Video Store Afternoon: The Forgotten Thrillers – *Nowhere to Run* (1989) & *Under Cover* (1987)

There’s something about picking up a couple of late-'80s VHS thrillers from the dusty middle shelf of an old video store that feels like stepping into a parallel universe—one where you recognize the actors but can’t quite place their names, and the plot synopsis on the back of the box makes promises that the movie only sort of keeps. That’s the magic of a forgotten rental—cinema’s lost soldiers.  

### *Nowhere to Run* (1989)  

Not to be confused with the 1993 Van Damme flick, this *Nowhere to Run* stars David Carradine in his grizzled, effortlessly cool phase, with Jason Priestley lurking in an early role before *90210* made him a household name. The premise is classic VHS thriller fodder—wrongful accusations, a desperate escape, and the kind of justice that only happens in movies where logic is secondary to mood. Carradine moves through the film with a mix of weary authority and "I-just-cashed-this-paycheck" detachment. The action is gritty but unremarkable, the pacing uneven, but the atmosphere is pure late-night cable TV gold. It has that rough-edged, lower-budget charm, the kind that makes you feel like you stumbled onto something that never quite made it to the mainstream. A movie that feels like a stray dog—worn, a little mean, but oddly endearing.  

### *Under Cover* (1987)  

Here’s a relic of the *21 Jump Street*-inspired wave of "teens infiltrating crime" movies, where cool leather jackets, synth-heavy scores, and improbable undercover operations reign supreme. David Neidorf (who always seemed one breakout role away from stardom) plays a fresh-faced cop sent into the neon underbelly of high school to bust a drug ring. It’s all very “Just Say No” with a side of *Miami Vice* aesthetics—shadowy hallways, whispered threats, and a police force that somehow thinks sending a baby-faced officer into high school is a solid plan.  

The movie swings between earnestness and absurdity, with moments that land hard (some genuinely grim turns in the third act) and others that feel like they were scripted by someone who had never actually been to a high school. Jennifer Jason Leigh pops up to remind you that, even in a throwaway cop thriller, she can elevate a scene with just a look. It’s a weird, occasionally gripping, often clunky time capsule of ‘80s excess and moral panic, but in the best way possible.  

### Final Verdict:  

Neither of these films is *great*, but both are time machines to a specific kind of movie-watching experience—the one where you roll the dice on an unknown rental, let the static hum of the VHS tape pull you in, and enjoy the ride for what it is. If you ever find these on an old tape, grab some microwave popcorn, dim the lights, and embrace the grainy, low-budget thrill.

Rewatching The Most Reviled Twin Peaks Season 2 Episodes with Fresh Eyes

While many fans criticize certain episodes of Twin Peaks Season 2 as being a slump, there’s a strong case to be made that they’re worth watching if you embrace them as one-off bursts of bizarre, campy fun. Here’s a defense of these episodes as delightful oddities that add flavor to the Twin Peaks experience:

1. "Masked Ball" 

The James Hurley subplot gets a lot of flak, but if you think of it as a kitschy homage to classic noir films, it becomes oddly enjoyable. The femme fatale, Evelyn Marsh, is dripping with melodrama, and James’ brooding loner vibe adds to the pulp-novel absurdity. It’s a detour into a different genre that feels like Twin Peaks experimenting with new tones.

2. "The Black Widow" 

This episode leans hard into the show’s offbeat humor, with storylines like Little Nicky’s supposed curse and Nadine’s high school wrestling antics. If you accept the absurdity, it’s hilariously over-the-top. Nadine pinning high school wrestlers is a surreal sight that feels like a fever dream you can’t help but chuckle at.

3. "Checkmate" 

Ben Horne reenacting the Civil War might be completely ridiculous, but it’s also a bold commitment to camp. Watching Richard Beymer go all-in as a delusional general is a hoot if you view it as an actor having the time of his life. Plus, the sheer audacity of the storyline is a reminder that Twin Peaks was never afraid to be weird for weirdness’ sake.

4. "Double Play" 

This episode may not be heavy on the main plot, but it’s a great showcase of the soap-opera satire that Twin Peaks revels in. The Evelyn Marsh storyline hits its dramatic conclusion, and while it’s a bit overblown, it’s also reminiscent of classic TV melodrama turned up to eleven. It’s cheesy, but sometimes cheese is delicious.

