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You love 'em; I love 'em: those froth-flinging, goo-dripping creatures of the night. No, I'm not talking about Vegas escorts; but rather those hideous, celluloid terrors: flesh-eating fiends; giant, mutated bivalves; alien Amazons clad in skintight spacesuits & push-up bras -- the "Famous Monsters of Filmland."

Oh, I remember them well: Frankenstein; Dracula; Wolfman; Mummy; Creature from the Black Lagoon . . . The Blob. It was the late '60s, and every Saturday night at 9 pm, you'd find me huddled in front of the tube: mug of Ovaltine in hand; damp spot in my jammies, eagerly awaiting the latest installment of "Chiller Theater." Ah! Those old school monsters! Before Freddy, or Jason, or the current slew of nubile, teenage vampires -- they haunted the deepest, darkest dungeons of our prepubescent psyches.

But where are they now? Some, like Dracula, have risen to even greater heights of glory. Others have fallen by the wayside: victims of early fame, and fast lifestyles. Case in point: the Wolfman. Rocketing to stardom in the early '40s, he was later blackballed after fathering an out of wedlock litter with Lassie; at one point, reduced to working as spokesman for a flea collar manufacturer. Today he's a social activist, heading up the Anti-Fur Division at PETA.

While the big names still remain fixed on the radar, some "second tier" monsters have found it tough adjusting to life after Tinsel Town. "The Blob," who studied with Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio, and was romantically linked to several young '50s starlets (Kim Novak & Connie Stevens among them), now owns a curio shop in Arizona, and still remains active in local theater.

Most tragic of all, however, is the story of Nancy Archer, "the 50 Foot Woman." Bereft when a torrid love triangle with Godzilla & the Colossal Man left her emotionally scarred, she quit show business forever. After a failed stint as pole dancer at an Asian gentlemen's club, she committed suicide by swallowing a chain of Rite Aid Pharmacies.

And so there you have it: The "Famous Monsters of Filmland" . . . long may they live on DVD!!!

Jim was po'd: as po'd as a dwarf in a crowded elevator car at an all-male nudist colony -- of that there was no doubt. It was Christmas Eve, and Jim (a buffet cook at a Strip hotel) was scheduled to work swing shift Christmas Day.

Jim hated working holidays, but Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he slaved to prepare: turkey with chestnut stuffing; candied yams; green beans almondine . . . not to mention the pecan pie. There'd be no feast for him. The menu in the employee dining room was always the same -- Christmas or no: cheese enchiladas and lime Jell-O with whipped cream. Enough to gag a maggot.

What a life! Another year gone. Another -- no doubt equally as disappointing -- soon to begin. How had things gone so wrong? In his youth, Jim had dreamed of becoming a world famous chef; opening his own restaurant where he'd greet celebrities eager to shower him with praise for his culinary prowess: movie stars; athletes; models in slinky, low-cut dresses. Here he was, crowding sixty, working at a lousy buffet and living in a crummy, rundown apartment complex on the outskirts of town: his neighbors misfits and losers; the flotsam & jetsam of the Vegas backwash -- like him.

He'd dozed off on the sofa with a can of beer while watching TV. Suddenly he was awakened by a violent pounding. At first he thought it was the old guy in the apartment upstairs. Always that infernal clopping sound overhead -- as if the old boy was doing step aerobics in weighted diving boots. The front door was thrown open, and there before him, stood the ghost of Shorty Bimstein -- a former cook at the hotel. He was dragging a bunch of saute pans fixed to a chain, and wore a colander on his head.

"Shorty . . . is it really you?"

"Yeah it's me. Y'know anyone else useta wear a colander on his head?"

"You always were a card . . . but Shorty, what are you doin' here -- why have you come back?"

"Because we wuz such close friends and colleagues in life, I come ta bring ya a warnin' from the udder side."

"But we weren't close friends. I couldn't stand you."

"We sat together in the lunch room every day for twenty-five years."

