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docrotten · 3 months

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BILLY THE KID VERSUS DRACULA (1966) – Episode 170 – Decades Of Horror: The Classic Era

“Here. [hands Billy whiskey] A little something to take the soreness out. … I think I’ll join you. I don’t feel too good myself.” Always follow the doctor’s orders! Join this episode’s Grue-Crew – Chad Hunt, Daphne Monary-Ernsdorff, Doc Rotten, and Jeff Mohr – as they saddle up for a rip-roaring ride out west with Billy the Kid Versus Dracula (1966)! Giddyup, Grue Believers!

Decades of Horror: The Classic Era Episode 170 – Billy the Kid Versus Dracula (1966)

Join the Crew on the Gruesome Magazine YouTube channel! Subscribe today! And click the alert to get notified of new content! https://youtube.com/gruesomemagazine

Decades of Horror The Classic Era is partnering with THE CLASSIC SCI-FI MOVIE CHANNEL, THE CLASSIC HORROR MOVIE CHANNEL, and WICKED HORROR TV CHANNEL Which all now include video episodes of The Classic Era! Available on Roku, AppleTV, Amazon FireTV, AndroidTV, Online Website. Across All OTT platforms, as well as mobile, tablet, and desktop. https://classicscifichannel.com/; https://classichorrorchannel.com/; https://wickedhorrortv.com/

Dracula travels to the American West, intent on making a beautiful ranch owner his next victim. Her fiance, outlaw Billy the Kid, finds out about it and rushes to save her.

Directed by: William Beaudine

Writer: Carl K. Hittleman (as Carl Hittleman)

Selected Cast:

John Carradine as Count Dracula / posing as James Underhill

Chuck Courtney as William ‘Billy the Kid’ Bonney

Melinda Casey as Elizabeth (Betty) Bentley (credited as Melinda Plowman)

Virginia Christine as Eva Oster

Walter Janovitz as Franz Oster (as Walter Janowitz)

Bing Russell as Dan ‘Red’ Thorpe

Olive Carey as Dr. Henrietta Hull

Roy Barcroft as Sheriff Griffin

Hannie Landman as Lisa Oster

Richard Reeves as Pete – Saloonkeeper

Marjorie Bennett as Mary Ann Bentley

William Forrest as The Real James Underhill

George Cisar as Joe Flake

Harry Carey Jr. as Ben Dooley

Leonard P. Geer as Yancy (as Lennie Geer)

William Challee as Tom – Station Agent (as William Chalee)

Charlita as Nana – Indian Maiden

Max Kleven as Sandy Newman (as Max Klevin)

Jack Williams as Duffy

The subgenre of horror-westerns is not often used. In 1966, however, Embassy Pictures released a pair of this mixed breed on a groovy double feature. Joining Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter (1966) is tonight’s feature discussion, Billy the Kid Versus Dracula (1966). Both of these genre mashups are directed by William Beaudine. Once again, Dracula is portrayed by John Carradine (House of Frankenstein, 1944; House of Dracula, 1945) and you might also recognize Chuck Courtney, who plays Billy the Kid, from (Pet Sematary, 1989). From there the cast becomes a who’s who of TV and Film Westerns character actors, putting Jeff in his happy place!

Carradine once said this film was “the worst movie he ever acted in.” The Grue-Crew may have other thoughts. Check it out now and let us know what you think of this bizarre and fun blend of genres.

At the time of this writing, Billy the Kid Versus Dracula is available for streaming from several different sources. The Grue Crew found the best resolution on the Classic Horror Movie Channel and Kanopy, but, among others, it can also be found on Tubi and Plex. The film is available on physical media as a Blu-ray from Kino Lorber.

Gruesome Magazine’s Decades of Horror: The Classic Era records a new episode every two weeks. Up next in their very flexible schedule, as chosen by Jeff, is Beyond the Time Barrier (1960), directed by Edgar G. Ulmer (The Black Cat, 1934) and starring Robert Clarke (The Hideous Sun Demon, 1958).

Please let them know how they’re doing! They want to hear from you – the coolest, grooviest fans: leave them a message or leave a comment on the Gruesome Magazine YouTube channel, the site, or email the Decades of Horror: The Classic Era podcast hosts at [email protected]

To each of you from each of them, “Thank you so much for watching and listening!”

Check out this episode!

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huongiangho · 7 months

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Hittleman, Richard. Yoga: 28 Day Exercise Plan. New York: Workman Publishing Company, 1969.

This layout is amazing.

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pgoeltz · 9 months

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STEVE SILBERMAN

THE ONLY SONG OF GOD

This morning, I walked past the Henry J. Kaiser Auditorium in Oakland for the first time since Jerry Garcia's death.

From 1979 to 1989, the Grateful Dead held forth there 56 times, and I probably saw 40 of those shows.

I had never seen the grass in front of the arena deserted before, with no Deadheads kibitzing on blankets or waiting in line at booths, no wet dogs in bandanas snapping Frisbees out of the air and galloping down to lap from the muddy creek.

Instead of the high archways carved with scenes from Romantic mythology, I remembered milling craziness spilling into the street, and the lines winding around back where the limos came in, growing thicker at the doors near show time as Willie in his blue security suit kept everyone honest by preaching the gospel of soul through a megaphone.

I knocked on the front door and a custodian let me in for a few minutes to look around. I walked through the tiled lobby into the main arena, barely longer than it is wide, the light tan planks on the floor marked with black tape, an antique scoreboard dangling from the ceiling.

From the bleachers to the back wall, I counted only 11 rows of wooden flip-up seats. I was so happy to be in that room again.

