town. There's no reason for the kids to think that they're in any danger.

Except that there really is.

Of course, any semblance of a whodunnit murder mystery in the vein of Agatha Christie's Ten Little Indians (1965) or the Italian giallos is quickly tossed aside, as a bulk of the film is spent discussing the possibility of Jason surviving his supposed fatal accident. Our "final girl" this time around, Ginny, theorizes that Jason grew up in the woods surrounding Camp Crystal Lake, never knowing anyone except for his mother, Pamela. She also speculates that he must have witnessed Pamela's decapitation at the hands of Alice, and that it drove him into a murderous rage.

No surprise then when it's revealed, in the film's final act, that, yes, this is precisely what has happened.

The rules from the previous installment, that sex and drugs result in a character's demise, don't seem to apply this time around.

Jason seems less concerned in meting out punishment on wicked teens; the surrogate counselors, standing in for those who ignored him as a child, who were responsible for his near-drowning, the same event that unhinged Pamela and drove her to maim and murder. In fact, the film's second victim isn't one of the young, attractive counselors, but instead Crazy Ralph, the prophet of doom from the original movie. Unlike his mother, Jason acts more like a wild animal, killing anyone who trespasses on his land. It seems happenstance that most of his victims are lustful youths or "dope-fiends". The simple case of "wrong place, wrong time".

There's so much more to love in Part II than the original Friday the 13th, and I'll gladly herald it as a far superior movie. Setting up the tradition of the previous film's sole survivor, here it's Alice (Adrienne King), as the first victim. A much more likable group of kids, including short-shorts Terry, goofball Ted, and Scott offering to dance with a dog. Poor Mark taking a machete to the face and then tumbling down a flight of stairs, even when he refused to smoke pot because of his "training". There's Hillbilly Jason wearing a sack over his deformed face, wielding a pitchfork and chasing Ginny all about the campground. The pair ending up at Jason's decrepit shack, where his shrine to Pamela, complete with her decapitated head, is revealed.

Oh, and her sweater, too.

My only real complaint is the death of Crazy Ralph, who I will miss dearly as I continue my journey through the franchise.

The 13 Days of Friday the 13th: Day One

I had never seen Friday the 13th (1980) before today.

That is mostly true, at least. There's one instance, several years back, where the film was playing randomly on television and I left it on while I wandered around my shared townhouse. Viewed in bits and pieces, already aware the killer's identity and most of the characters' fates, it barely held my attention. There were just too many hurdles to overcome; the biggest one the lack of a hockey-mask clad, undead killer in Jason Voorhees.

Hold on, let me backtrack for a moment, yeah?

I've mentioned before, in the earliest days of this blog, that I wasn't particularly fond of horror films when I was younger. Always a little too skittish, too terrified to subject myself to the misadventures of Leatherface, Freddy Krueger or Michael Myers. I had friends, other kids in the neighborhood, who were braver than I. Whose parents didn't mind that they were viewing cinematic massacres, brutal slayings committed by maniacal dolls or people wearing other peoples' faces. These same friends would run over to tell me all about the latest in the Nightmare on Elm St. series, and that was enough to traumatize me. So, there was no way that I was ever planning to become a fan of horror movies.

And yet, here I am, less than two weeks away from attending my first Monster Mania, an annual horror convention.

Yeah, somewhere along the line, probably during my time spent working at our local video store, I started to really embrace the horror genre. Those late nights after work spent watching From Beyond (1986) and Halloween (1978), catching up with the Puppet Master franchise, or discovering flicks like Fade to Black (1980). It only got worse when I went off to college, meeting like-minded film freaks who would introduce me to to the works of Cronenberg and Henenlotter.

But there was still something missing.

Despite my newfound love for the genre, there were notable staples that I was completely ignoring. The boogeymen from my youth remained unvisited; Freddy, Chucky, Pinhead, and yes, even Jason Voorhees. I hadn't fully found the courage to watch their respective series. The fear from my youth still too overpowering. Memories that were far more terrifying than anything that appeared in any of those films. More years passed, years spent devouring more and more frightening flicks, but always avoiding that handful of franchises.