"Yeah -- but only because you let me have the whipped cream from your Jell-O. You were lactose intolerant -- Remember?"

"Be that as it may, I come ta tell ya that tanight you'll be visited be tree ghosts: Elvis, Liberace and Frank Sinatra."

"NO SHIT!!!"

Shorty's ghost guffawed, and rattled his saute pans.

"Nah! I'm just bustin' on ya! It's only me."

"Now I remember why I couldn't stand you."

"Alright, so's we weren't pals. But I come back anyways to save you from my wretched fate . . . to warn you if ya don't clean up yer act -- stop bein' a turd in the punch bowl -- you'll be draggin' saute pans an' wearin' a colander on yer head."

"But Shorty, life sucks and I hate Christmas. Whattaya wan't me to do? Run around hollerin' 'HO, HO, HO' like I got a thumb stuck up my ass?"

"Ever occur ta you that maybe yer so miserable cuz ya only think a yerself? Why doncha try bein' nice ta yer neighbor upstairs, 'stead a complainin' to the manager 'bout 'im alla time?

"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."

"The old guy's got a wooden leg and a overactive bladder. That racket ya hear is him hobblin' back 'n' forth ta the john all night."

"Shorty, you sure have changed since you dropped dead. I remember the way you useta cuss out the servers -- you were a real terror!"

"Yeah, an' look what it got me. I'm warnin' ya, if ya don't turn the leaf, start appreciatin' the beauty of life, you're doomed -- just like yours truly!"

"Maybe you're right Shorty. Know what? I'm gonna call out sick tomorrow. Take the day off. Get me onea those microwave turkey dinners at Walgreens -- maybe a frozen, pumpkin pie -- and a mini, plug-in Christmas tree . . . yeah! They're showing "A Christmas Carol" all day on onea the cable stations -- I love that flick!"

"That's the spirit! Look, I gotta be pushin' along now -- I still gotta drop in on Charlie Sheen. You take care Jim, and have a merry Christmas!"

"You too Shorty -- and thanks!"

Jim watched Shorty's ghost float out the door and disappear into the dark chill of the Las Vegas night. A light snow was falling, and the moon winked from behind a passing cloud. Life sure was beautiful!

Back inside, Jim cranked up the fireplace and cracked open another beer. Tomorrow he'd buy two microwave turkey dinners and invite ol' peg leg down for Christmas. Why not???


To all my Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ friends, HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!!!!!!!

(And to Mr. Charles Dickens, my sincere apology.)

They call 'em "Thrill Seekers." Adrenaline junkies who risk life & limb all for the fleeting rush of cheating the Reaper. Oh, you know the type: the newlywed couple who opt for a jet ski honeymoon in pirate infested waters; that idiot at the wildlife drive-thru park who has to get out of his car to have his picture taken WITH the grizzly bear (And later, while having his limbs reattached, wonders what possibly could've gone wrong?); my retired Uncle Phil, who spends summers hang gliding over the Gaza Strip. Nimrods who seemingly have no fear -- and very little common sense to boot.

What drives these people?? As a former New Yorker (born & bred), I've learned that fear is my friend; it's saved my ass numerous times. At the first hint of danger, I get the fuck outa Dodge. (See ya!) Call me chickenshit, but I bruise easily, and my ass is far too precious to risk shooting the rapids, or rocketing down the Matterhorn in a luge. But wait! Perhaps these fools were seeking something more than just a rapid pulse rate; or a tingling sensation in the ol' perineum (look it up). Then it hit me -- like a bolt of electricity from a car battery hooked up to my genitals with a pair of jumper cables (I like a thrill every now and again myself.) . . . the answer lie with none other than the greatest "Thrill Seeker" of 'em all: Uncle Fester.

That's right. You've seen those old "Addams Family" reruns. Fester delighted in pushing the envelope: he slept on a bed of nails honed sharp as the tip of a bayonet; had little Pugsly bore directly into his exposed molar nerve with a dentist's drill -- and rode his motorcycle down the grand staircase clad in a diving helmet. To many, Fester was just some old flake on a 1960s TV sitcom -- but I've come to realize there's more to the man than meets the eye.

