Wednesday, March 27, 2013

HorrorHound gets neutered

They float by me on a cloud of cheap perfume, body glitter and hormones – tween girls, all clutching autographed photos of an expressionless boy.

Wiping tears from their faces, they squeal, “Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!” in unison.

“Son of a bitch,” I think to myself. “I went to a horror convention and wound up at a Justin Fucking Beiber concert.” 

Cast members of The Walking Dead  – including pre-teen heartthrob Chandler “Stay in the House” Riggs – appeared at HorrorHound in Cincinnati last weekend, creating the biggest clusterfuck this side of Woodbury. Folks were packed into the Sharonville Convention Center like zombies in Hershel’s barn. I gladly would’ve  devoured a live chicken instead of paying $6.50 for a goddamn hotdog.


A line of pubescent lust snaked through the narrow hallways. Some diehards waited seven hours to have their picture taken with Norman Reedus. Or maybe that was Shannyn Sossaman. I dunno, same hairdo. 


Speaking of hair, I expected to see THIS at HorrorHound:

But ever since zombies hit primetime, these macabre events seem more like high school pep rallies, filled with young, blonde athletic types (you know, the kind of assholes who die immediately in slasher flicks). I don’t mind mingling with prom queens … as long as they’re covered in pig’s blood.
In addition to the hordes of debutantes, there were grandmas, infants in “Daryl Dixon is My Real Daddy!” onesies, Merle-esque rednecks and topless Asian chicks with dragons painted across their tits.
Thankfully, there were folks there who kept it real:
After spending five hours in a car, I didn’t feel like spending seven hours in a line, so I decided to stalk the celebrities from afar. I got yelled at by Chandler’s handler (hey, that rhymes!) for taking a few shitty pictures. The guy was a stereotypical Hollywood douche, so, naturally, I tried to snap another photo, but got ‘stache bombed by Hipster Wyatt Earp.

Frustrated, I elbowed my way through the sea of humanity to the vendors’ room. This is the real blood-and-guts of any horror convention: Gory goods as far as the eye could see! My friend Amy and I both have zombie-themed rooms, so, for us, this trip was like a shopping spree at Bed, Bath & Beyond-the-Grave.

There were thousands of people snatching up Freddy Krueger dolls, coffin-shaped picture frames, werewolf baby puppets and cat fetuses in jars … which begs the question, if you don’t have a Dead Man-Cave, where the hell do you display that shit?
I was thrilled to see Christine, the car that practiced out-of-control acceleration way before Toyota made it uncool.

It's fitting that Stephen King’s story was set in Pittsburgh, where traffic is so infuriating even the Popemobile would commit vehicular homicide during rush hour. Alas, even this possessed Plymouth was charging $20 for an “auto”graph. I didn’t think it was possible to have road rage when I wasn’t fucking driving. Maybe if Christine would’ve mowed down all the poseurs in line to meet Norman Reedus, I would’ve forked over the cash.

Just when I was beginning to think that HorrorHound was a bust, I ventured into the ballroom, where the cast of Holliston was doing a table reading and Q&A session. You’ve probably never heard of Holliston, which is a shame, because it’s hilarious. In the FEARnet sitcom, Adam Green and Joe Lynch play slackers trying to get their monster movie, Shinpads, off the ground (or out of it) and … ahh, fuck it … my lame synopsis can't possibly do this show justice. All you need to know is that Oderus Urungus from GWAR plays Adam’s imaginary friend, Twisted Sister’s Dee Snider is his ambiguously gay boss and there’s a mechanical cat named Axl.

It’s the best thing on television (suck it, AMC!), so you’d think the actors would take a cue from The Walking Dead and price-gouge fans. Nope. The whole cast spent four hours signing autographs, posing for pictures and communing with fans … FOR FREE!

When Adam Green put his arm around me, I swooned like one of those glittery Carl Grimes groupies.

I clutched his autographed photo, wiped the tears from my face and squealed, “Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod!”


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