5. "Slaves and Masters" 

Directed by Diane Keaton (yes, that Diane Keaton), this episode is packed with surreal visuals and playful quirks. The camera work is intentionally odd, and the tone feels like a self-aware parody of the show’s own eccentricity. If you go in expecting a Lynchian fever dream filtered through a different creative lens, it’s weirdly delightful.

Why These Episodes Are Fun

Pure Camp Appeal: These episodes embrace a level of camp and absurdity that’s rare in TV. From Little Nicky to Ben’s Civil War obsession, the sheer audacity of the plots is entertaining in its own right.

Quirky Character Moments: While the main plot may stall, the side characters get room to shine in bizarre and unexpected ways.

A Break from the Darkness: The tonal shift from the heavy mystery of Laura Palmer’s murder to lighter, stranger subplots can feel like a breather before the show dives back into darker territory later in the season.

Twin Peaks at Its Boldest: These episodes showcase the show’s willingness to take risks, even if they don’t always pay off. Their unapologetic weirdness is part of what makes Twin Peaks a cult classic.

If you approach these episodes with the right mindset—looking for quirky, offbeat escapism rather than plot-driven drama—you might find them oddly charming. They’re a reminder that Twin Peaks was never afraid to follow its strangest impulses, and that’s part of its magic.

Virtual Album Haul #1

 

### **1. The Sherbs – *I Have the Skill (1980)***  

This is what happens when a half-forgotten Australian prog-pop outfit (Sherbet) decides to reinvent itself for the neon-drenched, leather-clad dawn of the ‘80s. It’s desperate, ambitious, and gleefully ridiculous. The title track lunges at you like an arcade machine wired straight to the brain of a delusional action hero, all chugging guitars and synth fanfares. “Crazy in the Night” is a fever dream of FM radio hysteria, like Cheap Trick locked in a room with the Alan Parsons Project and forced to arm-wrestle for their lives. *Never Surrender*? Damn right. They play this like their careers depend on it—because they did.  

### **2. John Cale – *Fear (1974)***  

Cale is the dark wizard of rock and roll, a fallen aristocrat lurching through the wreckage of dreams with a pocket full of knives. *Fear* is a paranoia symphony, half-beautiful, half-terrifying. “Fear Is a Man’s Best Friend” lurches from cabaret dread into psychotic meltdown—like a slow knife fight with your own reflection. “Buffalo Ballet” croons and shimmers, a lullaby for ghost towns. But then there’s “Gun”—a death march through the streets of your own bad decisions, a song that sounds like a shotgun shell spinning in the chamber. Cale isn’t here to comfort you. He’s here to remind you that even the soft moments are just preludes to horror.   

### **3. David Johansen – Here Comes the Night (1980)

If Johansen’s solo debut was the sound of a rock ‘n’ roll hustler strutting out of the rubble of the Dolls with a smirk and a wink, Here Comes the Night is that same hustler realizing the ‘80s are here and he better either shape up or go broke trying. This is Johansen in full-on barroom philosopher mode, slinging Springsteenian anthems and soulful strut with the confidence of a guy who’s seen it all and lived to tell the tale.

4. Dan Lacksman – Dan Lacksman (1973)

What if Kraftwerk got drunk on cheap wine and decided to jam with Serge Gainsbourg? This is what you’d get—electronic music before it learned to be cold, a feverish blend of analog dreams and lounge lizard charm. “Monday Morning” sounds like a robot learning how to feel hungover. “Jet Set Woman” shuffles with a kitschy swagger, the kind of track you’d hear in a forgotten Euro spy movie while a polyester-clad assassin sizes up his next target. Lacksman wasn’t just playing with synthesizers—he was romancing them, whispering sweet nothings into their circuits before sending them off into the cosmos.

### **Final Verdict:**  

This haul is a madman’s jukebox, a Frankenstein monster of New Wave, proto-punk, glam wreckage, and electronic delirium. It’s music for the weirdos, the dreamers, the burnouts who refuse to burn out. Play it loud, and don’t look back.