Fester was an "ascetic" . . . and he was trying to tell us something. Like the Buddha, he punished his body as a means of spiritual awakening. We all need to heed Fester's example. Our lives have become too damn comfortable. We live in an age when anything from a six course Mexican dinner, to a happy ending, can be gotten at the drive-thru window. Our souls have been lulled to sleep by the ease of modern living. We all need to wake the hell up. Venture outside our comfort zone. Take a fucking chance. And so I am: I'm gonna eat at that new Vietnamese retaurant with the "B" rating; get that Mohawk haircut my stylist recommended. Why not?? Call me a "Thrill Seeker."

Tragedy struck today in the small town of Copiapo, Chile, when it was discovered that all of the 33 men rescued from a collapsed mine -- tho unharmed -- are now unabashedly gay. Suspicions were aroused early last week, when the men, who were trapped for 69 days (LOL), made an urgent request for emergency supplies, including: scented candles, a case of amyl nitrate poppers, and a George Michael CD.

The news rocked the largely Catholic country, prompting one miner's wife to tearfully remark: "Where's that gringo Jerry Falwell when you really need him?"

In a related story, Tea Party Senate hopeful, Christine O'Donnell, announced today she'll be hosting a special "Hell is for Homos" bake sale, to raise awareness for the dangers of unsafe mining conditions, and anal sex.

WRITING HAS NEARLY DRIVEN ME TO A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN . . . So wrote famed American author, Truman Capote (pardon my paraphrase).

In the introduction to his book, "Handcarved Coffins," Capote recounts a rather unnerving event: seems the "Enfant Terrible" of American Letters was perusing some of his more celebrated works, when a wave of nausea unexpectedly swept over him. It was a moment of epiphany. Capote suddenly realized that his much lauded works were flawed; in most cases, he'd taken pages to achieve effects which -- with a little more literary sweat -- could've been nailed in a single paragraph. Capote was devastated. After decades as a best-selling, critically acclaimed author, he'd simply come to the realization that he could've done it better -- and did: the result being, "Handcarved Coffins."

George Plimpton, interviewing Joseph Heller for The Paris Review, asked the author of "Catch 22" what was the most important lesson he imparted to students in his writing class?

"That writing is hard." Responded Heller, "And that all books are rewritten."

In that same volume of The Paris Review, Plimpton queried Irwin Shaw on the nature of the beast: did Shaw find that writing became easier with experience?

"No." Answered Shaw, "When you first start out it's simple; you know only one way to begin a story. Later you learn there are a hundred different ways to begin that same story."

My point? Well, to quote Joseph Heller: "Writing is hard." Shit . . . It's more than hard -- it's damn near impossible!! As writers, we suffer from the dreaded "Double Whammy." Not only must we contend with our own limitations, but those of a woefully imperfect and inadequate instrument: The Written Word. A painter must wrestle with the conundrum of recreating a 3-dimensional world on a 2-dimensional canvas -- but daunting a task tho it may be, nature has provided him (her) the perfect tools: the contrast of light and shadow; perspective. The writer is not so fortunate. His (her) only tool is an archaic, frustratingly limited, imprecise written language: the product of equally limited and imprecise human beings. As writers, we are preordained to fail; to live always with the gnawing feeling that we could've done it better. What a bitch!! We'll never reach our intended destination. But there's this: each time we sit down to face the blank page, we'll do so with the fervent hope that indeed, we will do it better.

"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive." Wrote a wise man.

Pity the mountain climber who scales Everest: once the summit has been reached, there's nowhere to go but down. Learn to enjoy the climb.

I was fondling Annette's breasts. Quite a rack. Annette, a nymphomaniac, was my colleague; a fellow stockbroker at the investment firm where I was employed: horny as a yard dog with an ingrown penis . . . and crazy. Seems I always attract the crazy ones (go figure).