And then, only a couple years ago, around the time that I started actively collecting VHS, something happened. Something changed. Those horrors and undead killers that I spent most of my life in fear of, I realized that I had grown up with them constantly around. Older now, living a life that focused so much on nostalgia, I came to appreciate these monsters and madmen that I'd been so very scared of. Memories of playing Friday the 13th for the NES in my best friend's basement back in second grade. A sleepover just before middle school started, maybe our last real hurrah for those types of nights, watching Jason Goes to Hell: The Final Friday (1993) on video cassette. Hell, I even remember seeing Jason's appearance on The Arsenio Hall Show a few years prior.

So, yes, I started to admire Jason for being such a massive pop cultural phenomenon. I collected memorabilia; toys and books, copies of his films on VHS and CED. I still hadn't, however, really delved into his filmography. The realization that I'd seen most of his later films, but only a few scenes from the earlier movies. If I was going to attend Monster Mania 30, which is celebrating the franchise by inviting several key talents from throughout its run, I really had to get going and immerse myself in the complete mythos.

Which brings us to now, to today, and to my very first viewing of Friday the 13th (1980) from beginning to end.

I mean, I knew what I was getting into. All about Kevin Bacon and the arrowhead, Betsy Palmer's sweater and the great debate about which film's main theme Manfredini apes more-- Psycho (1960) or Jaws (1975). I've read about Ari Lehman's wild theories, and I've heard the long list of influences and how screen-writer Victor Miller was told to simply "rip-off" Carpenter's Halloween (1978). The film some bizarre hybrid of several different influences, but it managed to rise above its origins as a quick, low-budget, cash-in slasher, spawning several sequels and eventually creating a media icon in Jason Voorhees. From these meager roots grew a financial juggernaut; a franchise that, three and a half decades later, still refuses to truly die.

You can sorta' see how it helped build the foundation of the '80s horror boom. It follows and expands on the rules laid out in the proto-slashers that came before, all the bits about kids paying the price for pre-marital sex and drug use, punished for their degenerate behavior by an unseen assailant. Instead of a sexually repressed mama's boy or a masked monster, however, the film's "evil" is revealed to be a mother unhinged by the death of her child. Bet you didn't see that one coming, did you?

No, of course you did, because you wouldn't be here, still reading this, unless you gave a shit about Friday the 13th. I can't say that I blame you; despite knowing most of the movie's major plot-points, I still found myself totally enjoying the proceedings. The Annie swerve that owes so much to Hitchcock's Psycho (1960). Ned's ridiculous antics, both while wearing a Native American headdress and not. Savini's practical effects work holds up and still has me wondering how they pulled it off. The cool little details like the electricity and running water constantly on the fritz because of curses, right?

Crazy Ralph!

Okay, so, let's just leave it at this-- it's a solid fucking start to a franchise that is only going to draw me further in with each passing film. I'm looking forward to spending the next two weeks educating myself more on the Voorhees, and to coming back here to share it with all of you.

We're doomed. We're all doomed.

Recollecting: Into the Inferno

A few months back I wrote briefly about JC's Things, a local second-hand shop that I had previously ignored for years before finally checking it out. What I believed to be a junk furniture store ended up being so much more; a building filled to the brims with all sorts of outdated wares, stacks of records, VHS and decades-old greeting cards. I still haven't shared a glimpse at the treasures I uncovered during that inaugural visit. And here we are again, me mentioning the shop and refusing to show off the goods. That's because a more recent trip actually surpassed the original by a narrow margin.

My father only recently, the middle of this last year, retired from firefighting. I was blissfully unaware the inherent dangers of such a profession when I was a kid, content to visit my dad at the station. Something that afforded me plenty of opportunities to try on his gear and climb all over the various trucks. So, of course, I loved collecting toy-versions of engines; Hot Wheels and Tonka and, most importantly, Takara/Hasbro. No surprise then that Inferno was my first major Transformers toy.

That also means he was probably one of the first casualties; lost in the ether like so many of my childhood possessions. Carelessly tossed aside when something better came along. Oh, poor Inferno, forgotten and ignored, until a parent decided I no longer needed him, and either threw him away or donated him. Instead, I like to imagine him alongside the other fallen Transformers [and Gobots] from my youth, protecting Cybertron from the forces of evil.

