"Because he had what I wanted and I was tired of being nice."

Picking the last movie I'm going to review before Halloween, a question occurred to me? What's it take to make you watch a movie every year? I'm sure directors and producers and studios have spent a lot of time on that very question.

Christmas movies seem to do well. People are still making money off It's a Wonderful Life and Miracle on 34th Street. But what about other occasions? John Carpenter had a hit in 1978 with Halloween. Arriving just in time for the home video boom, it quickly became a classic of the horror genre, and people watch it every year. Sean Cunningham stole the formula to make Friday the 13th in 1980, and soon independent filmmakers were racing to their calendars for ideas. Christmas Evil, New Year's Evil, My Bloody Valentine, Bloody Birthday and Graduation Day were just a few titles released from 1980-1981.

Let's be honest, though. No one's really champing at the bit for Dec. 31 to get here so they can watch New Year's Evil again.

This week's Thursday Thriller is Holidays.

This 2016 film is an anthology comprising eight short films about different special occasions on the American calendar. Kevin Smith directs his daughter Harley Quinn Smith in the Halloween chunk. Seth Green stars in the Christmas bit. The shorts tend toward the darkly humorous end of things.

The producers had to have been thinking, "Why should we settle for people watching our movie once a year for the rest of their lives when they can watch it eight times that many?"

I liked this movie. I can't say it's eight-times-a-year good, but I'll probably check back on it around Easter for the slimy rabbit man with a crown of thorns on his head who gives birth to baby chicks out of his stigmata holes.

Holidays streams on Netflix.

As I mentioned, this is the last movie I'm reviewing before Halloween, which means you only have one weekend left to come see me at The Devil's Attic. Lucky for you, Hell is open through Monday night, and Sunday is Chaos Night. Mention Holidays at the ticket booth and get $2 off admission all weekend long.

"When you wish you're dead, that's when I'll come inside."

Facebook wants to see my ID.

It seems the social media giant has a rule where you have to use your real name, which has confused me since I started my account there because I typed in S-A-T-A-N just like it's spelled in the Judeo-Christian tradition and it fired back that I can't use that name, my name.

This was bound to not end well.

I used the Muslim spelling.

It's a confusing question for me anyway: what is my name? I am known by many names. Zoroastrians call me Angra Mainyu. Buddhists know me as Mara. In a former incarnation my name was Lucifer. If you're up to speed on your demonology you can debate whether it's appropriate to call me Asmodeus, Azazel, Beelzebub, Belial, Mastima or Lilith. Nicknames include The Evil One, The Father of Lies,  Lord of the Underworld, Mephistopheles, Old Scratch, The Prince of Darkness, The Red Guy. On a busy Saturday night, I get about a dozen misguided adolescents who try to call me Dad.

I tell them a joke I stole from Jim Rose: "I can't be your dad. I didn't have change for a five that night."

My list is hardly complete, but my point is that some soppy-pants mouth-breather reported that I haven't been using my real name. How can I? Facebook won't let me use it.

Now Facebook wants to see my ID. Do I look like a guy who has a lot of time to hang around at the BMV all day waiting for some unimaginative bovine to take my picture and try to sell me on being an organ donor?
I take organs, bitch! I don't give them. I don't need a license. It's not like I drive, anyway. What would be the point? Wherever I want to go, I just appear in an explosion of sulfur.

Who would take the time to turn me in? I'll never know, and I can only guess at why. Maybe they don't think big, silly men in rubber masks should go around telling people about what horror movies they like. Maybe they're hyper-Christian. Maybe they had something to do with the making of Thankskilling.

It really doesn't matter.

Did you know there are special exceptions to Facebook's insistence on using your real name?

If you've been abused, bullied, stalked, et cetera, you can use a fake name. As someone who was kicked out of the house in his rebellious youth, and has been hunted by religious nuts for centuries, I'm sure I kind of fall into one of these categories.

If you're a member of an ethnic minority, you can use a fake name. Hey, I'm red, and not just the Indian or Native-American variation on the kind of beige all humans are. I'm candy-apple red, and I have horns. You don't see my kind walking around every day.

