Tag Archives: blood

Alfred Hitchcock Presents: Final Escape

Seriously, Lena, put a fucking towel down or something.


Holy crap. I have been looking for this little nugget of television for years.


As a kid, I watched an anthology TV ep that scared the pants off me so well that, even at like age 7 or whatever I was at the time, I passed through terror and came all the way back around to admiring the shit out of the storytelling.


Then I forgot about it for most of my adolescence.


But every once in a while, it pops into my brain, and within the last decade, it seemed like something I should be able to track down, what with the interwebs and all. Here are the details I could remember:


  • Anthology scary stories TV series (not Twilight Zone).
  • Prissy rich blonde woman in prison, desperate to escape.
  • African American dude who works in prison’s carpentry department or whatever—ie he makes coffins—needs eye surgery.
  • Lady bribes/tricks him into helping her escape via coffin.


Yet I was thwarted, every google.


Then today, in the midst of a British comedy-panel podcast binge, someone described this exact story as portrayed in an Alfred Hitchcock show.





One search (“alfred hitchcock tv show buried alive”) and thirty minutes later, here we are.


Turns out it’s an 80s-tastic reboot of a 1964 episode, and OK, you can maybe-probably guess the terrifying last-second plot twist, but it blew my wee little brain back then, and like any quality scary story, even if it’s predictable, it still bears retelling. Knowing (or figuring out) the ending doesn’t spare you the intensity of the experience.


Give it a watch, won’t you? Filtered through my acknowledgement that it’s 30 years old, I think holds up well. It suffers from some mid-80s TV-as-an-art-form style issues, but even cinematically, they do some things here that filmmakers these days are still fucking up.



Also, here’s a moment-by-moment recap (low-budget live tweet) of my rewatch.


Alfie’s intro: I…do not understand. It seems to be maaaaasssively misogynistic, with the “wives peek in from the kitchen” bit and the woman…stripping…behind him? But I maybe it’s all part of the tongue-in-cheek gag? I, uh…y’know what? Let’s just get on with the story.


Scene: a courtroom, “Lena” being found guilty of murder in the first. “I’m sorry, your honor, could you repeat that? I couldn’t hear you over my MASSIVE SHOULDER PADS.”


According to IMDb, Lena is played by Season Hubley, who was once married to Kurt Russell. So there you go.


Oh! She’s a cunt! She’s very much a cunt. I’d totally forgotten. All this time I’d thought she was just pathetic. This is good texturing.


Scene: the confiscation of her possessions. Enter the Golden Lighter of Meaning, which will go off in the second act because it’s pronouncedly absent in the third. That’s some fan-fucking-tastic Chekhovian yoga when you think about it. (Don’t think about it too hard.) (EDITED TO ADD: Although…if they’d worked in somehow that she’d gotten the lighter back and had it in her possession for the final scene, it may have been even more powerful. Hold please, I’m fixing Hitchcock.)


Lena and her wet hair just kicking back on the bottom bunk bothers me more than anything else in this episode. Cellie seeeeeriously needs to be like, “Bitch, get off my mattress.”


Scene: Lena tries to “charm” Shirley the Olive-Skinned Queen of the Prisoners (played by steely-faced Irishwoman-by-way-of-San Diego Patrice Donnelly, 5’9”), who is now in possession of the Golden Lighter of Meaning. Lena has all the flirting game of Noel Shempsky. Shirley, on the other hand, has a wicked left hook.


Enter Doc (played by Davis Roberts, the Morgan Freeman of Mobile, Alabama) and his vague coffin duties. Unnecessary Wood Planing is the most overused bit of carpentry business. Artisan fucking bespoke DOC caskets hand-made by a caring and sensitive blind man? Why escape? I’ll bet the canapés in the mess are to die for.


“They’re all idiots,” Lena mutters to herself while attempting a prison escape inspired by the children in a Tide commercial.


Enter Angry Warden. EPIC BOW TIE ALERT.


“I’ve been thrown in solitary in better places than this!” Yeah, OK, Lena. “Good one.”


Wowsa, for a minute there I thought that ass-kicking scene was going to get rapey. That was some intense woman-on-woman violence. I like to think Ms. Hubley got all method and kept fighting back too hard so Ms. Donnelly (who is now, per IMDb, a personal trainer) finally had to kick her ass for real.


Scene: the infirmary. Why is Doc, Master Casketeer, hanging out the clinic? CASING HIS NEXT “CLIENTS,” PERHAPS?


Oh my. I could’ve sworn I heard, “My husband used to work with black kids.” BLIND. She said “blind kids.” Thank you for not being THAT bad, 1985.


Oooooooh, that broken glasses/“Let me read to you the letter that reveals whether or not you’ve received funding for your eye surgery” shit is proper devious. Respect.


