Zacherley - R.I.P.

Ghoul-bye to the Cool Ghoul
by The Keeper of the Pit

Hey horror folks and fans out there ev'ry scare! And that said, here ghouls: The news, almost said grues, of the loss of Zacherley so close to Horrorween has us around fear in such a state we can hardly spook. Great guy. The first time the luvva my wife and I met Zach was at one of the very first Chiller Theatres, back at the theatre, where we had the ghouled luck to land a spot at the back wall of the downstairs, hexed to Zach, us and him's elf sharing the whole back wall half and half, Zach on the left, us to the right, I SAID fright.

Zach sees us dragging boxes and signage, sees "The Poster Pit," sez "Poster Pit, what a name. Where ya outta?" You know, words to that effect. Next thing I knew fellow "Pennsylvania person" and Zach and us were off to the races like Pocono body's business. Plus, he kept, okay, I SAID Keeped, directing folks at his adjacent table to check us out "hexed gore," because "They got one great ghoulection!" And he said it, not me, so I hope I haunt being Pencil-vain, ya?

This routine we had went on over the years of shows, when we always stopped at the other guy's tables, told each other the slayfest. And now, may I warn some readers about a little reality check. Yep, Zach and I any given show shot the back on the ole farm shite. One fine Saturday morning we're standing in a crowd of thousands waiting to be let into the Chiller Dealer Room hall, where, I SAID scare, hopefully Zach and us'ns might each make, ahem, a haul.

Heedless to slay, we eeek!-ventually got onto all the awful things happen to animals, barnyard or household pets. I believe it was his brother he told me about, who was a veterinarian. It was a long morning wait to get in the show, but we Zach and I could crack jokes "Gah, gore!" ... and it was a horror crowd, where folks who get squeamish over fantasy or even reality generally can't "B" found.

We'd abat run out on all the bad things that can happen to pets and gored livestock, some animal-inflicted, some human same. We knew we were drawing a crowd, but we were losing 'em by the time we hit debeaking chickens. See, there was this thing chickens did, they liked pecking at the dangling mess of their fellow penmate's condition. See, there was a disease or condition most-often called "chicken blow-out," and when the chicken with it tried to go about its business, the poor creature's intestines would start to trail behind them. Which got worse in that then their fellow captive creatures, being born peckers, simply had to walk behind them picking the trailing, uh, tines, which by then were sometimes several feet long, snake-like, gray, bloody. Spreading more disease the hole slime.

Then scare was discussing the who does what when one needs to. When a farm dog gets into a tousle with a skunk, who gets to hold said creature's whole reeking fulla sharp nasty quills, and who gets to pull 'em out? Whoever does what, trust me, neither guy can be rewarded with nearly enough fi-dough.

Zach, ever scientific, would of curse get into it, ask if I remembered what med ya put in the chickens' water fountains to prevent such conditions from spreading. I did. By the time he got to which job was worse with pigs, castrating them or holding them down for such needs-must-be done brutality, we found ourselves in minutes no longer standing way, way back in line to fright in front of the entrance. And behind us had changed from grumbling and pushing in line noises to a stampede of folks with suddenly anyscare but around us with excuses like "Ooops, I left an autograph item up in the room." And these were hard-core horror fans who knew from the ghouled stuff, like they'd seen "It Came And Left A Mess" with "Glob At First Fright" on a double-chill at the old Grue-Slay Drive-In. Fact, that day, we coulda given Zach's brother, who no doubt knew human anatomy likewise, plenty of upset stomach (w)urk!

Spooking of urky stomachs, again, sorry to have given anyone any degree of queasiness in this piece, but then, wasn't that Zach's job, same as as any of his horror hosts? You know, the ole "Hey, this movie's so ghouled it haunt half-bat." I mean, think on it: Ed Wood any of the gore-iginal horror movie m.c.s have survived the censorly cut had they NOT while hosting their fear features dispensed with the puns and punch dyin's? I stink rot!

