Tag Archives: Seattle

Twin Peaks: The Owls are Not What They Seem by Billy Crash

When David Lynch’s alternative and surreal soap opera twist, Twin Peaks hit the small screen in 1992, I was glued to the show like millions of others. I couldn’t take my eyes off the television or get my mind away from the many mysteries that took residence in the bizarro town, as well as the lines that would become catch phrases (only Joss Whedon’s Buffy surpassed Lynch in that category). Twin Peaks worked because it was far removed from the typical mundane television formula: The story was vibrant and multifaceted, the acting superior, and Angelo Badalamenti’s music burrowed deep within one’s soul. Plus, it showcased the most screwed up and demented high school students on the planet.

Granted, the first season proved to be brilliant, and except for the final two episodes of the second and final season, those shows were an embarrassment and became a parody of Lynch’s vision, as well as co-creator and co-writer Mark Frost. After the show’s demise, Lynch brought a pre-quell to the world that allowed Sheryl Lee to star instead of being “wrapped in plastic.” Although he cut a tremendous amount of footage to get the film into theatres, many audience members hated the movie. I remember stepping into a venue and enjoying the film with thirty people – or so I thought. Before the film ended, only three of us remained.

This Must Be Where Pies Go When They Die

In early March, I drove to North Bend, Washington where Twin Peaks had been filmed. Just forty minutes from Seattle, the town was small, welcoming, and not weird at all.

Pulling into town on a somewhat cold and flurry kind of day, the first thing to come into view was Twede’s Café, known to the world as the Double R Diner in Twin Peaks. During filming, it was actually the Mar-T Diner until it changed hands. The place had a cool feel, though it was far more cramped than the interior reproduced for the show on a sound stage. Hell, in the real place Sherilynn Fenn wouldn’t have room to dance two steps. Then again, the actual diner had burned to the ground in 2000. The new diner was remade in the original style with that giant U-shaped counter in its center. Although I never saw a juke box, I felt like a goober for sitting in a booth and ordering a “damn good cup of coffee” and a slice of cherry pie. The wait staff had heard it all before and didn’t even flinch. The cherry pie proved to be amazing, but Dale Cooper’s coffee wasn’t as damn good as I had hoped.

A Place Both Wonderful and Strange

As for the sawmill, well, you can’t get near it – unless you want to climb a high fence and get arrested for trespassing. Then again, the abandoned brick edifice is all a bit “crumbly.” Thankfully, I had a telephoto and got some pictures though getting inside would have been cool. To do that, I’d have to find a way down onto an active dirt race track and hope my camera survived the dust and dirt that swirled about as if sawdust from the mill. I had to pass.

From where I stood to take the shots, all I had to do was spin around to take pictures of the sheriff’s office – the headquarters for the racing school. It’s here that I didn’t meet one of the Bookhouse Boys, but a kind soul who had moved to North Bend long ago because of Twin Peaks. She had been on set for the upcoming season, and like an actress from the series I had met in Seattle, she was kind but wouldn’t say anything about the resurrected show. I didn’t want to know anyway, but both women, as well as all cast and crew members, had to sign an agreement that if they leaked a word, a picture, or anything, they’d be slapped with a one-million dollar fine. Beyond the secrecy, both women didn’t want to disappoint David Lynch by saying something out of turn.

The mill and station were far removed from town, and thanks to a map of shooting locations from the tourist guide, I drove up a few miles to check out the Twin Peaks sign, which as expected, wasn’t there.

When You See Me Again, It Won’t Be Me

The high school entrance that had welcomed Laura, James, Audrey, Donna and company proved to be inaccessible thanks to a ton of construction equipment and high fences. Even with the television history and the tourist attraction angle, the façade is being refaced and will no longer look the same.

Fire Walk with Me

Leland Palmer uttered the “Fire walk with me” line from his poem during Twin Peaks’ first season. To introduce the film of the same name, Sheryl Lee, Wendy Robie, and Gary Hershberger took the stage in the theatre at the Seattle Art Museum, not far from the famous Space Needle and Public Market.

The trio took questions from the audience, and most were devoted to working with David Lynch – all positive responses, of course, even if the actors weren’t sure of what he had planned for their characters. When Hershberger went to Lynch and asked why bandages were packed so high on his head, and why he was coming on to Nadine (Robie), Lynch just leaned in and said, “Play it intimate.”