Since he was originally released in 1985, I initially believed this Inferno to be part of Hasbro's Commemorative Series, reissues that were made available in Toys"R"Us during the '00s. The condition was a little too good to be a legit '85-version, wasn't it? I mean, sure, he's missing both his hands and any additional accessories, but the plastic was so crisp and clean that it looked like he just came out of the package. A little digging revealed that this was, however, a G1 Inferno and not a reissue. Something to do with the forearms being retooled on later releases to remove the "missile-firing" action that the original, this very same one, possessed.

So, yes, despite a few missing pieces, I'd say he was a solid score for a measly two bucks.

One Month Later

Excuses and apologies.

They've become par for the course around these parts the last several months. It looks like I run a blog of infrequent updates and broken promises. I'm back and gone again, back and gone again, until the inevitable day where the posts just stop altogether. Too easily distracted by social medias that require the bare minimum of effort; Twitter with its 140-character "updates" and an Instagram full of quick pics with little thought put into each caption. Both accounts have already well surpassed this blog in terms of followers, which shouldn't bother me at all, but totally does.

I feel pathetic admitting that, because how can I expect anyone to come here and stick around when there's never any new content.

Oh, but the plans that I had when I started It's Trash Culture. There's always plans that wind up as broken promises to myself, ideas that never materialize or projects that end long before they truly begin. All these self-fulfilling prophecies of doom whenever I think of attempting something creative. The evidence speaks for itself.

This is what several years worth of notes looks like. Lunch-breaks and late nights spent jotting down concepts, scenes and snippets of dialogue. Yeah, I've always wanted to write comic books. I grew up wanting to create worlds full of ridiculous characters and trippy adventures and all the brightly-colored bullshit that I read and loved in the pages of my favorite comics. It's one of the few things that I have wanted to do since I was a kid, but besides the scribbles you see up above, well, I haven't made any attempts to achieve this life-goal. Some of these concepts are over a decade old, so it seems unlikely they'll ever move beyond those index cards and random sheets of paper.

I realized earlier that this blog was starting to suffer a similar fate. Wasting time trying to brainstorm ideas for posts, writing them down on the back of receipts and scraps of napkins, but never taking the time to post them. Sometimes I'd go so far as to take pictures, upload them with the intention of sharing them here, but I'd get distracted, too easily distracted, by reruns of The Golden Girls or napping on the couch.

I could go for a nap right now, actually.

All this may mean nothing going forward, but my hope is that I finally get my fucking act together and start posting here more. No promises, no guarantees, but I hope.

I hope.

Flea Market Finds: Cars, Cards & Comics

Back to brag!

I've returned to show off all the goods I scored this morning at the flea market, well before revealing the stuff I promised to share several weeks ago. That's just how we roll here, I guess, with the false promises and always pulling swerves. It is probably a good thing that no one cares about anything going on here. Not even me.

Here's some things, non-existent readers.

One of the booths that I've been passing by for years belongs to an older gentleman and it consists entirely of "vintage" sports-cards and various long-boxes of comic books. I usually skip on flipping through bins of comics at the flea market, mostly because I have my local comic shops with their dollar-bins to peruse on a regular basis. However, my collecting has transitioned lately to completing runs of titles, something I've never been concerned with before, so now I have a reason to dig through any boxes of books I stumble upon.

Of course, only a handful of the dollar books that I picked up today add to the particular runs that I'm aiming to finish off. The rest were a series of single issues that caught my eye with their bizarre subject matter. Most notable, and my personal favorite find, is DC Special #27, dated May 1977, which features characters like Captain Comet and Tommy Tomorrow battling both traditional dinosaurs and oddly-dressed dino-men hybrids.

Also, dig that Archie Meets The Punisher.

I don't really have much to say about these Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wax-packs. I have a fondness for anything TMNT, and my love and adoration for trading cards is well-documented.

Cowabunga..?

What hasn't been mentioned here before on the blog is ReBoot, one of my favorite Saturday morning cartoons from the mid-'90s. A Canadian-produced series, it was the first to feature entirely computer-generated animation, and was the result of over a decade's worth of hard-work and dedication from Mainframe Entertainment. It originally aired on ABC starting in 1994 and ran for four seasons.

I was nearly a teen when the show first started, so the idea of collecting action-figures based on it was far from an appealing one. Of course, here we are, two decades later, and I have zero reservations when it comes to picking them up now. In fact, I was pretty psyched when I discovered Bob and Megabyte sitting in a box surrounded by various other loose figures. There was no way that I was going to leave them behind, especially where they were only a couple bucks each.