Annette and I would sneak off to the computer room several times a night: we'd have wild makeout sessions, including the afore mentioned breast fondling. Sometimes she'd have me spank her. It was better than a coffee break and I didn't have to worry about all the extra caffeine. There were only three of us in the office at that hour: myself, Annette, and Chuck -- fresh off a forced psych leave after accidentally igniting the trousers to his 100% worsted wool suit while attempting to light a fart: a little ritual of Chuck's intended to kill time between calls. Had his ass not caught fire, inadvertently setting off the sprinkler system, management would've been none the wiser.

So this was my fate. More than anything in the world, I yearned to be a writer -- like my idol, Henry Miller. Instead I found myself here on Wall Street: my lot cast in with a nymphomaniac and an inveterate farter.

We worked the late shift, taking calls after the other brokers had gone for the day; mostly clients looking to place trades for next day's opening . . . or seeking the occasional stock quote. I slipped out of the computer room while Annette arranged herself and fixed her lipstick. We'd been carrying on for several months, and although Chuck knew damn well what we were up to, still tried to maintain appearances.

I punched up some closes on my Quotron. A couple stocks I'd been day trading. I was on a streak: five, six, sometimes eight hundred bucks a day bouncing in and out of stocks; I'd buy on a hiccup of bad news, then bang 'em out as soon as they rebounded. I really didn't care about the scratch. I blew most of it wining and dining Annette: bottles of Cristal at Seaport bars; expensive, late night dinners at Robert Deniro's place over in Tribeca; then a $150 cab ride out to Flatbush to drop off Annette, and back to Queens. Hell. You only lived once.

"How'd you do today?" Asked Chuck.

"Not bad. Netted six bills blowin' out that shipping stock I picked up yesterday."

"Sweet . . ."

An odd look came over Chuck's face. Odd looks and Chuck went together like Daimler & Benz.

"Hundreds of years ago, ships carrying horses from Spain would get stuck in the Sargasso Sea. There was no wind, so they'd just drift for weeks and weeks. Eventually the horses would start dyin' 'cause they'd run outa food and water. The sailors just tossed 'em overboard. For miles and miles all you could see were those dead horses floatin' in the ocean. They called it 'The Horse Latitudes'."

Annette was back. She'd fixed us both a cup of coffee.

"Were you two boys talking about me?"

"Chuck was just telling me a story about dead horses. Don't ask."

I don't remember much about that night other than Chuck's story. Sometimes a seed is planted; takes root, without us even knowing. Horse Latitudes

Greetings Graham --

Just wanna let you know I received my copy of "No Hope for Gomez!" -- MUCHAS GRACIAS!! Even now I clutch it to my chest with trembling, nicotine-stained fingers! (Very disconcerting, since I don't even smoke -- must see doctor about that.) C'mon now. You know I'm lying. How can one clutch and type at the same time?? Seriously though: sampled a few pages and it's obviously a very funny, cynical, off-beat work: the prose crisp as one of those new $100 bills the U.S. Treasury keeps printing by the bushel to give to CEOs of big corporations & failed insurance companies. I wish I was living in the fuckin' Netherlands -- but I digress.

I will have a copy of HL out to you shortly (honest injun). Have been a wee bit in the weeds lately as my career as a successful (Did I spell that right?) author keeps me very busy & constantly traveling . . . usually from my living room sofa to the liquor cabinet. Keep wailin' my friend. Regards -- Quinn


**Note** Graham Parke is the author of "NO HOPE FOR GOMEZ!" -- you can find him right here on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ.

Dear Ms. Feldberg:

WELCOME! Congrats on your new gig as editor of the Las Vegas Weekly!! Now that we know each other, let's dispense with the formalities . . . for the love of GOD!!! -- When are you gonna get rid of that abominable, impossible-to-read, blue (??) typeface now defiling the pages of your (our) beloved magazine?? After 8 weeks of straining to read the stuff, my eyeballs now resemble the snake-like orbs of Master Poe -- the sage Shaolin monk of "Kung Fu." Is this a plot to drive me insane?? The only way I can read a copy of the friggin' Weekly is to don a pair of 3-D goggles from an old "Vault of Horror" comic book. (The translucent, blue typeface appearing to float wraith-like before me.)

