National Parks, Scottish Viruses, & American Werewolves

Episode 25 V2!

**Becky accidentally deleted out Christina’s header so you’re getting TWO emails today!**

Hi, friends!

We’re beginning to see the days slowly shorten and feel the heat receding. As we soak up every last drop of what summer has to offer please read on for the small joys we’ve cherished the past 4 weeks.

Love,

B, C, & M

The Thing About Me Is I Really Like ROCKS

Hi friends! I’ve had a busy month with school and my mental health is a bit not good right now so I don’t have many faves for you this month. I did take a very epic trip to Zion National Park where I did some awesome and honestly difficult hiking. We love an outdoorsy queen! See ya next month for a very special issue!

The End of Men

In one of the early Shrine letters, I wrote about Severance by Ling Ma, a novel about a respiratory virus that creates a pandemic. If that was your vibe, I have a similar recommendation. The End of Men is about a flu-like virus that starts in Scotland and is only afflicting the global male population. I liked this book a lot more than I thought I was going to and unlike Severance, I was left quite satisfied with the ending. I won’t say too much more so as not to spoil the book but the story is told from rotating perspectives of different characters (doctors, reporters, parents, etc.) which created an emotional attachment for me and left me pretty emotional by the end.

Claim to Fame

Sometimes you just need a goofy show that plays in the background that you can pop in and out of. Claim to Fame is hosted by the two least popular Jonas Brothers, Kevin and Frankie, and they are adequately cringey. There are 12 contestants who each have a famous relative and every week they face challenges to deduce who their competitors are related to while trying to keep their own relation secret. The last one standing wins. As a viewer it felt like watching a reality show version of Clue and I can’t wait for the next season.

Pacific Northwest Beaches

Have you ever felt too goth for the beach? ME TOO! But do you still love the beach? RIGHT, YES. That’s why I love garage rock from 2012. It’s also why I felt so in awe of the beaches in Washington State’s Olympic National Park.

On a recent trip, my partner and I hit a few hot spots along these western shores, including the Tree of Life, a tree clinging to two cliffs for dear life at Kalaloch Beach, and Hole in the Wall, a very cool rock formation at Rialto Beach that you can only walk to during low tide or else yee’ll be meeting a watery grave. We were listening to Phil Elverum and wearing long sleeves. We were peering out through the gray mist to the foaming shores. We felt super small among the driftwood — whole ass trees bleached white from the sun and surf that look like the bones of sea monsters. It was dreary, and I couldn’t get the Twin Peaks theme out of my head.

An American Werewolf in London

Since starting a personal horror renaissance a couple of years ago, I really enjoy dissecting what horror films say about the cultural anxieties of their times. Sure, I jerk off to Pinhead as much as the next casual horror fan, but I also recognize what Pinhead represents in the context of early neoliberalism (thanks, Splatter Capital!). Here are some tweets that roast me specifically: 

I do. I care about some demon who represents postpartum depression 😭. So when I cozied up to kick off this spooky season with the ‘80s classic An American Werewolf in London, I had my gay little notes app out and was ready to make some astute observations about Margaret Thatcher. Ooo, is this a movie about austerity? No. Ok, well, is it a film about colonial empires like Britain and America getting bit in the arse by the ancient and universalizing forces of a werewolf curse? … How about the way consumerism preys upon the ephemerality of our desire? NAHHH. It’s just a romp. A reference-filled, thesis-less, lightly pornographic romp. And it was delightful. If this film is about anything at all, it’s about the ubiquity of Americana — though it doesn’t dare critique the ubiquity of Americana. Boobs. Blood. Dead guys cracking wise as they decompose. And more Van Morrison and Mickey Mouse than you can slosh a pint at.