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"Behind
The Makeup: The All-Too-Real Life of a Horror Host"
(originally published
on www.countgore.com)
On the surface, the life
would seem a glamorous one. A long-running late night horrorshow host who
is currently seen in at least eight different markets throughout the
Country; a guy who would seem to have it all figured out. But when the
spotlights dim, the greasepaint ceases to roar, and the smell of the crowd
has faded, the hollows encircling the eyes of the ringmaster of the dark
realms sometimes look all too real in the mirror -- and in the cold light
of reality.
We take up the story of our subject for this wholly bizarre case
study--let's call him Bob--in the aftermath of the Cinema
Wasteland event in Strongsville, Ohio. The date is October 7th,
2002...
| Coming down from a
three-day high of self-aggrandizement, glad-handing and generally
anti-social, egocentric behavior with 1,500 or so of his closest
friends and co-dependants, Bob awakes to the harsh realization of
everyday existence.
Traces of face-paint still hide
around his receded hairline, and the residual mascara that always
seems impossible to completely remove have emulsified with the
"sleep" --aka "eye-snot"--to form blobs of goo
around the tear-ducts to make him look like Liza Minnelli after a
year-long bender. |
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In need of a quick fix,
or as the old-timers call it, The Hair of the Dog, he pops in a tape
recorded during his self-indulgent spree in a desperate attempt to hang
onto fantasy-world in which he prefers to live. Alas, trying to recapture
the buzz is never quite the same as the initial rush, and an impending
feeling of dread begins to engulf Bob's personal panacea as the
ever-present point of the Sword
of Damocles commonly know as the "day job" begins to once
again worry itself into his skull. Outside the fabricated facade of his
temporary shelter from the storm of normality, the sucking maw of the
mundane awaits, patient and confident that it's prey was predestined to
become reacquainted with it's familiar snare.
Back to the grind, and back bowing under the weight of the eternal yolk of
the need for food shelter, and cable tv, the blade inevitably and dully
falls, ripping through mind, body and all delusions of grandeur. Memories
of happier times that had happened only a day earlier tug and tear at the
spirit, pulling the host-in-street-clothing back into the occasional
longing reverie; reliving and pining for his other life, and plotting ways
to make it a viable occupation.
"Respect?" Bob smirks in a manner betraying his host character.
"That's for astronauts and war-heroes; just throw us a decent living
for acting a-fool and helping the world not take itself so seriously. Then
I'll buy by SELF-respect back from the corporation I sold it to..."
Ok, so maybe that's a little melodramatic.
But suffice to say, the
"communal whine" that is heard from the host-collective even
more often than " I don't WANNA put the make-up on !", is the
more plaintiff post- convention- let- down wail to the effect of, " I
don't wanna go back to my "real" life!"
Pathetic and sad perhaps, but the unpainted, bald-faced, enshrouded truth
often is. Irony is not only a tool in the utility belt of your average
horror host, but a way of life. One day he is signing autographs,
officiating at a haunted house opening, chili cook-off, or movie marathon;
the next he could be the guy installing your audio-visual system or
unclogging your stopped up septic tank. It's all somehow cosmically
interrelated if you over-analyze and/or take that analogy to heart. The
cosmos does have a sense of humor, and seems to appreciate the comedic
value of horror hosts OUT of make-up even more than when they are in their
ghoulish guises.
Oh, and Bob ? Well, in the days since Cinema Wasteland he has logged over
80 hours and 1,600 road miles, smoked roughly 56 cigars, consumed 32
gallons of coffee, eaten at IHOP's in 3 different States (not to mention
states of mind) and worked on a live broadcast for ESPN. He sends word
from the weary land of the walking dead that all is well, and he sometimes
wears his Horror Host Underground shirt under his uniform to make him feel
more like himself...or at least his OTHER self.
It's cheaper than therapy.
(This rant is respectfully dedicated to all my fellow adults--and the
World's Youngest Horror Host: Dr. Freak--who don silly costumes and talk
in silly voices to ease the stupefying sting of the ordinary and the
everyday...keep fighting the good fight, and maybe one day we CAN all quit
our day-jobs! YAAAY!!! )
In the immortal words of
Bob Segar, "Here I go playin' star again...There I go...Turn the
page..."
I said TURN THE PAGE, dammit!
Click the "Home"
button at the bottom of the page already!
'Til next we swing, stay
loose, keep "The Man" off'n yer behinds, and always look
on the Darkside of life.
Your ol' pal,
Ghastlee
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