So here's, dare I say Pit, tomb the best of them all, by now no doubt up in horror movie heaven draggin' a certain Creighton Tull a"rowl"nd by a Long Chaney. (Hey, ya can get away witch such stuff when yer position in same quarters is so horror high and Karlofty!)

John Zacherle

September 26, 1918 - October 27, 2016

Stephen Oliver: Two years later

November 29, 1941 - April 5, 2008

Today marks the two year anniversary of the passing of tough-guy actor Stephen Oliver, who played Lee Webber on the TV series PEYTON PLACE but is probably best remembered to Temple of Schlock readers for his lead role in Russ Meyer's MOTOR PSYCHO! and also for his appearances as aging beach bully Dugan Hicks in the Crown International comedies THE VAN and MALIBU BEACH. I mention this because my buddy Bob Plante called Oliver on February 28, 2008 to interview him for the Jack Starrett book we've been working on for over 10 years, and found out that Oliver had just been told a few minutes earlier that he only had 5 weeks to live. Sure enough, five weeks and a handful of days later Oliver succumbed to gastric cancer at age 66. Most sources erroneously cite March 5th as his date of death, which led to some confusion last month when Bob posted a part of his conversation with Oliver as a "two years ago today" post at his blog, Chateau Vulgaria, when the actual date of death was April 5th. We decided to wait the extra month and make it official, and later today we'll probably go to the IMDb and try to correct the mistake, but for now let's all have a moment of silence and then head over to Chateau Vulgaria to read Bob's interview with the late Stephen Oliver.

Michael Jackson (1958-2009)

MICHAEL JACKSON
August 29, 1958 - June 25, 2009

I have nothing more to add that hasn't already been said in the past 15 hours -- and 40 years -- but I will say that I usually listen to music while I eat breakfast and this morning I reached for the Jackson 5's ABC album, which was my introduction to the future King of Pop in the mid '70s. I won't bore you with a review of a record that's as old as I am, but I'd like to single out a couple of moments that damn near brought tears to these baby blues today.

From "2-4-6-8," this blast of self-assurance from an 11-year old who was just getting started:

"I may be a little fella
but my heart's as big as Texas!
I have all the love a man can give
and maybe a little bit extra!"

These lyrics from "One More Chance" sound like they could've sprung from Michael the day before yesterday:

"Everybody loves the star
when he's on the top
But no one ever comes around
when he starts to drop.

Give me one more chance
That's all I ask of you
Just one more chance
I'll make it up to you."

And finally, the terrific cover of Funkadelic's "I Bet You" -- and the realization that George Clinton has now outlived Michael Jackson.

Going Up in the Spirit to the Sky: or, Really, Sky Saxon's UP There, I Seed Him!

SKY SAXON
(1946 - June 25, 2009)

by Don K. Barbecue

I'm old enough to remember toolin' aROWLnd and aROWLnd in my pop's car listening to the radio blast "Pushin' Too Hard" when it was new and and Sky and his band became overnight Saxon symbols. This was, more or Les Paul, about the time when even Dylan, the oily Stones and Ray Davies still had a few toppa the pop charts hits bombasting the charts before they'd perhaps worked all the roof risin' Kinks out. Wasn’t all that far from a time when Van Morrison, who sounded enough like Jagger that I remember friends and relatives Who couldn't tell one from the other, was competing, drums a'beating behind him, against ‘em while with Them.

You have to realize, wayback when… then… the car radio was indeed a magical Merlin's Music Box, capable of cranking out all kinds of diversitudely tunes. Top 40 featured all kinds of pop in the post-Beatles '60's: rock called pop, Sinatra, Johnny Cash, Roger Miller, Motown, Muscle Shoals, Beach Boys, Bobbie Gentry, an Alka Seltzer commerical that ev'ry time I heard it I reached so fast to crank it up it’s a miracle I didn't get the old man's car T-Boned. There was Johnny Rivers doing a British t.v. spy theme song, the song an understanding lyrics challenged friend of mine insisted was “Secret Asian Man.” There were songs by The Ventures, Bobby Fuller fighting the law and the law # 1, English chicklets prone to lying in wait in some dusty spring field to white collar some son of a preacher man. All of which sinspired a to morph in the 70’s Ramones, raw moan style of thinking out there in teen-age wasteland, one that made any kid in the middle of nowhere pick up a guitar and PLAY. You can friggin’ bet ev’ry kid so inclined was thinking "I can do better than THAT." So, competing amongst all these fellers and femettes previously mentioned a’ merrily rushin', there were tons of what we now know as garage bands, what which spawned and spermed punk somewhat layed her. I mean, those days what could a poor boy do except join a band to get the hot chick from study hall to, ahem, lecher come Up In Her Woo, I SAID Room?


