The Iguana Tree is empty tonight. We stand under it, searching the monochromatic foliage for bursts of radioactivity – neon oranges and greens signaling the presence of Earth’s once and future overlords. We’ve already been food-poisoned, but as with radiation sickness, we won’t know it until it’s too late to do anything about it. New Year’s Eve 2017. Woo-fucking-hoo. Walking
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“We do not know why this happened. We do not know how this happened. But again, to confirm, 13 are dead in rural southwest Oregon.” – CBS News Now the local anchor is speculating that this might be the greatest number of people killed in one event in the state of Oregon. True or not, that’s still 13 bodies, and
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You wouldn’t think a show set in post-Katrina New Orleans would be a smile factory. Perhaps that’s the alchemical magic of TV right there: It can take an experience that must have been hell to live through and turn it into something so life-affirming and brimming over with infectious groove that your squirms turn to funky grooves. Soon, you’re dancing
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“Wet Hot American Summer” is my “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Well, it is, but see if you can follow me here. It … isn’t. Unlike acolytes of the “Rocky Horror Picture Show,” I would never pay good money to sit in a theater at midnight and listen to the loudest, tooliest “Wet Hot American Summer” fans in the room drown
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“Dark Shadows” looms over the house near the bluffs in CollinsPortland, and only one man perceives the significance of this Gothic soap opera as it pertains to a strange and momentous period in his life. Recently released from a secret prison inside the CollinsPortland Cannery Association, this media assassin for hire now contemplates his new-found freedom and potential next steps.
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