So you know how there are sleeper Cylons on Battlestar Galactica? How they looked and thought and worked just like everyone else, until one day when a switch flipped on in their heads and activated them? It was a scary thing to watch. They started to think back on all of their memories, and it seemed like their personalities had split in two, carrying on paths that were parallel to each other without ever quite intersecting. Boomer, for example, was programmed to shoot Adama in the face, which ticked him off royally and pretty much ensured that she would never work in that town again. And it wasn't even her fault, because the hard-wiring took over.

We aren't born hating mimes. I'm convinced of this. It's something that is a learned behavior, like coordinating your clothing or eating haggis. So whence cometh the mime-hate of late? Why am I hearing mime-hating jokes? Why am I hearing urban legend-type stories about mimes who slash, dismember, and kill? There are whole websites devoted to mime-hate. Mime-hating clubs. Is it because they refuse to talk? Is that what makes them seem somehow warped and unnatural to us? Like maybe they have telekinetic powers or something? I could understand if it were clowns. Clowns are the mime's sinister cousin. Clown-hating is a perfectly common, perfectly respectable pastime these days, and the explanation for it is a simple one--extreme creepiness. On the creepy scale, clowns rate somewhere between Jason Voorhees and those twin girls from The Shining. Have you noticed, by the way, that clown-hating is kind of a generational thing? Boomers have no problem with clowns. A Boomer can see a clown and not be disturbed in the slightest. He or she might even respond with laughter and merriment (presumably this is the clown's goal). It's Gen X'ers and younger who have taken issue with Ronald McScary and his terrifying henchmen. But I'm straying from my original question, which is: why do we as a culture hate mimes so much? Is it just a natural outgrowth of the clown thing, a sort of Jungian color-bleed of our psychological laundry?

This morning I saw a transformer blow. I had just parked behind the coffee shop when I looked across the street and noticed a bright blue light glowing near the top of a utility pole. It was amazing—I'd never actually seen blue fire before (which is probably for the best, seeing as how blue fire is VERY VERY HOT). The flame got larger and larger, and it was blazing out from the box in a corona of ethereal blue tendrils. It really was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. In fact, I was so fascinated that I didn't even think to move; I just stood there, mesmerized. I do remember having the presence of mind to estimate the distance between myself and the pole, determining that I was at minimal safe distance if it should happen to fall in my direction. I also considered taking a picture with my cellphone for posterity's sake. All at once there was a tremendously loud pop, like when you're too close to the place where they set off the fireworks, and the transformer went KA-BLAMM-O. I hunkered down by the car, and my right ear (the one turned toward the explosion) began to ache a little bit. Ouchie.

I don't know about you, but I can't watch television for more than five minutes without seeing a Spangles commercial. These ads always have a folksy, low-production kind of quality to them, as if they want you to believe that all the actors are local. They all feature a particular product, like the Western burger or the breakfast pita, and the promotion involves some sort of cutesy, themed scenario, like little kids dressed up in cowboy hats. Some of the commercials feature 50s-style songs that are disgustingly singable and tend to stick with you, like a wad of chewing gum on the underside of your brain ("M-m-m-mudslide!"). And the commercials are everywhere, infiltrating the membranes of our culture like some sort of virus. What's the reason for this juggernaut of kitsch and unpleasantness? Well, after copious research and a good deal of creative problem solving, I have arrived at an explanation. It is not, however, for the faint of heart, so I'd suggest that anyone prone to fainting be seated immediately. Ready? Okay, here it is: the invention and mass-promotion of the Spangles franchise is one of the preliminary stages in an imminent alien invasion.

I see that ad for The Lake House, and all I can think about is that hideous chunky turtleneck Keanu Reeves is wearing. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm obsessed with it, so I just sit there and watch with the sort of grim fascination usually reserved for slasher films and presidential elections, and when at last the sweater appears—in all its hateful glory—I feel my blood run cold. That sweater is anathema to me. It's appalling, and I can't even say exactly why.

Last night Lawrence had yet another werewolf invasion. We survived it splendidly this time, although a few out-of-towners ended up in the hospital with minor contusions. How was it, you may ask, that we managed to defend ourselves successfully against an assault by such dangerous creatures? Well ever since the infamous raid of 1863, in which William Quantrill and his men burned the city to the ground, people here have been a bit anxious about guarding our borders. Determined that such an attack should never again occur without warning, our forefathers went and hired themselves a town crier. This tradition has continued through the years and is still in practice today. In essence, this elected individual is the caretaker of the city. He or she volunteers to live in a tent outside the city limits and alert everyone when there is an imminent threat. It's a system that served us well last night—when the town crier came riding into town on his Vespa, shouting over a bullhorn about a coming werewolf attack, we had just enough time to fortify our homes and cast a smattering of protective voodoo incantations. Then a massive thunderstorm rolled in, and out of the storm came werewolves. It was an impressive sight. Each werewolf was at least seven feet tall, and there were at least three hundred of them, running in formation like some sort of crazed football team.