Here's a few more of their box-mates that I rescued.

I'm not ashamed to admit that all three of these items are duplicate purchases; I own or did own every single one of these guys at some point. I've actually picked up Panda Khan six times over the course of my life, though nearly all of them have found other homes. This one is no exception. He'll be going out in a package shortly, part of the prize for a contest I'm running over on Instagram [@itstrashculture].

Weed-Killer is staying with me, since he's a replacement for his duplicate "older brother" that I had before. My original was gifted to Brian from Awake Oh Sleeper, one of my favorite artists/bloggers, and a genuinely friendly and extremely generous dude. Go check out his site [if you don't already] and admire his unique and totally rad aesthetic sensibilities. Seriously, I am always in awe and envious of his work.

And no, your eyes do not deceive you, that third item is a McDonalds Happy Meal toy from Batman: The Animated Series. I am not going to reveal which one, though, because it is also part of my prize-pack giveaway and I don't want to risk ruining the surprise should the winner read this.

Even though I can almost guarantee that he/she will not.

The same vendor that I scored those loose figures from also had a set of Ertl Dick Tracy collectible cars. They were released back in 1990, the same time as the feature-film, and there were four different vehicles to choose from. The only one of the quartet that I cared about was Dick Tracy's patrol-car, but here I am several hours later and I'm starting to regret leaving behind Itchy's car.

I can't reenact a chase-scene with only one car, can I..?

This was the big score, the main reason that I walked away with anything from the seller's booth. I can't recall the last time I ran across a sealed box of Marvel Universe trading cards, never mind the several that this particular vendor was offering. Series one through three were available, so naturally I split the difference and picked up 1991's Series II.

I was already a dedicated Marvel Zombie when these cards were originally released, and discovering the more obscure characters featured in this set was the real draw for me. Instead of the pages of their comics, it was Marvel trading cards that first introduced me to characters like Death's Head, Sleepwalker and The Grim Reaper. My friends and I must have spent hours pouring over and trading this particular series, trying to be the first of our group to put together a complete set, including the much-desired Limited Edition Holograms.

I plan on taking my time opening the thirty-six packs within. Some I'll tear into later today, sure, but the rest I'll leave for days that I need a nostalgic pick-me-up to chase away a grey or lonely day. And it will probably be a few years before I work up the nerve to open the last one.

Journey Into Mystery Boxes

Remember when I would occasionally blog about comic books?

Remember when I would occasionally blog..?

I promised to show off some of the goods I picked up at JC's Things a few weeks back, but before I get to bragging about decades-old crayons and Dolly Parton Christmas albums [spoilers], I wanna gab a bit about one of my many weaknesses. There are a number of Kryptonites in my life, but none as enticing and dangerous-to-my-wallet as the comic book grab-box. My local comic shop never has a shortage of them, and it seems like I fall victim to their siren song more often than not.

Let's see you try and resist 50 different comics for a mere $11.99, though.

I've mentioned before that I'm a total sucker for mystery packs and grab-bags, blind-box toys and random packs of trading cards. The idea of opening a package, not entirely knowing what treasures could lurk within, is so appealing to me. There's the risk of discovering nothing worthwhile, the contents within could all be a total wash. It's a gamble, I know, but that thrill of anticipation and uncertainty before digging in is what always draws me back.

Enough yammering on, it's time to get to the comics.

THE BREAKDOWN:

Titles and publishers always vary in these grab-boxes, and so does the initial release-date for books. I've picked up several that featured books from the '70s and '80s, but this particular one didn't date back quite that far. The earliest issue included is cover-dated November 1993, and a majority of the books included are from the last several years.

Marvel Comics made up the bulk of the box, one single issue over half its contents, at twenty-six books. DC was a distant second at sixteen, and the remainder was comprised of several small publishers, including Dynamite, Dark Horse and Valiant. That's about par for the course with the boxes I've purchased in the past.

The real risk is acquiring duplicate copies, books I'd picked up in the past either as monthly purchases or something dug out during my frequent dollar-bin splurges. It's unlikely that I'd ever find a box that didn't contain at least a couple dupes included, and this one was no exception. Of the fifty books lurking inside, I already owned seventeen of them. Not the best turn-out, but the extras make for good trade fodder or little extras in my giveaways.