Playing up the awfulness of climbing into a coffin that already contains a corpse is a great move. Excellent misdirection. Same for how relaxed she is when she hears the dirt hitting the lid. Jesus. Makes my palms sweat.


Slow descent into panic, natch. Jerk-laughing “Who do you think you are?” to the corpse is both sinister and totally on point for that character.


Aaaand here comes the reveal. Man, acting in a confined space with a lit match deserves its own award. (Though fire in a limited-oxygen situation is dumb. WHO’S AN IDIOT NOW, LENA?)


And there it is. Points for the screams (I’ve always thought full-throated screaming is an admirable talent that not all actors can commit to) and for the simultaneous stillness of the corpse. Yep, still gives me chills.







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So This is the New Year

I meant for years to put together a New Year’s-themed mix CD, but never got around to it. These are the four songs I can remember from my master list, anyway. Not the cheeriest lot—the holidays do tend to bring out somber reflection, don’t they?—but all songs I like. They all include a certain accuracy about being an introspective, self-deprecating, neurotic adult during the holidays.

“A Long December,” Counting Crows

Always one of my favorites

“Pretty Good Year,” Tori Amos

For when “Long December” doesn’t satisfy your self-pity impulses

“The Ice of Boston,” The Dismemberment Plan

Even bad New Year’s Eves can be funny, too

(I always recommend not watching the user-made video when listening to a youtube song, but it’s funny how this video includes a pic of the Bolts’ Evgeny Artyukhin getting popped by Chara.)

Also, heh: “…and it’s my mother.”

“The New Year,” Death Cab for Cutie

Acknowledge the day’s not really momentous and then celebrate anyway

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The Olympic Drinking Game

This is based off of something Mrs. Deelio found–I rearranged a little and added a few. More will surely be added as the games (and, let’s face it, the evening) wear on…

New additions in blue (as of 5 p.m., July 28).

One drink:

Didn’t stick the landing

Hideous uniforms

Bitter runners up

“Just a kid from…”


Celebrity spectator

Athlete beefs it while competing (including falling off gymnastics equipment)

Really funny name

USSR mention


Sportscaster says something A) ridiculously nationalistic, or B) ridiculously smug about his/her sport

Reference to a non-Olympic sport

Epic collapse from a big lead

Sportscaster makes a funny (ie “[So-and-so] called for the double-touch because she tried to play it off her face.”)

Parent or coach body-English.


New world record

High five left hanging

Gymnasts of dubious ages

Fit kid, fat parents

Nordic country wins gold

Learning a new rule about an obscure sport

Any athlete named “Pepe”

Athlete beefs it while not in the act of competing

Horse poops

False start DQ

Bela Karolyi says something nonsensical

Sportscaster gets indignant on behalf of opposing country (ie, “How DARE they call that penalty shot! The referees just GAVE the US the medal!”)

Epic collapse and/or upset in a medal round


Compound fracture

Wrong national anthem at medal ceremony


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So Save Me, Maybe?

This damn song has been in my head ALL DAY. So, naturally, I caved and changed the lyrics to reflect the whole “zombie apocalypse” thing.

[Keep in mind that the parts of this song that are vague, nonsensical or just plain suck have been written that way totally on purpose, as an homage to the original.]

I threw a fit in my car,
A normal morning so far,
But then you came from afar
And asked me for my head.

I read the news and it’s weird,
It’s just as we had all feared:
The zombie outbreak is here
To eat what’s in my head.

The lights are flashin’
Ripped flesh, teeth are gnashin’,
Down the street we’re dashin’.
Where’s the goods we’re stashing, baby?

Hey, I just met you,
And now you’re raving,
So I’m-a leave now,
And someone save me.

You’re eating people
And that shit’s crazy,
So go eat that guy,
And spare me, maybe?

And all the other freaks
Never fazed me,
But you’re a zombie,
So someone save me.

(Before I fixed my rifle sight
I missed you so bad,
I missed you so bad,
I missed you so, so bad.)

I took my time with the gun,
I spent some time on the run.
Now shooting zombies is fun,
(Just aim it for the head.)

I pile them up on the lawn,
Now all the zombies are gone.
That didn’t really take long,
And I still have my head.

The rain is fallin’,
Drip, drop, drink is callin’,
Blood bath, so appallin’,
Why’re you always stallin’, baby?

Hey, I just shot you,
And you’re still flailing,
So here’s my number,
So call me maybe?

It’s hard to look right
At you, baby,
So here’s your arm back,
And bite me, maybe?

Now all the other brains
Look so tasty.
So here’s my dinner,
I’ll eat it, maybe.