The Rolling Stones are on tour again. Can you believe it? These notorious bad boys are well into their 60s, and yet they are embarking on another cash-infused circuit around the country. Once again, Mick Jagger will strut around a stage, his lips still puffy from those childhood bee stings, and regale the audience with "Jumpin' Jack Flash" for the one hundred millionth time. Their musical inspiration may have languished somewhat in recent decades, but their unflagging stamina and determination defies all logic. There is only one conclusion to draw:

They are the Undead.

Saturday afternoon, Nick and I were feeling pretty bored. It was hot outside, and our usual industrious spirit (haha) had gone the way of the parachute pant. This is how we ended up anchored to the sofa for hours on end, watching John Carpenter's Body Bags on television.

We'd never heard of this movie, but how could we not give it a chance? After all, we're talking about John Carpenter, the man who brought us the Halloween films, Escape from L.A., Big Trouble in Little China, and—my personal favorite—They Live. This is a man with vision. True, it may be the sort of vision you'd have if you drank a bottle of Jagermeister and visited the Mutter Museum, but it's vision, nonetheless.

Several years ago, I met a certain individual at a New Year's party hosted by one of my friends. We'll call this individual "Joe." Joe seemed intellectual and nice, but there was no particular reason why I should remember him (he wasn't one of my drunken crushes or anything), so once I got home from the party, I pretty much forgot about him. Since then, however, I have been troubled by a peculiar and unsettling phenomenon, the cosmic ramifications of which are too great to even fathom.

Joe is everywhere.

So last night Nick and I watched Carnival of Souls, one of my favorite movies of all time. As usual, I was properly spooked (it may be low budget, but it's artfully creepy), and Nick had taken on his usual role of Mystery Science Theater film critic, which is what he does when we watch horror films. This is to keep me from getting too absorbed in the movie (sometimes I have a problem separating fantasty from reality—I know this surprises you). And although this little comedy routine is ostensibly for my benefit, it's clear to me that he just doesn't want me keeping him awake all night going "What's that? Did you hear that? Something's wrong—go check the kitchen. Oh my god, Jason Voorhees was here!" at which point he'll have to explain to me that what I'm looking at is a plastic pasta strainer, not a hockey mask. It's all kind of a fun diversion, but Nick doesn't seem to agree. Sometimes he's gone when I'm watching the movie, and then he has to deal with the repercussions anyway. The night I watched Ringu, I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't even turn the lights off I was so scared. I just sat there in bed with my Gameboy and a desk lamp on, turning toward the door every few seconds to make sure the girl with the Andie MacDowell hair wasn't shambling out of the television.

I'll admit it; movies have a bit too much power over me.

In a new book, The Sociopath Next Door, Harvard psychologist Martha Stout reveals that a goodly number of the people we see on the street, in restaurants, at family reunions even, are sociopaths. That's right—sociopaths. Traditional estimates of sociopathy among the general population have averaged about one percent, but Stout claims that these are outdated, partly because scientists previously assumed only men were capable of sociopathy. Instead, she estimates that around four percent of the people you encounter (i.e., 1 in every 25 people) are sociopaths, meaning they are incapable of compassion or empathy and are entirely lacking in conscience. They are not capable of experiencing authentic attachments with others. Basically, they are creepy zombie people who live only for themselves. Now keep in mind, the behavior of sociopaths is not necessarily violent, just deceitful and manipulative, so don't expect people to clue you in to their diagnosis with anything as obvious as a murder spree. Mostly, sociopaths just enjoy controlling others and making them jump. Does this sound like anyone you know?

—three sticks of doom

It takes a lot of guts to use a Johnny Cash song in a zombie movie, but Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead does it, and does it well. Imagine scenes of rampant carnage, wanton destruction, and the occasional close-up zombie glamour shot, all set against the folksy backdrop of "The Man Comes Around," Cash's famed song about the End Times. Brilliant, in my opinion. And this is just one example of the kind of detailed craftsmanship that makes this film so fun, gruesome and, ultimately, watchable.

Way back in January, when my site had only been up for a few days, I noticed something odd in my daily usage logs. Something called a "Googlebot" had crawled my site. Somehow, through all the chaos and pablum of the internet, it had found my infant site—barely cleansed of its amniotic fluid, in fact—and indexed it. This was kind of cool because it meant that my site would show up in Google searches when you typed in "Karen Vaughn solitude" or "Nudist Colony of the Dead" or just "Terrible Movies." Huzzah for that, right? But the image that kept insinuating itself on my brain was that of a tiny, heinously creepy insect creature, brushing its sticky little legs and feelers on every page of my site. I couldn't help it. The Googlebots creeped me out.

#10. Convert to Shinto.

#9. Be caught with a little boy.

#8. Publicly acknowledge his blood bargain with Lucifer.

#7. Sell the Statue of Liberty to Colombia for a couple kilos of Bogota's finest.

#6. Host a pharmaceutical company shopping spree at the Federal Reserve building.

#5. Die.

#4. Use the Force to strangle his top admiral on national television.

#3. Accidentally nuke a third-world nation out of existence, then blame the mistake on intelligence failures, then shrug the whole thing off with a good-old Texas guffaw.

#2. Kill the firstborn son of every family in America.

#1. Trick question. Apparently, Bush could do any of these things and be re-elected. Way to go, America. You make me real proud.