Even with all the mystery, the actors trusted Lynch and his vision, and like the audience, they went along for the ride.

Nobody Loved Laura But Us

The new series of Twin Peaks will be something special and bizarre, of course. How can Sheryl Lee reprise her role of Laura Palmer again when she’s long dead as well as Ray Wise? Who the hell knows what’s in store for us, but with Mark Frost and David Lynch in the driver’s seat for all eighteen episodes, it’s bound to be a trip.

Who knows what would have happened if ABC had let Lynch and Frost not resolve the Laura Palmer murder, which led to the ill-fated collapse of season two. Even so, an unexpected limited series is on the way that will bring new magic to the small screen.

Regardless of ABC’s ultimate idiocy, and all the questions stemming from series’ end, many will wonder if we’re in the Black Lodge or White Lodge, but the Linoleum on the floor tells us we’re in the same damn place. Here the good of Cooper and company will use the energy from the lodge to battle the demons that plague the souls of Twin Peaks, and that evil will draw upon that same energy to destroy them. One can only wonder how Lynch and Frost plan on bringing this wild world to fruition with their own Twin Peaks logic. In all honesty, I hope that like most towns, they’ll just keep on keepin’ on. Hell, what’s life without a sense of mystery? So, grab a jelly donut, turn on the television to Showtime, and enjoy where Lynch and company take us. After all, it won’t be like anything we’ve seen on the small screen since 1992.

Billy Crash (aka William D. Prystauk) loves great in depth characters and storytelling in horror, and likes to see heads roll, but if you kill a dog on screen he’ll cry like a baby. Billy co-hosts THE LAST KNOCK horror podcast on iTunes, and can also be found on TwitterLinkedInIMDbAmazon, and his professional website.

(Photo of Kyle McLachlan from Birth.Movie.Death.)

Highways of Horror – Day VI – The Last Drive

You can’t beat me on the grade. You can’t beat me on the grade!

David Mann – Duel

As the old saying goes: “The last mile is the hardest mile.” In my case, it was the slowest mile and I had to put my car in full throttle…

The morning hadn’t started out well: -10 degrees (-23 Celsius), windy, snowy, and a thick gray sky ready to plop down onto Butte, Montana like the Blob on Phoenixville and a young Steve McQueen. But mere minutes out of the city, the clouds parted, the sun shined, and the roads were clear enough for 90 mph driving.

I loved the latter because this was a ten-hour haul to Seattle. Ally figured I wouldn’t mind driving 120-minutes more to get to her, the pups, and our new homestead, and I couldn’t argue that. I felt pretty damn solid and the Malibu moved like a rock star.

Google Maps welcomed me to the panhandle of northern Idaho, as I remained on my old friend, 90 West, who never seemed to steer me wrong. In short order, I took the curves and overcame the black ice of the road as the Chevy meandered through the Bitterroot Range of the Rocky Mountains. Pines sprinkled with white snow stood firm against the rock faces and made for a series of picture postcards, but I couldn’t pull over to take a shot.

I had already passed far too many overly cautious drivers and trucks that rolled like tortoises in slow motion because more ice patches could lay in wait in the shadows of the peaks as the sun dipped lower and lower on the horizon. With the temperature still in a frozen state, and with such narrow shoulder room, pulling over to take a picture would have been a dumb and possibly deadly tourist move.

At the end of the mountain pass is the lovely town of Couer d’Alene and its picturesque lake, and though I wanted to stop there, I felt it best to move further on into Moscow for better refueling options. Here, I took a small break and stretched my legs, but failed to see any Putin fans having a parade or posters of Lenin and Stalin. But I did have the opportunity to use a squeegee and wipe salt from the windshields, windows, headlights, and taillights. That cleanliness ended in such record time that it crushed the speed in which the singularity expanded in the Big Bang that created our Universe.

I pressed on into the dark, with a sliver of a crescent moon sending down enough light to radiate the rolling, snow and ice-coated landscape outside of Spokane as a grand blue mass. The small hills seemed curled up against the cold and let the wind run roughshod over them. Cars and trucks shifted side to side with the gusts right as we entered the Snoqualmie Pass.

