Beer and Loathing at Jason-Fest
by Worm Miller
Friday, May 13th, 2005: Hollywood, CA.

Around 6 pm I saunter up to a crappy old building on Hollywood and Highland, possibly the most annoying and tourist clogged intersection in Los Angeles. Normally, as a Hollywood resident, I avoid this place like I'd drunkenly made out with it at a party. Yet, here I am, and for a very good reason. I'm about to pass the threshold into the 25th Anniversary Friday the 13th Celebration to commemorate the greatest horror movie series of our generation with other like-minded peeps.

But let's take a step back for a sec. Now, I'm a big, big Friday the 13th fan. Not a freaky hockey-mask-tattoo-sporting or I-named-my-only-son-Jason kind of fan, but I've seen the original eight films a disturbing number of times and I have a little Jason statue sitting next to my computer. So I was very surprised when I wandered into my friend Sherman's apartment to discover a flier for the 25th anniversary celebration sitting on his coffee table waiting for me. This was a Wednesday night. The celebration was a mere two days off! How had I not heard? Shouldn't they be promoting this shit? Sherman had only learned of it because he lives a block down from the aforementioned most annoying intersection in Hollywood.

Well, whatever the case, now that I knew, I obviously had to go. Sure, I already had plans that weekend, but this was far more important than immaterial things like "friends" and "keeping my word." This was Jason's 25th birthday! Plus, I'd just acquired the DVD box set the week before, and the convention was in walking distance from my apartment! Coincidence? No. Fate? You better believe it.

The convention was going to span three days: Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Was I hardcore enough to do all three? I determined I wasn't, so my first order of business was to pick a day. I visited the less-than-stellar website, which really only contained information about which guests were going to be there on which days. Friday seemed the most appropriate. It was Day One, so the guests wouldn't be bored silly with signing autographs yet, and it was the 13th, which is fun. Plus, it was cheaper. Sat and Sun's admission would be $20; Friday $13 (get it?). I wouldn't get to see Corey Feldman, but after watching "The Surreal Life," I figured I'd seen enough.

So Friday arrives. The celebration starts at 5 pm and at about 4 it suddenly dawns on me how wildly unprepared I am. Will there be a line? Should I get there early? Should I be fashionably late? Can you be fashionably late to such a thing? What should I wear? Should I bring a camera?

I ought to note that I hadn't been to a convention of any kind since the 1992 Thunderbird Hotel comic convention in my hometown of Bloomington, Minnesota. What was this thing even going to be like? I had no idea. A Jason-Fest sounded great on paper, but… What if a group of surly Voorhees nerds start grilling me on my Friday knowledge? Am I only an armchair Jason fan? Will this even be fun? What if it's boring? And why the hell was I going all by myself? Too late to call anyone else. Fuck!

It was around here that I deduced I should probably be drunk when I showed up.

So after downing a quick shot, I grab my stylin' and in no way gay knapsack - containing my Friday box-set and my copy of House II (also produced by Friday's Sean S. Cunningham) - and I hustle out the door. Along the way I buy a disposable camera and stop by a local movie memorabilia shop and grab myself an excellent still of Shelly (Larry Zerner) from Friday the 13th Part III. Then I hit a bar and have a couple of beers. I'm stocked, buzzed, and ready for some serious Jasoning.

So, as I was saying before, around 6 pm I saunter up to a crappy old building on Hollywood and Highland…

My first impression of the convention is how unnoticeable it is. Had I not known it was there I would have easily walked by. I expected posters and some big fat guy in coveralls and a hockey mask to be looming outside. I actually find myself asking, "Is this the Friday the 13th thing," at the door. Yep. It is. So I pay my $13, handing them a twenty. Giving off the embarrassing impression of a church sponsored haunted house, the people at the door don't have any change. I'm supposed to come back later to get my $7, but writing this now I realize that in my inebriated state I completely forgot. Alas. But that's a discovery for future me, right now I have arrived!

Junior high comic convention memories come rushing back to me as I'm immersed in the fluorescent K-mart lighting and the shoddy folding table labyrinth. Something is dawning on me though: what exactly is all this? The flier listed appearances by an impressive array of almost all the major Friday series actors (this isn't saying much since other than Kevin Bacon, Crispin Glover and Kelly Hu, none of the other Friday actors have gone on to a whole lot). I guess I'd assumed there'd be a big autograph panel or something similar. Here everyone is sectioned off at little tables with piles of junk surrounding them. Curious, indeed.

Well, figuring this place out can wait. I only have a few goals to achieve, the most important of which is getting Larry Zerner to sign the production still I just bought. I scan the joint from the entrance until I spot the Zern'; he's lost a lot of weight since Part III. The still is of Shelly juggling, and I thought carefully on the walk over about what I wanted him to write. I had decided on Shelly's classic self-deprecating line, "Would you be yourself if you looked like this?" I go over, he signs the thing, I attempt to not be annoying, I get a photo with him, I leave. Success!

On to goal two: find Sean S. Cunningham and get him to sign my copies of Friday the 13th Part I and House II (which, by-the-by, is one of the best kid films of the 80's.) Time to check this place out.