It all started because I'm planning to dress as Leela from Futurama for Halloween this year. I have been scouring Google Images for pictures, looking for examples of Leela's wardrobe. So far, I've pulled together the basic outfit—white tank top, black pants—and I've even made my own arm band thing out of gray/blue felt and Velcro. The hardest part will be figuring out how to fashion Leela's trademark single eyeball into something that will fit on my head and look right, but that will also be transparent enough for me to see through. But don't worry about it. I'm a smart girl, and I'm sure I'll figure it out.

In the process of doing this research, however, I uncovered more naughty pictures of our dear Leela than I could ever have imagined. These are mostly amateur drawings of Leela in sexy lingerie, in a variety of Barbarella-style outfits, or just plain-old buck naked. There is also a startling amount of fan fiction, detailing exactly what it is that Leela and Fry do behind closed spaceship doors (hint: it's not spot-cleaning the computer panels). I guess this shouldn't surprise me, but it does. The sheer volume of it, anyway.

I walked into the store today and saw a zombie there
With green detritus in her teeth and flowers in her hair.
Inquiring first about her health, I asked her one thing more,
Then tipped my hat to Zombie Girl and went on with my chores.

The new Exorcist movie is going to suck. I'm sure of it, and I'll tell you why. William Friedkin will not be directing it, and William Peter Blatty will not be writing it. Renny Harlin is the director of Exorcist: The Beginning, and if his previous films are any indication (Cliffhanger, Deep Blue Sea), there will be lots of sinewy, muscled men and women who must take their clothes off for reasons of safety. In other words, this newest foray into demon possession may be a deliciously bad flick, but it definitely, absolutely, positively will not be a good one.

Me zombie. Name Orwell. Me born long time ago, die, then go into ground. One morning, terrible noise wake me. Like God fingernails on big chalkboard. (Me literary—want write poem book one day.) Me stand up in graveyard, see other zombies standing, too. Moon out, and air full of green fog. Music play like at carnival. Weird.

"What do now?" me ask.

Other zombies shrug. "Guess eat brains."

Check out my brand-spanking new 404 page! Now, in glorious Technicolor! With croutons!

There once was a derelict bus;
The ghosts drove it each night at dusk.
It roared and it reeled,
Then came back to the field,
As if it had always been thus.

Did you know that a Dracula amusement park has recently opened in Vlad the Impaler's homeland? It's located in Snagov, Romania, near Bucharest, and it's where the remains of Vlad Tepes are said to be buried. I know nothing else about it, except that I want to go there very, very badly. It's only a zillion times cooler than that brain-dead Oz amusement park they keep trying to build in my beloved eastern Kansas (may Dorothy rot in hell). My guess is that the Dracula park will be a Universal Studios sort of gig, complete with goofy rides through haunted castles and lots of irritable teenaged staff persons standing around in capes and plastic fangs.

A man sits holding a violin against his heart, the bow resting on his lap. His hair is a little wild—just as you might expect from a musician—but his expression is all seriousness. It could be anyone's great-grandfather. The photograph was probably taken around 1900, and it's a classic example of the style of portraits done at the time. In fact, there is only one thing unusual about it—the ghost. Above the man's head and off to the left is a blurred oval of light. If you turn your head slightly to the side, you can see that the dark markings in the oval form a human face.

About five years back, I made a trip to San Diego for a job interview. I did my best online search and located what I thought was a decent hotel in the middle of the trendy Lamplight District. Believing that this was a nice area, with funky shops, I didn't think twice about plunking down 60 bucks a night for this hotel, even though it was not a chain and I couldn't find any customer reviews of it.

Let's pause for just a moment. I realize now that the red flags should have been flying like at a military parade in Communist China. But at the time, I didn't have much firsthand experience with cost-of-living disparities across the country. Turns out, of course, 60 bucks in California is barely enough to buy an all-soy hot dog, and what it gets you in terms of living space is even less appealing.

How many more times must I endure this nonsense? As if the music box debacle wasn't enough, I now have another instrument ascended from the fiery pits of hell to torment me. What's at work here is a conspiracy of Dantean proportions.

Apparently, some exhibitors have been accused of putting hairpieces on their show cattle at the Ohio State Fair last year. What this means is that they took excess hair from the cow's body—from other cows, even—and strategically glued it to other spots in order to give the animal a more healthy and proportional appearance.

Alright, I give up. What exactly is this? I've encountered it on more than one occasion while facing down the business end of a soup can, and I can't help but wonder: if this is the pretty, corporate name for this particular facet of the chicken market, then what in the world did it start out as? I mean, there are PR people in billion-dollar suits making up digestible euphemisms for all the unsavory products and processes that end up on labels in your neighborhood ALDI (What? Your neighborhood doesn't have an ALDI? Ok, Richie Rich, just substitute "personal shopper" and keep reading.) If THIS is the best name their slick spin doctors could come up with, what in God's name is really going on at the chicken factories? Is there some sort of Pink Floyd nightmare machine that turns the Little Red Hen into sausage? Has the torture rack used in the days of Savonarola been revived for use in the poultry industry?