Tune In Tuesday: Fatal Games Vinegar Syndrome

  

Introduction: *Fatal Games* in the Slasher Canon  

Released in 1984, *Fatal Games* occupies an intriguing position in the pantheon of Golden Age slashers. Directed by Michael Elliot, the film is often compared to *Graduation Day* (1981) and *Pieces* (1982), sharing their thematic focus on athletics and their unrepentantly grimy aesthetic. The film follows a group of young athletes at the Falcon Academy of Athletics, where an unknown assailant—armed with a javelin—systematically murders them.  

Like many of its contemporaries, *Fatal Games* adheres to the formula codified by *Halloween* (1978) and *Friday the 13th* (1980): an enclosed setting, an unseen killer picking off victims one by one, and a final confrontation that reveals a killer with a personal vendetta. However, its unique blend of sports-driven narrative, bizarre tonal choices, and its commitment to sleaze—both implicit and explicit—elevates it above mere imitation.  

#### Thematic Subtext: Athleticism, Perfection, and the Body in Peril  

On a surface level, *Fatal Games* is a slasher with a straightforward premise. Yet, when examined through a more analytical lens, it becomes a meditation on the anxieties surrounding physical perfection and the brutal cost of excellence. The film’s protagonists are elite athletes, their bodies constantly scrutinized, conditioned, and tested. The killer’s weapon of choice—a javelin—further underscores the film’s preoccupation with bodily discipline, transforming a symbol of sport into an instrument of death.  

Additionally, *Fatal Games* shares thematic DNA with the likes of *Carrie* (1976) and *Prom Night* (1980), films that explore the intersection of bodily transformation and revenge. The film’s ultimate reveal (which will not be spoiled here for those uninitiated) introduces a gendered dimension to its horror, one that reflects broader cultural anxieties of the 1980s regarding identity, physicality, and medical intervention.  

#### The Vinegar Syndrome Release: Resurrecting an Obscurity  

For years, *Fatal Games* languished in VHS obscurity, surviving primarily through bootlegs and low-quality digital rips. Its arrival on Blu-ray, courtesy of Vinegar Syndrome, represents a significant moment in its critical reassessment. Known for their commitment to restoring exploitation, horror, and adult films with the same care afforded to Hollywood classics, Vinegar Syndrome’s release of *Fatal Games* brings the film into sharper focus—both literally and figuratively.  

The new 4K restoration from the original 35mm negative reveals a level of visual detail previously obscured by murky VHS transfers. Colors, particularly the garish reds and blues of the athletes' uniforms, pop with newfound vibrancy, while the film’s darker sequences benefit from improved shadow detail. The restoration also highlights the film’s rough-hewn aesthetic, preserving its low-budget charm without scrubbing away its grainy, grindhouse texture.  

Beyond the restoration itself, the disc’s special features offer invaluable context. Interviews with surviving cast and crew members provide insight into the film’s rushed production schedule, its place within the crowded slasher market of the early ‘80s, and its gradual transformation into a cult oddity. The inclusion of a commentary track—particularly if featuring genre historians or film scholars—further cements *Fatal Games* as more than a disposable relic of the VHS era, but a film worthy of serious (or semi-serious) discussion.  

#### Conclusion: From Forgotten Slasher to Cult Artifact  

While *Fatal Games* may never achieve the mainstream recognition of *Halloween* or *A Nightmare on Elm Street*, its revival through Vinegar Syndrome’s release ensures its place within the broader discourse of 1980s horror. Its exploration of athletic obsession, its willingness to embrace lurid excess, and its unexpected thematic weight make it a fascinating entry in the slasher canon. Thanks to the efforts of boutique labels like Vinegar Syndrome, films once dismissed as mere VHS detritus are being reevaluated, reclaimed, and—most importantly—preserved for future generations of cult film enthusiasts.

The Aluminum Cylinder cycle

1.Under uncertain stars

2.Urbane renewal

3.GRIM SHAKE SINGLE

4.Let it out EP

The *Aluminum Cylinder Cycle* by outsider artist Lou Toad is a raw, home-recorded journey through acoustic punk, metal, folk, and unclassifiable weirdness. Across four releases, the cycle explores themes of transformation, chaos, and catharsis, all delivered with an unfiltered, lo-fi intensity.

1.**Under Uncertain Stars** – A stormy, cloud-covered cityscape suggests a brooding atmosphere of contemplation or doom. This entry in the cycle reflects on what has transpired, offering neither uneasy resolution or further descent into existential uncertainty.

