Magnetic Animality*

 

For starters, we're all in agreement that the movie poster shown above is balls-out fantastic, right? Regardless of how this Friday has been treating you, and disregarding one's feelings about An American Werewolf in London (namely if you, like me, swing more toward The Howling side of cinematic lycanthropy) the image should put a smile, smirk, or scowl upon your face, and that's good enough for me. Anyway, on to more important things.

Or not! I think my favorite aspect of the aforementioned poster is the lower-left corner because that frisky wolf getting fresh with the nurse is a perfect metaphor for, well, not my life, mind you, but definitely for that of Señor Sparkles, yet I'll say no more about his well-documented concupiscence -other than it's truly deserving of an Oscar statuette- since this post is supposed to be an examination of my life, and not one lived vicariously through that of another. 

The Japanese theatrical poster for An American Werewolf in London symbolizes, sadly, little in/of/about my life, and while that is a handful of shitty Pringles** to swallow indeed, a shred of bittersweet solace can be found in the knowledge that the film itself epitomizes the vast majority of my relationships with women:

1) I get injured in some way (usually related to alcohol), while a good friend perishes.***

2) During the recuperation, a lovely lady appears. 

3) Romance blossoms! (However inept I may be, my lack of grace is what the ladies find so incredibly charming about me, you know.)

4) I wake up in a zoo and, of greater importance, run around naked covered by a few balloons. I've scarred six children -mentally, you sicko- for life at this point, and by god, there shall be more.

5) I become excessively bestial as time progresses, haunted by vivid nightmares and excessive pubic hair. 

6) Hanging out in porno theaters becomes the norm. The lady can't understand this transformation, so hilarity ensues. 

7) I'm gunned down by the police, the lady cries, Denz smokes a dart, and a depraved janitor molests a strung-out Shih Tzu. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Okay, so that doesn't happen (at least not exactly) but nonetheless it characterizes how I feel about most relationships, accuracy be damned; which is to say that An American Werewolf in London successfully encapsulates years of anxiety, frustration, malevolence, pleasure, ennui, and happiness within a 97-minute film.

Okay, so that's untrue (well, not precisely), but Griffin Dunne sure looks sexy as a revenant.

* Not to be confused with animal magnetism. That stuff is dangerous.

** Speaking of metaphors: the new Pringles, for all their atrocity, serve the purpose of being the new whipping boy here at Psychedelic Kimchi, and for that, I thank the stinky ass clowns at Procter & Gamble. 

*** You wouldn't believe how many times this has befallen me, and it sucks because I have to keep making new friends.