THE BEST:

My definition of best is pretty unique, because I doubt most collectors would consider mid-'90s DC titles like Extreme Justice or The Book of Fate as great finds. I would never argue that these were top-quality books, but that particular era of comics was when I really started getting into them, so I have a total nostalgic fondness for anything released at that time. Bonus points if they featured C- or D-list characters like Maxima, Guy Gardner or Speedball.

I've not-so-secretly admired third-tier heroes more than their ultra-popular contemporaries since I was a kid, and it's a trend I don't see bucking any time soon. Further evidence of this can be found at my long defunct Tumblr account -- Grade-Z Heroes.

THE WORST: 

Sovereign Seven issue number one, dated April 1995, wins this superlative with ease.

Somehow, in some strange turn of events, I've already owned several copies of this particular comic, despite having no strong positive feelings for the works of Chris Claremont. I can appreciate, and even enjoy at times, his work on Marvel's The Uncanny X-Men title for so many years, but there's almost nothing else in his body of work that I admire. One of the few creator-owned books to sorta' reside in the proper DC Universe, it featured a team of original characters and a very unique interpretation of Darkseid, ruler of Apokolips and one of the most powerful villains in comic history.

I'm not sure what compelled me to pick it up fresh off the stands when it was originally released, but we'll chalk it up to the wildly fluctuating hormones and moods of a recently teenaged Trash Man. I mean, seriously, look how hot their team-leader, Cascade, is.

Ignore the part where her code-name is a brand of detergent.

THE VERDICT:

It certainly wasn't the best grab-box I could have scored, but it contained enough small gems and old favorites to justify pissing away twelve-bucks. There were a handful of really solid books, the type of stuff I'm looking forward to reading and sorting away into my collection. A few to throw in with a large stack of trade-in material, and a few that I'm hoping to share with friends sometime in the New Year.

Salvage Saturday Spent at JC's Things

Discovering new treasure troves, entire locations full of forgotten pop culture gems, is getting more and more difficult as time marches on. I blame a combination of things, but the biggest culprit has been and still is eBay. People look to that site and see that old, collectible items can occasionally fetch top dollars, so obviously everything that's been buried in their basement these last two decades must be worth a fortune. This belief is often incorrect; their trash is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it, and usually it's a low, low number. That doesn't stop yard-sales and "antique" shops from marking up their items ten-fold, asking big bucks for worn-and-torn goods, niche items and actual garbage.

Somehow, in some miraculous way, I was able to stumble upon a second-hand shop that wasn't pricing their wares too high. An entire shop full of decades-old products, reasonably priced, and it just happened to be hiding out ten minutes down the road from my house. It was Christmas come about a month too early, and I wasn't complaining.

I'd actually driven past JC's Things plenty of times, but always assumed that it dealt solely with used furniture. Yesterday was no exception. I was on my way to an entirely different thrift shop, a couple towns over, when I was struck with the sudden urge to pull into JC's parking lot. Not sure why, couldn't explain it to you. There was just something magnetic drawing me in, and I am awfully glad that I didn't attempt to resist. I knew from the moment that I stepped inside that there was something special about this place.

Unlike most of my favorite thrift shops, there didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the layout; not even a semblance of organized chaos. So, yes, I was immediately in love. There were shelves and shelves of miscellaneous items, old new-stock and rusty tools, bins of vinyl albums, vintage holiday decorations. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of stacks of VHS and boxed Intellivision games.

Yes, you heard correct, they still have complete, boxed Intellivision titles.

It only took a few minutes for me to realize that this was somewhere special, somewhere I could spend hours upon hours searching through boxes of stuff. A place to uncover forgotten treasures, pop cultural relics that needed to be rescued and loved. I'm not embarrassed to admit that I was giddy at the prospect of wasting my Saturday afternoon getting my hands dirty in search of some real, old-school trash.

You'll be happy to hear that I did not walk away empty-handed, but dismayed to learn that I won't be bragging here today. No, you're gonna have to wait a little while before I start showing off the goods. It will be well worth it, though, especially if you're a fan of transforming robots, spinach-eating sailors or country music legend, Dolly Parton.

Stay tuned, boys and girls.