If you're LGBTQBBQ and so on and so on, you can use a fake name. I'm all those things and a half dozen other variations human sexuality hasn't even discovered yet. You get a little freaky when you can manifest yourself as either an incubus or a succubus according to your whim.

I could claim any or all of their exceptions, but they're still going to want ID.

I plead nolo contendere. This might be goodbye to all my Facebook followers, but it doesn't have to be. I started a fan page. You can still follow me under my simpler namesake The Devil Himself at facebook.com/bigrednsexy. It says I'm fictitious, because the greatest trick I've ever pulled was convincing humanity I don't exist.

Thanks.

It's been fun.

By the way, this week's Thursday Thriller is Hush.

Director Mike Flanagan co-wrote this 2016 film with star Kate Siegel, who plays a writer who is deaf and can't hear stuff like a masked weirdo killing her neighbor just outside her glass door.

On a scale of horrible to outstanding, it falls somewhere between not bad and pretty good. Hush streams on Netflix.

You only have two more weekends to check out the Devil's Attic in Louisville. Mention Hush at the ticket booth and get $2 off admission.

"Your worst quality can also be your best."

I've felt so embarrassed about all the time I've spent on this blog not writing about werewolf movies, that I've decided to tell you about another one.

This week's Thursday Thriller is Uncaged.

This 2016 Daniel Robbins film is about a college boy named Jack (Ben Getz). When Jack was a child, his mom murdered his dad, but you'd never know it by how well-adjusted he seems at a frat kegger, at least compared to his friends Turner (Kyle Kirkpatrick), who, wearing a camera on his head, busts into a room where two girls are making out and tries to negotiate a three-way, and Brandon (Zack Weiner), who takes his first bong rip and gets himself kicked out of the party for grabbing a girl's boob.

The three bros go to spend their Christmas break at Jack's uncle's house, and soon Jack finds himself waking up naked outside. He borrows Turner's Go-Pro to find out why and discovers he's a werewolf. One of his killings makes the news and Jack decides to track down the only eyewitness to find out what she saw. Turns out she's the wife of a gangster. Complications arise and Brandon's sexual awkwardness escalates.

But was it a good movie? It was better than Little Dead Rotting Hood.

Uncaged streams on Netflix.

Don't forget to come see me at The Devil's Attic this weekend. Mention Uncaged at the ticket booth and get $2 off admission.

"She was kind of crexy, though."

I'm not sure how it slipped my mind, exactly, but somehow I've been writing this weekly horror movie blog for almost a year and I've not talked about werewolves yet. I must correct this oversight before Halloween, and I will start right now.

This week's Thursday Thriller is Little Dead Rotting Hood.

This 2016 Jared Cohn film is about a girl named Samantha (Bianca A. Santos) whose grandmother has been training her her whole life to fight wolves. When a wolf chews Samantha's throat out, Grandma (Marina Sirtis) decides it's graduation day and buries Sammy with a red cape and a sword, then slashes her own matronly wrists and bleeds out on the grave.

In town Grandma was known as the Wolf Lady for reasons which never seem sufficiently examined by the sheriff (Eric Balfour), who should maybe have at least dismissed the coincidence that when the Wolf Lady died, wolves start attacking horny college students around town. He could have said something like, "Ha! That doesn't even make sense that those two things could be related. I need some sleep," just to show he was dialed in and looking for any clue he could find. Instead Sheriff Adam organizes a wolf hunt, during which he and his deputies are set upon by ravenous wolves, only to have a necrotic Samantha turn up and fight the wolves off with her razor-sharp claws.

Little Dead Rotting Hood isn't the best werewolf movie I've ever seen. It's a bit on the silly side without swinging too hard for that self-aware irony indie filmmakers seem to think covers up their lack of budget and storytelling ability. It's a cheaply made film with a cameo from Counselor Troi, some barely passable computer-generated effects, and a hot chick with a sword. It's watchable, and it streams on Netflix.

Don't forget to mention Little Dead Rotting Hood at the ticket booth this weekend for $2 off your admission to The Devil's Attic.