2. **Urbane Renewal** – A sunset-lit harbor scene suggests the start of a shift, where industrial landscapes meet fading natural light. The name implies reinvention or a clash between past and present, setting the stage for the cycle’s themes of disillusionment and change.

3. **Nothing is Trivial / Grimshake** – Featuring a grotesque, dripping monster, this entry sees Lou Toad & The Healing Croak Orchestra diving into their most menacing and chaotic territory. The music embraces aggression and absurdity, embodying mutation, decay, or a loss of control.

4. **Let It Out EP** – A blast of garage punk energy, this installment is the cycle’s cathartic release. If the previous entries built tension, this one lets it explode in a raw, unhinged burst of sound—a final statement of defiance and liberation.

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

Taken together, these releases form a loose narrative of upheaval, absurdity, and eventual catharsis, all filtered through Lou Toad’s uniquely bizarre and unpolished sonic vision.

Infernal Metal: A Boston Odyssey

## **Canto I – The Pit of Lansdowne Street**  

The night air reeked of spilled beer, burning rubber, and cheap weed as Danny "Dante" Sullivan and his best friend Vinnie "Virgil" Moretti stumbled out of the **Kenmore T stop**. The Red Sox had just lost a home game, and the streets of early 2000s Boston were a writhing mess of drunks, scalpers, and kids with **spiked hair and ripped Korn hoodies**.  

"Man, this city’s a damn wasteland," Dante muttered, kicking an empty **Dunkin’ iced coffee cup**. "Feels like I been stuck here forever."  

Vinnie lit a Newport, squinting past the glow of **neon Budweiser signs**. "Yeah, well, that’s ‘cause you have been. What, you think you’re special? You ain’t getting out unless you got a map."  

"A map to what?"  

Vinnie grinned through the smoke. "To Hell, kid. And lucky for you—I know the way."  

Dante should’ve laughed. Should’ve called him an **edgelord** and gone back to their **shitty basement practice space**. But something in Vinnie’s eyes—the same **glazed, knowing look of an old roadie who’s seen too much**—made him pause.  

Vinnie started walking. "C’mon," he said. "Time to meet the Devil."  

---  

## **Canto II – The Gate of the Big Dig**  

They cut through **Lansdowne Street**, past the sweating bodies outside **Axis** and **Avalon**, the city’s premier metal and punk clubs. The sidewalk was littered with scalped tickets and crushed PBR cans.  

And then—  

A **tunnel**, beneath a **half-finished overpass**, a place that shouldn’t have existed but did.  

Rusty signs read **DO NOT ENTER**. Spray-painted across the concrete barrier was something even worse:  

**ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO MOSH HERE.**  

"You sure about this?" Dante asked.  

Vinnie exhaled. "You wanna get out of this town or not?"  

With a deep breath, Dante followed him in.  

The tunnel’s walls dripped **black sludge**, and the sound of the city above was muffled, replaced by a low, guttural **rumbling bass**. The deeper they went, the louder it got.  

Hell wasn’t **below them**.  

It was **Boston itself**.  

---  

## **Canto III – The Nine Circles of Boston**  

### **First Circle: The Wasted Souls of Allston**  

They emerged in **Allston**, the land of **forever college students**—20-somethings who drank **Steel Reserve tallboys** on porches of crumbling triple-deckers, arguing about philosophy degrees they’d never finish.  

"These guys are harmless," Vinnie muttered. "They don’t even know they’re in Hell yet. Just stuck in a loop of house parties and **half-finished zines**."  

A band was playing in someone’s basement, the muffled sound of **a terrible Metallica cover** vibrating the walls.  

Dante shuddered. "Let’s keep moving."  

---  

### **Second Circle: The Nightclub of Lust**  

Down Commonwealth Ave, the streets shimmered under the glow of **T station lights**. They passed **The Roxy**, where a line of **leather-clad goths and Eurotrash clubbers** waited to enter a pulsating, strobe-lit abyss.  

Inside, the music was deafening—throbbing, hypnotic, **sinister**. Bodies twisted and merged in a sweat-drenched ritual of empty pleasure.  

"These ones sold their souls for bottle service," Vinnie said.  