This IS a plot. First you get rid of Dickensheets, now you're messin' with our optic nerves! What's next? Josh Bell's movie reviews printed in the strange, alien hieroglyphs found at the Roswell crash site?? . . . Maybe the entire Arts & Entertainment section in Pig Latin?? What the hell is wrong with black type on white paper? It was good enough for Gutenberg! Unless you're planning on expanding circulation to the planet Krypton, please cut it out. Sincerely -- Quinn

Ya gotta love life. Just when all the doors are shut, a window opens. For the past few days I've been racking my brain; trying to think of something -- anything -- to write for my blog. Today my prayers were answered. I woke to greet the morning (afternoon) with my usual mixture of apprehension & disgust: warmed a cup of day-old coffee in the microwave, and clicked on the plasma. I found myself about 45 minutes into the movie "Marley & Me." I'm not gonna punish you (or myself) by reiterating the plot. I'm sure you're all familiar, and for those who aren't -- let's just say it's a movie that stars Owen Wilson, Jennifer Aniston, and a dog (not necessarily in that order).

Normally, the mere sight of Owen Wilson would send me diving for the remote, but today something stopped me: a scene with Wilson and the venerable Alan Arkin (his gruff, but affectionate boss: a role Arkin seems to have cornered the market on) which takes place in the bullpen of a local Florida newspaper. Seems Wilson is a fortyish writer who's grown tired of churning out a popular column he finds creatively stultifying -- tho pays him lavishly enough to afford a sprawling house with built-in swimming pool, in which he frolics with the naked Aniston. As if things aren't bad enough, at age forty, he feels he hasn't accomplished all he's set out to do in life (imagine that) -- and even tells this to his dog, Marley, in a poignant scene which caused me to reach for the Kaopectate. Ah, but wait! . . . Wilson lands his dream job as a reporter for a major newspaper; buys an even bigger house, and, oh yeah . . . the dog dies.

Now, before I get any death threats from the folks at PETA, let me just say that I love dogs. Throughout my life I've known many. They're wonderful animals: intelligent, noble and loyal; and, as any dog owner will tell you, all posssess distinct personalities which at times appear to render them almost human. (I mean that as a compliment.) No, it wasn't Marley or the day-old cup of joe that caused my lower-intestinal distress: it was that milksop Owen Wilson -- and the whiny, sob sister character he was portraying.

I thought about my own life as a writer. Here I was: The Big 5-0. I'd earned exactly $50 for my last published piece. (HEY! A dollar for each year I've been alive!) Still working a day job to support myself (one I liken to laboring in the ancient copper mines of Midian); desperate; despondent -- my tax return still not filed (the one for 2007); my book only available for purchase from an obscure sect of Bedouin traders in Kandahar (special order). But did I complain? -- You bet yer ass!! . . . Wouldn't you??

Oh, I really don't wish Owen Wilson any harm -- even if he is a nancy-boy who once tried to off himself because they ran out of crab cakes at Spago. 10 mil a picture; doin' 'em four at a time, and can't get through the day without a Xanax. Buck up Owen. Things are bound to get better. As the old Italian proverb goes: "God gives candy to people with no teeth."

Misfortune had brought me to Vegas. Like many, I'd landed hard: found work with a company that serviced ACs and low-temp coolers. I was riding with Chris: the most frenetic human being I'd ever encountered. Chris wasn't runnin' tweak; greater demons drove him to pin the speedometer -- take hairpin turns on two wheels a la Neal Cassady. I was certain he'd roll the van and kill us both . . .

Read the complete story, "The Ice Queen":

Wanna know what I might be reading?? (Didn't think so.):