I'd heard stories of the hot costumed nerdy chicks that attend the San Diego ComiCon, but this seems to be a different crowd. Not a whole lot of females here. From what I can tell it's mostly guys with lots of tattoos and T-shirts for metal bands I'm unfamiliar with. I only see two people wearing costumes and fortunately there are no roving bands of trivia hooligans in sight. So that at least is a relief.

Everywhere I look I'm spotting significantly aged versions of Jason victims, but I'm still not seeing Mr. Cunningham. After some further wandering I deduce that he's not here. What gives?

I locate someone who looks like they work here and ask. I get referred to somebody else who apparently knows more. This person also knows seemingly nothing and I'm referred again. So I find that guy. Jesus, no one knows anything. I'm finally referred a third time to the dude who apparently set this whole thing up. As I walk up to said honcho he is in the middle of a tirade about how Kane Hodder just bailed yesterday and isn't going to show. What? No Kane Hodder?

Eventually the honcho finishes his bitchfest and I ask about Mr. Cunningham. He's going to be across the street at the screening of Part I but won't be appearing at the convention itself. Bah! I'd already had to accept that neither the stars nor the writer/director of Jason Lives – my favorite Friday – were appearing, but now I had no Hodder or Mr. Cunningham? Bullshit! And I have to pee!

I'm directed to a strange ‘doorway' that looks like it leads to a storage room. Once through the ‘door' I find myself in, well what do you know - a storage room! There's a guy standing in here working on something so I decide to clarify, "Is there a bathroom in here?" "If you wanna call that a bathroom," the guy says and points to yet another door. Needless to say, I'm now super stoked about this bathroom.

I'm not sure how best to describe the design and state of this bathroom, but let's just say I'm really, really glad I don't have to take a shit. While I'm coercing my body to urinate faster than natural I discern my buzz is waning. I've been here about twenty minutes and I'm not digging it. Leaving so soon seems lame. Staying also seems lame. I decide to go grab another drink and regroup.

Despite what one might think, there really aren't any bars on the main drag of Hollywood Blvd. If you want slutty shoes, a slice of pizza, or three T-shirts for $9, no prob. Bars, not so much. Deciding against the Power House, the Pig & Whistle is the next closest bar I find. It is quite nice. I'd go again.

I sit with my beer and mull over whether or not I should just bail now that I'm already outside and a block away. Sure, I did just pay $13 (actually $20) for one signature, but it was Larry Zerner and he is awesome. It's my own stupid ass fault for going by myself.

No. I can't leave yet. There were tons of C-list actors in that place, and I'm going to get them to sign my DVD's. Back I go!

So I'm back in the folding table labyrinth, my buzz renewed, and I'm ready to chat up some lonely actors. I look around, trying to decide who would have the honor of being the first in my autograph splurge. I spot Tom Savini, but he looks scary to me at the moment, so I keep looking. Then close to the door I spot Lar Park Lincoln, star of not only Friday 13th Part VII, but my beloved House II. Perfect!

What a pleasure. Not only is she chipper and friendly, but she seems genuinely surprised when I hand her House II. And she's wearing a leather cowboy hat! Not sure why this strikes me as so cool. Maybe it's the booze. Either way, I'm suddenly having a good time.

Moving on, I next come to Warrington Gillette, who is credited with playing Jason in Part II, but from what I understand only plays him in one short scene during the climax (a stunt man actually played the pillow-case-wearing Jason for the majority of the film). Well, whatever, he's here, might as well get his signature.

So Mr. Gillette signs my Part II DVD slip cover, then as he's finishing up he says, "Now, I'm not actually charging, but I'm asking for $5 donations."

"What?"
"I'm asking for $5 for the autograph."
"You're charging money for your signature?" Now keep in mind this asshole only played Jason in one scene. Which is exactly one scene more than I've fucking played the character.
"I'd say I'm being reasonable. You should go see how much Tom Savini is charging if you think that's a lot," he says as he hands me back the slip cover.
"Maybe you should tell people that before you sign it."
"Well, I'll leave it up to your conscience."
"Good thing I have no conscience," I say as I blow on the wet ink of his signature and walk away. Had I not been drunk, I might have actually given that dicknose $5 out of deluded guilt. Now, that's a scary thought.

My good mood is sullied. It is not made any better by passing Tom Savini's table and seeing that he's charging upwards of $70 for some things. Captain Fuckface wasn't entirely wrong; $5 was a good deal. Maybe I was a jerk to him for no reason. No. Larry Zerner and Lar Park Lincoln didn't charge anything, and they did actual work on their films. Fuck that guy.

I'm pissed now. And the more I look around the more I discover that everyone seems to be charging money for their John Hankcocks. Then a balding Kevin Blair (wooden love interest in Part VII) informs me that he isn't signing anything at all, but he will give me a flier for the play he's performing in the Valley.

So, back at the Pig & Whistle I step it up from beer to a Jack and Coke. This is probably not the best idea, but I've determined that I can not bail yet and something needed to be done. Again, why the hell did I go to this thing by myself?