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So we’ve decided we’d like to make our little UFC gathering on Saturday a bit more of an event. C’mon over, we’ve got a guaranteed tensome. There hasn’t been a fight in a while, first of all, and this one promises to be another satisfyingly bloody embarrassment for one of our favorite jerkoffs.

Secondly, it’s CJ’s birthday. Don’t make the kitten cry.

We’re thinking the standards–some beer, some booze, maybe some nachos? Something like that. Sound good? See you there? It’s going to be a Deelio-riffic Big J/Little J/Krazy K kind of group. You know you don’t want to miss that.

(Seriously: Jon Jones has almost a 10-inch reach advantage on Rashad Evans. This is going to be epic, as the kids say.)

Don’t forget your game card.

If you can’t come, you can still play along at home. Here’s how it works:

Drink a Four Loko. Then a beer. Fill out your sheet. Wait for the fights to start. (Drink another beer.)

Watch 135-pound fighters whirling around the ring. Put a big red X through your first fight predictions. Watch 145-pound fighters whirling around the ring. Put a big red X through your second fight predictions. Pour a Jack and Coke. Explain to the cat the benefits of the butterfly guard.

Watch your third pick take a widdle nappy-nap on the canvas. Submit to the appropriateness of two-fisting while watching combat sports.

Rally shot? AWESOME idea.

Kitteh refuses to learn proper kimura technique. Bandage face. Add beer. To stop the swelling.

Watch fourth fight. Check your picks. Ponder why you picked “Round 8, minute 3r1rsosfjsmmmthhfhrss” in a three-round fight. Give yourself 10 bonus points. For being awesome.

Watch fifth fight. Ponder how the cat has more correct picks than you do. Edit your sheet to declare Joe “Rogaine” Rogan the loser in every fight. 10 more bonus points.

“Rogaine sucks!”

Develop a drinking game centered on Joe Rogan sucking. Develop a shot called “Joe Rogan Sucks.” Develop a plan for marketing your shot recipe until you’re interrupted by Joe Rogan sucking.


Leave remote with cat; take a widdle nappy-nap.

Wake up to Animal Planet Late Night. Change channel back to Pay-Per-View. Scold cat. Order pizza.

Discover half-finished beer behind a book shelf. Go ahead and assume it’s yours.

Watch…wait, which fight is this?

Eat pizza off game sheet. Ponder why pizza has more correct picks than you do.

Ooh! Main event?! Yay!

Declare yourself the new Official Voice of the Octagon. “IiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIt’s TIIIIIIIIIIIME!!!!!”

Make yourself some hot tea with lemon. And honey. And…blue curacao?

Try to google Jon Jones’ tattoo. Fall asleep midway through typing “Phillillippippiansssss.”

Wake up to Mike Goldberg shouting “IT’S ALL OVER!” Assume he’s got a point there. Apologize to cat.

Blame Herb Dean for ending your night prematurely. Go to bed.


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Fantasy UFC

Oh yes, we do like the beatings.

UFC.com used to have its own fantasy game (or I wouldn’t have known where to start in creating one). Of course, they also had some super-convoluted scoring system akin to quarterback rating–it calculated automatically, thank god, but they yanked it altogether a while back, and then we didn’t have any reason to watch the prelim no-names. Except, of course, the blood.

I’m joking, really. I like MMA–CCB got me into it when we first got together, and while I hadn’t been squeamish about the blood, I had thought it was all just wreckless fury. But really, the techniques involved, and the interplay between those techniques, is fascinating. Seeing someone segue between boxing and judo, knowing the different advantages of kickboxing vs. karate vs. muay thai, recognizing the amazing nuances of jujitsu, and seeing, in action, how someone can defend his opponent’s strengths just well enough to apply his own fighting specialties–it’s the same satisfaction you get when you recognize how a deep slant beats a Tampa 2. Or how dump-and-chase beats the trap.

That being said, it always helps to have someone to root for, yes? So I figured, at least for this Saturday’s UFC, while we’re critiquing the finer points of some early fighter’s takedown defense, we could also be screaming at him to cinch up that guillotine already, I’ve got the second minute in round 2 and I need me some bonus points.

The other fun of fantasy, of course, is that you can play even if you know nothing about the sport. So here’s my dumbed-down fantasy UFC form for this weekend’s event. You just gotta pick your winners, their winning method, what round they win in and what minute of the round. (Here’s the fight card for a bit more info on the fighters.)

(Printable: UFC 144 sheet)

(All rounds are five minutes, and all fights are three rounds–except the top fight, which is five rounds.)

(And if you pick any kind of a decision for the winning method, then the round/minute info is automatically the max–ie round 3, fifth minute.)

Yeah, OK, I may be a nerd, but at least I’m a violent nerd.

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