One girl leaned in toward Dante, eyes hollow, whispering, "Stay with me, babe. Just one more drink."  

He yanked his arm away. "Not tonight."  

---  

### **Third Circle: The Fenway Pit of Gluttons**  

The air was thick with **hot dog steam and vomit**. The sidewalks were littered with discarded **Fenway Franks** and smeared slices of **Pizzeria Regina**.  

Drunken Sox fans **groaned and stumbled**, forever stuck in a cycle of **eating, drinking, and choking on heartbreak**.  

"These guys are always waiting for next year," Vinnie said, shaking his head.  

Dante looked up at a **jumbotron**, flashing an old Red Sox loss from **Game 7, 2003 ALCS**. The pain never ended here.  

---  

### **Fourth Circle: The Finance Bros of Greed**  

Downtown, in the shadow of **John Hancock Tower**, men in **ill-fitting suits** screamed into **Nextel flip phones**, clutching **stocks that no longer existed**.  

"These guys think they’re rich," Vinnie chuckled. "But their **401(k)s are as empty as their souls**."  

One banker clutched Dante’s shirt. "Buddy, you gotta lend me ten bucks. Just ten. I can flip it, I swear."  

Dante pried him off. "Let’s keep moving."  

---  

### **Fifth Circle: The Back Bay Rage Pit**  

In **Copley Square**, the sidewalks **vibrated with suppressed fury**. The drivers on **Storrow Drive** leaned on their horns in **eternal gridlock**, screaming curses that looped infinitely.  

"The wrathful," Vinnie said, lighting another Newport. "They’re either **stuck in traffic or yelling at Dunkin’ workers**."  

One guy in a **Tom Brady jersey** knocked over a trash can and **punched a parking meter**.  

Dante stepped aside. "Jesus."  

Vinnie just shrugged. "Wait till you see Southie."  

---  

### **Sixth Circle: The Southie Heretics**  

South Boston smelled like **cheap beer, piss, and fireworks**.  

"Here’s where they **reject all gods but Guinness**," Vinnie said.  

Brawls broke out on every street corner, guys in **claddagh tattoos and Celtics jerseys** shouting over each other.  

One man chugged a beer and screamed, "BOSTON STRONG!" before **shattering the bottle over his own head**.  

Dante shuddered. "Let’s move."  

---  

### **Seventh Circle: The Charlestown Violence**  

Gunshots echoed through the **gas station parking lots**. A group of **guys in tracksuits** leaned against a car, counting cash.  

A bleeding man **crawled out of an alley**, whispering, "Don’t mess with the Irish."  

Vinnie exhaled. "We ain’t staying here long."  

---  

### **Eighth Circle: Cambridge, the Fraudulent Thinkers**  

The air was thick with **pipe smoke and false enlightenment**.  

Professors with **incomprehensible manifestos** and **trust-fund revolutionaries** debated each other endlessly, publishing books that nobody read.  

"They talk a lot," Vinnie said, "but none of them ever **do anything**."  

Dante nodded. "Onward."  

---  

### **Ninth Circle: The MBTA – Frozen in Time**  

They reached **Park Street Station**, where the **Green Line trains** never arrived on time, where commuters shivered in the fluorescent glow of a place that felt **outside of time itself**.  

"This is it," Vinnie said. "The frozen core of Hell."  

A train approached, creaking and **groaning like a dying beast**. The doors opened—  

And inside, behind the conductor’s glass, sat **Lucifer himself**—a **dead-eyed MBTA worker**, sipping Dunkin’ coffee, staring into the void.  

Dante took a deep breath.  

"Time to wake up," Vinnie said.  

And with that, they **stepped onto the train**.  

---  

### **Epilogue: The Escape**  

Dante woke up on the **Red Line**. His phone buzzed—**1:37 AM**.  

Had it all been real?  

The **city still loomed** outside the window, but something felt… lighter. Like he had **seen its guts and survived**.  

Vinnie sat next to him, smirking.  

"See, told you I knew the way out."

THE GROOVY, GRIMY GLORY OF EARLY '70s BRITISH HORROR: A BLOOD-SOAKED TRIBUTE

Listen up, creeps and crypt-dwellers—this one’s for the fiends, the freaks, and the degenerates who know their way around a sticky-floored, second-run theater circa 1973. We’re talking about that glorious window of time when British horror was teetering on the edge—still dripping with gothic atmosphere but starting to slither into something weirder, sleazier, and more deranged.  