This is where my New Jersey driving attitude kicked in. There may have been frozen patches, compressed snow, and seemingly single lanes in lieu of two thanks to bad plowing, but I pressed on at recommended speeds, while others moved as if on square wheels. In fact, signs requested all slow moving vehicles to get in the right lane, yet a string of cars climbing a hill were doing 40 mph in the left. I had to engage the risk of passing on the right because a truck got the message and abandoned the center lane for a relaxing roll up the hill. I pulled into the center and hurled by that string of six cars and kept on flying.

In Richard Matheson’s renowned television horror/thriller, Duel, directed by a young Steven Spielberg before he sent a shark after innocent swimmers, David Mann (Dennis Weaver) didn’t seem to have that many options as a crazed trucker (Dale Van Sickle) remained hellbent on driving him off the damn road. This took place in 1971, long before cell phones and such, so David was on his own. However, when he tried to get help, the man failed miserably. And once, overtaken by fear and paranoia, he even attacked the wrong person at a diner. This isn’t a “fish out of water story” or a “stranger on a strange stretch of road” tale, it’s a bit more existential than that. David’s dueling with himself: overcoming fear to find courage, overcoming anger to embrace logic, and overcoming the fear of death to fight for life. In this sense, he has to cope with the “dual” nature of the human experience.

There are two sides to each of us. We may present ourselves to the public in one way, as opposed to maybe a more relaxed or more honest self to those in our private lives. We also have fears, weaknesses, phobias, and illnesses though we may not have yet been put in a position to overcome them. David has though. He’s been thrust into a war and David can either stand down and die, or stand up with more confidence than he ever imagined he could muster. Even if he doesn’t make it, he’ll know he did his damnedest in the face of adversity.

Here, David’s propelled into becoming “the hero who didn’t want to be.” He has to recollect himself in order to focus to live another mile. Because the world is completely different for him now, and the rules that brought him safety and comfort no longer hold any weight.

When I finally entered the city of Seattle, I was met with overly conscientious drivers, and my duel became finding patience as the female voice on my GPS said, “I don’t have a fucking clue” when it comes to the most convoluted traffic patterns I have ever endured. Collectively, the drivers and their tentative nature and inability to take advantage of opportunities left me frustrated and begging for openings. Hell, when the light turns yellow, everyone stops and some intersections don’t even have stop signs. For the most part, Seattle drivers all seem to have earned their licenses the day before, which is a far cry from the assertive driving I’ve grown accustomed to from New Jersey Formula One racing. Welcome, “stranger in a strange land.”

As I drove on, I realized Seattle is far more gigantic than I ever realized, spreading wide amidst the Cascades. The Space Needle does stand out, but only as if a metallic wildflower nearly drowned out by a city of strong redwoods reaching ever higher towards the Big Dipper and Belt of Orion. Cranes pepper the cityscape, and they’re decorated in different colors to blend in with the lightshow emanating from apartment buildings and skyscrapers, where modern architecture complements the natural ebb and flow of Mother Nature.

This reminded me of Lisbon, Portugal when cranes marked the skyline and pierced the sunset like darts. Lisbon was healthy then, and Seattle is healthy now, growing in the tech and information sectors, offering new career opportunities for those who wish to relocate to someplace cool and begin anew – Hey, that’s Ally and me!

But the Emerald City is so much more, as all cities are, with a great mix of cultures, peoples, and languages, and endless venues. The art and film community is strong here, as well as the love for green and healthy living. Litter has proven to be a rarity, and people are not only concerned about the city, but they love it. In this sense, it reminds me of Montreal (without the European flair) and Vancouver, where the streets are clean and people take pride in where they live. Ally and I look forward to exploring all of Seattle and helping others care for it as if we’ve lived here a lifetime.

The house Ally chose is a perfect rental. Large and roomy, it’s a cool craftsman. The owners seemed to have chosen three different interior design avenues to explore, and “made it up” as they went along, which only adds to its charm. We also have a small backyard for our pups, Suki and Karma to run free. We’re located in the Roosevelt section, where suburbia meets city in a Brooklyn sort of way, and we like that. We’re close to transportation and can easily head downtown or to other section where the city thins out, rolls out, and expands as if at the ends of a lava flow. Better still, we’re right next to Patricia and John Eddy, two friends we hold dear who continue to mentor us in all that Seattle has to offer, and have helped us in ways neither one of us expected. Thanks to both of them, Ally wasn’t alone, and they both continue to send me wonderful job leads – though I doubt I’ll become an exterior washer of the Space Needle – ever.