I'm distracted from my ire when I spot a man, finishing a bottle of beer and standing up to leave, wearing a Jason Goes to Hell T-shirt. Despite the fact that I hate that piece-of-shit movie it for some reason causes me to remember how much fun I used to have at comic conventions when I was a kid. I biked to plenty of those alone. I'd meet people there, in lines, looking at crap, "Oh, have you read issue ____? It's awesome!" I'd talk with the vendors. I'd ask the artists questions if the lines weren't too long. Despite their freaky appearance, these current weirdoes all loved Friday the 13th. We had something in common.

Time to go make friends!

As I re-enter the labyrinth, the liquor coursing through my veins has caused two things to happen: 1.) I'm now super friendly, and 2.) despite my previous rage, I suddenly don't care so much about paying money for a signature.

Not having enough dough to pony up for a Tom Savini signature, I head for the only other person worthy of my dropping a buck on: Betsy Palmer, Mrs. Voorhees herself, who is charging $10 a signature.

I can in no way reconstruct the conversation I attempted to have with Ms. Palmer, but she smiled the whole time and at no point was security called. I must have been at least somewhat amusing cause the guy standing next to me, who had just paid $15 to have his picture taken with Ms. Palmer asked the fine lady is he could take my picture with the same $15 too. Wow! What a guy!

"Give me your e-mail address and I'll send you the picture." He had a disposable digital camera, an invention I'm not sure I understand the point of, but whatever, this guy was now my bff.

"Hey, man, I'm going to buy you a drink!"

Back at the Pig & Whistle I order us both Jack and Cokes (I think.) Then I endeavored to enact my Jason bonding scheme, wanting to recreate my comic book bonding experiences of old. Of course, back in 1992 I wasn't completely shitfaced when I attempted this. Regardless…

I tell this guy (I think his name was either Paul or John) about my favorite Friday characters and moments, why I think which films are great and why others aren't so hot, which deaths were the best, and so on and so forth. Now, as I remember it, all this came out of my mouth in an entirely scholarly, if nerdy, manner, but for some reason Paul/John seemed to hasten his drinking after a certain point, and then announced that we "should be getting back" after he hurriedly downed the last of his drink I bought him.

So, back to the fest with my new best buddy, who quickly disappears from my sight while I'm drunkenly not paying attention. Where'd he go? (Incidentally, Paul/John has yet to e-mail me my Betsy Palmer picture, leading me to believe our bonding was slightly less successful than I recall). Oh well, I'm feeling fan-fucking-tastic. I'm sure I'll find you again, Paul/John. Don't you worry.

I'm getting a free autograph from Nick Savage, who played Ali in Part III, when an announcement is made that they've just finished their screening of Friday the 13th Part I across the street and they're about to hold a Q & A, which will be followed by a screening of Part II. Awesome. Off I go!

I somehow find myself in a large screening room (thinking back to my familiarity with the Hollywood and Highland area, I have absolutely no idea where I was) full of chairs and people filling said chairs with their respective butts. The casts of Part I and II are standing around taking pictures, awaiting the beginning of the Q & A.

In the infinite wisdom that only beer mixed with Tennessee whiskey can provide, I decide to pretend I'm a cast member from Friday the 13th Part II (I'm not really sure why). And lest you think I'm some Catch Me if You Can style super con-man, I should note that my ‘pretending' consisted entirely of just walking into the Part II group and then slowly chatting with fans as though I should be there.

Why no one notices I'm about 20 years younger than everyone else, I don't know. Maybe I'm fooling no one. I'm not sure. But eventually the Part I group is heralded up on stage to answer questions and I temporarily remain a cast member from the first sequel. This is great. I'm famous!

A line seems on the verge of forming for the Q end of the Q & A. Dude! I need in on this! I move over quickly and manage to finagle myself a place in line. This is gonna be great!

In my drunken state I'm having all sorts of clearly horrible ideas. I could ask a series of questions that are obviously about Nightmare on Elm St. I could start singing a song once I get to the mic. I could bum rush the stage! Fortunately for everyone I recall that I love Friday the 13th, and what exactly would be the point of acting like an asshole among the fans of and the people who made these films.

It is around this time that the guy in front of me asks his question. I'm busy not listening to what he says when it hits me that I've been wasting all my time thinking up stupid pranks. I'm quickly up to bat and end up asking some genero question along the lines of "If you had known where Jason would end up, would you have done anything differently in the first movie?" No one on stage finds this interesting and they promptly move onto the next questioner after routinely answering my boring question.

Oh, well. Back to my one true love, being a cast member of Part II. But as I approach my old comrades I'm greeted by a security member, who politely informs me that maybe I should leave the building. What happened? Did I noticeably slur when I asked my question? Or did the fact that I asked a question make it painfully obvious that I wasn't a cast member of Part II? Whatever the case, I'll never know. I left peacefully.

I don't find getting kicked out of the Jason Fest half as embarrassing as the fact that on the way home I called virtually everyone I knew to brag about said ejection, including my ex-girlfriend. All well that ends well, I suppose. I did get Larry Zerner's signature. They can never take that away from me.

And, hey, it's only a few years until the 25th Anniversary of Nightmare on Elm St. If I actually put some effort into it next time, maybe I can get Robert England to punch me in the face.

Stay tuned!