Thing is, mentioning to the right gal that one’a Sky’s songs just might play on yer car radio that night just might get YOU not driving aROWLnd as usual by yer lonesome, but rather cruising with some lick, I mean, like minded gal whose folks’ car didn’t have a radio. Where up on you could, purr laps, get what we used to call “lucky,” as teen pleas were appeased and pleased to the light of the dashboard, while the moon hit the thighs like a big piece'a … pie.



And, trust me as I rust on about this, there wasn't much off with her top 40 D's material on the radio bed her than Sky's to make yer best gal feel such behavior was, soddenly, alright, all tight and maybe not all night but home by 11:00, at lust. The Sky-ster’s stuff was, howl to lay, one potent aural aphrodisiac. As in when, with the help of a little "Pushin' Too Hard," one’s first loves didn’t, soddenly, feel too Seedy. So, thanks, Sky now up in the sky, for lending me a hi-fidelity hand those starlit nights with certain cherished in memory Pennsylvania coal town lasses, when without ya I couldn’t seem to make them anything but “Eee-yew!” mined.

Death Races Tomb Us All...But Now David Carradine's Drive-In's On a Hi-Ya! Plane

Death Races Tomb Us All…
But Now David Carradine's Drive-In’s On A Hi-Ya! Plane

by Don K. Barbecue

Just minutes ago I learned that David Carradine has died, and I’m thinking that, having met the man at some shows, I can say he lived and played on a hi-ya! plane than most. Plus the man had a sweet, funny side that showed through in real life. In reel life that side shone big on drive-in screens with Roger Corman car crash & burners like THUNDER AND LIGHTNING and CANNONBALL, and the same quality lit the darkness indoors with BOXCAR BERTHA or BOUND FOR GLORY. Up to the man’s fans whether he wouldn’t like those views …or Woody?

So, saddened reader, I invite you, should you desire, to join with me as I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Ready? Fine. Shall we begin? I’m …we’re… imagining Carradine now…no, he’s there! ... and he’s tall, rangy, riding over the war-wasted desert of some far-flung space and time, way up high on a celestial silver screen in hot flicks at the drive-in heaven. Wow, this is COOL. Dang, spoke too soon.What the dreck are those things supposed to “B”? Whoa, you call THOSE mutants? Why they wouldn’t scare some bikini’ed barbarian queen if they were dressed as spectors…

Hold on a sec, what’s that sound? Why, it’s funky future motorcycles putt puttzing across that heaven-high screen! Wait a minute! Now Carradine and Claudia Jennings are riding one of those clunkers, and it sounds like it’s on its last death sputt. And there’s my ole buddy Peter, who told me once, before he died to no doubt go party on with Oliver Reed, that Claudia one time made him the best spaghetti dinner he ever ate in his life, and he’s beckoning them on to meet him and probably telling them to go faster, pasta! Whoops, Pete’s gone, again. It’s back to Carradine and Claudia riding onward, here, there and, atta gal, Claudia’s biting at David’s rear, I SAID ear from behind now, and reaching around to his front and lower. Hey, this baby’s got dialogue. She’s saying … what?... something about finding a convenient bush? Uh oh. They’re pulling over, offscreen now, and I …we… hear their voices in unison repeat their lover litany: “Our union is strong.” (And here may we all open our eyes once more, knowing what we do now, that even as we once watched from down here, Claudia J. is yet again raising Caine.)

DAVID CARRADINE
December 8, 1936 - June 3, 2009