In Duel, David Mann wasn’t simply a name Matheson chose at random. He was every “mann” caught in a battle he didn’t know was coming that turned his worldview upside down. However, when it came to his little car rolling tough against that 18-wheeler, he was definitely “David” facing his “Goliath.”

All David wanted to do in Duel was get to point B and meet someone. But whether on the road, on the street, or in our minds, we all have unexpected battles to confront and navigate, to come to terms with our own duality and put our own internal duel to rest. The point is to hang in there, dig deep, stand tall, travel safe, and overcome.

Ally and I don’t know what awaits us in Seattle, but I do know my family has had the most wonderful and amazing times in odd years. 2016 was a horror show for many reasons, but Ally and I have much to see, learn, and gain with our new and exciting venture.

I hope the road rises to meet you wherever you roam, and that your highway to success is never blocked. Yes, there may be a detour or two, as well as some bumps and a wrong turn, or maybe even a crash, but as David Mann learned, you’ll get there if you accept reality, keep your mind sharp, and put the pedal to the metal.

Ride on…

(Photo of Roosevelt Way near University of Washington taken by Billy Crash on his iPhone 5.)

Highways of Horror – Day I

If there was a storm coming right now, a big storm, from behind those mountains, would it matter? Would it change anything?

Arash – A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night

In the rearview there’s nothing. No horizon. No distinction between the road and the sky. Nothing but black on black.

This can easily indicate that the past is dead and gone, and that turning back is a ludicrous option. Though not well lit, looking out the windshield certainly delivers a sense of future possibilities. But the most important – the now – me in the driver’s seat fighting fatigue, isn’t very promising.

The morning had started well enough. Up at 7:20 I rushed to get a few things ready on Wednesday, December 28 because this was the day I’d finally begin my excursion to the west coast to reconnect with my wife, Ally Bishop in Seattle, Washington – our new home. Although I had only gained five hours sleep, meeting the great Bill Hartin at Tracy’s Café in Easton was well worth waking up for. Bill had co-created FIFO (Fade In, Fade Out), a film consortium in the Lehigh Valley, and without him as executive producer, my short film, Tigers In the Soup never would have been made. We enjoyed a good breakfast and better conversation before heading back to the house Ally and I shared at 827 Wilbur Street in the “poor side” of the College Hill section. Soon, the truck that would carry forty plus boxes, a chest of drawers, Ally’s hand-painted file cabinet, and other assorted items arrived. With that, great souls materialized to help Bill and I load the freighter: Angela Mozeko and John McPoyle, from FIFO as well, and the man with a smile that never fades, Ryan Kramer. And man, did Ryan rock me with an ultra-cool Billy Crash T-shirt in a Misfits font no less! Damn!

This special gang of four really saved me. Since Ally left with Patricia Eddy and our puppies for the west coast on the day after Thanksgiving, the silence of our now old homestead became so loud it hurt. I was left with George, the Beta fighting fish, and we bonded as I cleaned, repaired, painted, and packed, as I sorted through belongings to sell on eBay, to Craig’s List, and to friends, and as I stuffed bag after bag with Goodwill donations, and sent tons of material for recycling or the landfill. The work finally caught up with me on Christmas. I woke up tired, visited my sister Elissa, brother-in-law Pete, and their nearly seventeen-year-old puppy, Max, for a few hours, and fell asleep for a bit. By the time I got home in the late afternoon, I was exhausted – but I knew sleep would have to wait. I cleaned the entire basement, and left a mountain of garbage and recycling items for the morning, and made a final run to the Goodwill donation boxes. During this time, I almost fell asleep on my feet, and lost my footing on the top steps of the basement stairs. Thankfully, I caught myself in time.

That isn’t to get a “poor Bill” out of anyone, but juggling so much for so long takes its toll as it would on any person. I hadn’t felt that exhausted since boot camp, where my entire body just wanted to quit. Angela, Bill, John, and Ryan, saved me from moving everything myself, which allowed me to store some energy for the first leg of the drive to Washington state.

