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Seriously what the fuck is happening in these movies? Is there a through line from Friday the 13th to Friday the 13th 3D other than a string of dead teens? The first two films make total sense together (more or less), but beyond those two pieces of classic horror cinema it’s hard to make heads or tails of the series. I'm not going to review the movies one by one because if I did that I would lose my mind. This is more of a loose collection of thoughts on the canonical series as a whole- although I suppose that Jason X and FvJ are also a part of the canon, for the time being let’s call them “non-amazon prime canon” or NAPC.

I hate to say this but after watching all 9 films in such a short span of time (7 days I think), and without taking notes, the things that stick out to me are mostly the worst parts of the films: The “Enchilada” scene, Crispin Glover, and the horror film obsessed Tommy Jarvis - one of the most poorly executed characters in cinema history. Tommy should have been a woman, no questions asked. The dynamic between Jason (or any slasher) and a female protagonist carry so much more weight because of the visual of a hulking beast with crushing mother issues chasing down a young woman, even with the ridiculous hockey mask it's an all too real fear. By casting a trio of Tommy Jarvises into a series of loosely connected narratives the films turn into a disappointing dick measuring contest (aren’t they all?) that culminates with an ending that I can’t even remember. I think Jason ends up chained to the bottom of Crystal Lake and Tommy sets himself on fire.

It’s impossible to avoid looking for meaning in a horror film. More so than any other type of cinema they exist in the subconscious void where anything can happen. A lightning strike that brings a masked killer back from the dead? Sure. A psychic teen who can throw mind knives at her therapist, and who may have accidentally willed that same masked killer to murder her father? Go for it. The Friday the 13th series takes advantage of its ability to do anything, but their actions rarely mean anything. There is nothing to decipher other than the obvious. 

Here’s what I’ve learned from watching 9 Friday the 13th movies in less than a week:

- Never Swim In A Lake That's Recently Undergone A Mysterious Name Change

- Creepy Kids Are Creepy For A Reason

- Dads Are The Worst

- Moms:  Also Not Grea

 I stopped performing in front of people in 2013, and that’s probably for the best. I could never fully enjoy myself in the moment, even when I played sober the performances are spotty. I know that I played in a small bar in New Orleans because my old roommate told me I covered Smashing Pumpkins to 30 drunk college kids, I know that I played in a small town in Illinois because I shaved my beard and had a friend draw a lightning bolt on my face. I do not remember Seattle, Portland, or New Jersey but they happened. I find that those moments come easier when I’m writing alone in my apartment. I’ll look through an old notebook and have no memory of the stories inside but they’re written in my serial killer handwriting so they’re probably mine. Creativity is strange. It bends and flexes with the landscape and disappears when you need it the most. I haven’t felt creative making music since I moved to Los Angeles. I play things when no one is around, but it’s always the same chord progressions, the same beats; nothing I would show anyone. On the plane yesterday I listened to a collection of things that I recorded over the course of a couple of months, then I cut at them until they adhered to some kind of dream logic. Plane logic? Unlike everything else I’ve been working on lately, I felt relieved to have this piece finished. To be able to close the door on whatever it was. It’s nice to now be able to apply a narrative to a time that was nothing but a confusing fog of sound. 

I’m trying to listen to less podcasts. There are a few that I listen to religiously and I feel like I need to cut them out of my life so I can use the brain space they’re taking up for new ideas or facts about serial killers that I can spout off at parties. One podcast that’s proving to be difficult to excise is the Bret Easton Ellis Podcast. His first season of episodes included incredible interviews with Alexander Aja, BJ Novak, and some really interesting people from the realms of music and film. But this year he’s been interviewing luminaries like John Carpenter and Peter Bogdanovich who, while once masters of an art form, have turned into grumpy old bastards who trot out the same tired bullshit about how the current generation of filmmakers and artists don’t have any soul. Or that people are just copying them, or blah blah blah set me on fire now please. Every time I listen to one of these interviews I spend an hour typing down every angry thought that comes to mind. I write full responses to people that don’t care what I think (and rightfully so, they both made some of the most influential films of the late 20th century), and that kind of reaction is taking up too much of my day.

 When I work I like to feel like I’m being crushed under the weight of impossible tasks that I’ve taken on in exchange for paltry amounts of cash. I kind of hate myself for using paltry in a sentence. For the first time in months I’m entirely finished with one large project and the end of another is in sight. It’s dancing on the horizon and asking me to come do the worm, I’m just waiting on an email that says, "The check’s in the mail, and PS go do the worm with that intangible concept." 

There are always a few small things going on in the background, but none of them carry the struggle of life and death that I need to feel like I’m doing something as I sit in various states of undress at my dining room table. Currently I’m working on a few small projects with friends, which is fine if you like your work to feel like one big, never ending party where there are snacks and everyone goes out for a drink afterwards to bask in the promise that the next day will be even more rewarding. Personally I prefer my work to feel like a dare. I want a blank page to stare back at me, hissing and taunting me. Telling me that I’m going to embarrass myself in front of the world. I want a set full of actors to hand me a loaded gun and shove the barrel in my mouth.