Take a deep drag of that imaginary Players Gold Leaf, because we’re going back to the days when horror wasn’t afraid to mix blood with bad vibes, lace classic terror with a little sleazy psychedelia, and give you a cinematic experience that felt like a fever dream you’d wake up from in a cold sweat.  

### **"HORROR HOSPITAL" (1973) – WHEN MAD SCIENCE MEETS SWINGING LONDON**  

If Hammer Horror was the well-mannered English gentleman of terror, then *Horror Hospital* was the rabid delinquent slashing tires in the parking lot. A blood-splattered, hallucinatory mix of sex, scalpels, and rock-n-roll nihilism, this one has Robin Askwith—looking like he just rolled out of a Soho squat—taking a getaway trip that turns into a waking nightmare. His destination? A creepy countryside asylum run by the deliciously demented Michael Gough, who’s performing brain-scrambling experiments and decapitating runaways with his **spiked death limousine.**   

Director Antony Balch (who palled around with William S. Burroughs, so you *know* he was operating on a different wavelength) infuses this one with enough black humor and deranged energy to make it feel like a bad trip you somehow survived. It’s *A Clockwork Orange* meets *Frankenstein* in a dingy bedsit, and it doesn’t give a damn whether you can handle it or not.  

### **"DRACULA A.D. 1972" – THE COUNT GOES MOD, BABY!**  

By ’72, Hammer was struggling to keep up with the times, but instead of going gentle into that good night, they dropped Dracula smack in the middle of a groovy, Satanic, youth-gone-wrong London, and let the freak flag fly. Christopher Lee’s Count doesn’t get a whole lot to do besides look menacing and lurk in a ruined church, but Peter Cushing—now playing a modern-day Van Helsing—is as sharp as ever, slicing through the mod-era mayhem like a razor blade through a leather jacket.  

With its acid-soaked color palette, funky score (that sounds like Deep Purple got locked in a room with a Moog synth and a bottle of gin), and a cast of hip young sinners led by Stephanie Beacham and Caroline Munro, this is the horror equivalent of an early Sabbath riff—loud, ridiculous, and completely irresistible. The final duel between Cushing and Lee is worth the price of admission alone, proving that even in a world of bell-bottoms and bad drugs, some things—like vampire-killing—never go out of style.  

### **"ASYLUM" (1972) – MADNESS, MAYHEM, AND MEATY REVENGE**  

Now, let’s talk about *Asylum*—one of Amicus Productions’ finest horror anthologies and a film that plays like a set of bedtime stories told by a lunatic who hasn’t slept in a week. The setup is classic: a young doctor arrives at an insane asylum for a job interview, only to be tasked with listening to the stories of its most deranged inmates. Naturally, each tale gets progressively weirder, bloodier, and more deliciously deranged.  

Robert Bloch (the twisted mind behind *Psycho*) penned the stories, and they’ve got everything you could want—murderous disembodied body parts, tailor shops of doom, Barbara Parkins being gaslit into madness, and best of all, **a gleefully unhinged Herbert Lom bringing an army of tiny, twitching, human-skin-wrapped automatons to life.**  

Unlike Hammer’s gothic elegance, Amicus films had a grittier, almost *EC Comics* energy—punchy, nasty, and dripping with gallows humor. *Asylum* is no exception, and it still stands as one of the finest anthology horrors of its time, proving that sometimes the best way to tell a scary story is to tell four of them and make sure every one of them leaves a scar.  

### **THE LAST WALTZ OF BLOOD AND THUNDER**  

By the mid-‘70s, British horror was on its last legs. Hammer was bleeding out, Amicus was running out of steam, and the whole thing was about to be buried under the rising tide of American slasher flicks and *Texas Chain Saw* grime. But for a few glorious years, horror was something special—wild, unpredictable, and unafraid to mix the grotesque with the groovy.  

So do yourself a favor. Crank up some early Black Sabbath, pour yourself a stiff one, and let the lurid madness of early ‘70s Brit horror sink its fangs into you. The graveyards are open, the Count is hungry, and the asylum doors never really locked. You just have to be mad enough to walk in.