After the load was secure, Angela and Ryan stayed a little longer to help me clean up the house. And once I picked up a few things for the trip, I finally hit the road at about 5:30 PM – three-and-half-hours behind schedule. To be honest, I was scared. Everything was a blur, and I doubted I could drive an hour, if at all. I then remembered a documentary of a scientific study where they showed that drowsy drivers may be far more dangerous than drunk ones.

Chocolate snapped me out of it, but a moonless night and starless sky thanks to black clouds didn’t help. I drove through an abyss so thick, only my headlights could make out the trees on occasion along Interstate 80. I had taken this trek many times from 1993 to 1994 when I attended Slippery Rock University to earn my masters in English. I had joked that one viewed the same tree over and over on the highway, but I would have welcomed the sight of any tree, or the curved edges of the worn Appalachians.

Blasting Ramone’s Mania compilation helped as I sang along with Joey, and the psychedelic folk rock of Jesse Sykes and The Sweet Hereafter kept my head bobbing. But this wasn’t the five-hour drive Ally had planned. Unbeknownst to her and me, this would be a six-hour and forty-minute venture to the center of Ohio.

I rebounded by cranking Sisters of Mercy, “A Slight Case of Overbombing” of their first greatest hits. Here, the iconic Goth god, Andrew Eldritch remixed the originals, and when it came to mundane songs from his ill-fated “Vision Thing” recording, he enticed Terri Nunn of Berlin fame to totally rock some of that albums tracks. The music filled the Chevy Malibu, and stunned some deer outside the merlot ride, and kept me awake as I entered the Buckeye State.

I thought of Drew Carey, Chrissie Hynde, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base (where they supposedly keep an alien body from the Roswell incident, as well as the Kecksburg UFO), and my permanently snake-bitten Cleveland Browns. And then I saw the oddest thing, a truck with a light rack that sent out beams of green. What the Hell was that? Many know construction vehicles by their yellow flashing lights, but in Ohio, they mix it up with green and white.

Most important, and as I suspected, where I hadn’t noticed one Pennsylvania State Trooper from Easton to the border, Ohio’s finest was out in force. Just like the early 90s when I’d see suped up pursuit cruisers on the roadside. One even had “Interceptor” across the back trunk as if it had survived the original Mad Max film.

I did the speed limit as best I could, but with a half-hour remaining, I hit the gas a little harder even within a snow squall and amongst the pings of frozen rain. I passed two salt trucks, forgot about the Road Nazis, and watched the arrow on my Google Maps get closer to my destination.

When I got to La Quinta in Mansfield at roughly 1 AM, I contacted Ally to let her know I was safe, and walked across the street to a Steak and Shake and had dinner. My first meal since that breakfast with Bill. The waitress forgot to add my dark chocolate shake to the tab, and when I told her, she waved it off. Now, that’s one great Ohio welcome.

Back in my hotel room, the building weaved and bobbed as I stood in the shower. But it wasn’t an “erosion quake” as a lighter part of the Appalachian mountains rose a millimeter or two to meet the sky – it was me. I almost fell in the shower as brain and body begged for sleep. I stumbled to the bed and the last thing I remember is letting out an arena-sized sigh.

I awoke from a seven-hour slumber, far better than my normal five, ate a protein bar, and moved west towards Madison, Wisconsin before the next storm rolled in…

But in A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, Arash (Arash Marandi) knew. As he drove with the Girl (Sheila Vand) by his side in their attempt to escape Bad City, storms didn’t matter. No obstacle mattered. Whether the city represents purgatory or Hell in Lily Amirpour’s intriguing vampire horror, escaping such darkness is the point of the movie. However, the answer is simple: Of course they can. Where there is love, respect, admiration, and passion, as well as a desire to go beyond selfishness, what can’t be defeated? Both had paid their ways in full. The Girl, serving like one of Mother Nature’s wolves, cleaned the streets. However, she never preyed on the weak, the sick, or the wounded, but those who used and abused, and made life worse for others. Arash did what he could to rise above the apathy and negativity, and that desire was his ticket out of that colorless void.

I’d like to think Ally and I had earned the same right to pick up and move elsewhere. We just took separate cars.

Many thanks to Airworthy’s Don Riemer, a fellow member of the phenomenal New Jersey Screenwriter’s Group, for encouraging me to keep a travel blog, and for the incomparable Jonny Numb for exclaiming “Hell, yeah” when I asked if I should post it at Crash Palace.

(Billy Crash T-shirt photo from Billy Crash.)