In the 1950s, gospel groups like the Swan Silvertones, the Mighty Clouds of Joy, the Soul Stirrers, and the James Cleveland Choir used to sing in that room. Smartly dressed ushers walked the aisles wearing white gloves, so that someone who got the spirit in the middle of a number - who might stand up in their Sunday finest, testifying in tongues, and faint dead over - could be carried out into the lobby, fanned back to consciousness, and ushered back in.

In the 1980s - the golden years of my life as a Deadhead - I used to think of Kaiser as the living room of the tribe.

The Dead's annual open-air jubilees, in drenching sun, at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley and at the Frost Amphitheatre at Stanford, were more spectacular. But Kaiser - with its midweek shows, and spiral corridors for schmoozing between epiphanies - was for locals. You didn't have to buy a plane ticket or hitchhike a thousand miles to see the band, and many of the people there, you'd know: your neighbors, your dentist, the other Deadhead from your office. For days afterward, you'd recognize faces that you'd seen in the big room, and smile to each other as you passed in the street.

If you weren't from the Bay Area, after three or four shows at Kaiser, eventually, you'd move here. Kaiser was for lifers. It felt like home.

At shows in those years, up at the front on "the rail" where you could observe the musicians at work, the crowds could get so dense on a Saturday night that you would lose your footing. But if you relaxed, you could nearly float, like a cell in a bath of nutrient, the rhythms coming to you as a gentle push in one direction, then another.

If you left your backpack under the bleachers before the lights went out, it would still be there when the applause ended. When the lights came up again, you might see a couple in the middle of the floor who had just made love in the swirling dark, laughing, exhausted, fixing each other's hair.

It was one of the safest places in the world.

I was a suburban kid, the son of agnostic parents who believed in a healing of the world by political, rather than spiritual, means. Still, wherever I looked, the universe seemed animate and mysterious.

The Martian Chronicles, the Science Fiction Hall of Fame, and The Outer Limits widened the horizons of my everyday life to include the infinite. In the sixth grade, I found a copy of Richard Hittleman's 21-Day Yoga Plan in the library, lit a candle, and gazed earnestly into the flame.

I remember one afternoon when I was in high school, sitting on my best friend's bed, listening to Europe '72 . The music I liked up to that point was vocal music, like the folk tunes my mother sang to me before I was able to speak; songs that told stories, like Stephen Stills' alliterative cowboy confessing his love in "Helplessly Hoping."

After the last verse of "China Cat Sunflower," Weir took a lead over Kreutzmann's breathing, elastic time, with Godchaux's piano cascading down like droplets of silver. But it was Garcia - even out of the spotlight - who added incisive punctuations that stitched the music into a tale unfolding, and I suddenly had the sensation of riding on a locomotive, surging forward on the track.

As I grew older, the music of the Dead - especially the restless, exploratory jams that were Garcia's trademark - often provided the soundtrack for my introspection.

While the rest of the world was asleep or watching television, I'd shut my door and put on headphones, and hear seemingly ancient voices broadcast their truths, listen to each other, and respond; delighted to be part of an intimate conversation beyond what could be said in words - like eavesdropping on God's thoughts.

After I started going to see the band in places like Roosevelt Stadium and the Capitol Theatre, I learned that at Dead shows, you could allow the music to go as deeply inside you as it did when you were alone; and you could do it with those who understood, in their own way, how the music felt to you.

Sometimes I liked to turn away from the stage, so I could see how others received it. Some would listen with their eyes shut, swaying; others would gaze toward the men onstage as you would toward your oldest friend - who was about to attempt something marvelous and difficult - with a blessing look.

If Deadheads were a tribe that sought collective experience, we were also an aggregation of loners who had learned how not to bruise each other's solitude: that place where our souls, and the music, communed.

If you were tripping, the music would pour forth celestial architectures, quicksilver glistening with might-be's, cities of light at the edge of a sea of chaos, monumental forms that could be partially recollected in tranquility, and turned into designs in fabric or clay, golden sentences, streams of bits.

And some nights, the hair on the back of your neck would stand on end as a presence came into the room, given a body by the magnificent sound system. In the hallways, the Dead's own dervishes, the Spinners, would bow toward the stage, their long hair brushing the floor. Dancers raised one another up like kids in punk clubs, laughing like babies in their father's arms, or weeping.

Startled out of my reflection by some grace note of primordial majesty, I'd look up and see his fingers -

That furrow of deliberation where all else was left to drift, in the secret place where everything was waiting to be born.

Four days after Garcia's death, my friend Raymond Foye and I picked up a young man hitchhiking by the roadside near Raymond's house in Woodstock. The perfume of sweet alcohol filled the car as he climbed in. We asked him where he was going and he said, "To the monastery at the top of the mountain."

We wound up the road to an enormous gate, painted red, and carved with lions.

The monks knew our passenger. "You back for good this time?" one asked.

When the young man offered to guide us to the shrine room, we eagerly accepted. The rooms and hallways leading there had the orderliness of sacred space. There was a rack for shoes, so you'd enter the room barefoot.

Along the walls, bodhisattvas glowed in the shadows. I walked slowly, with my hands clasped over my heart, as my old Zen teacher had taught me. With each step, I felt the cool floor against the soles of my feet.

I turned toward the front of the room. There in the dim light, an enormous Buddha, painted gold, sat in the erect, relaxed posture of contemplative alertness, like a mountain in a dream.

I walked up and made a full prostration, my forehead touching the floor, my palms upraised.

On the altar, there was an oil lamp lit, with a white card beside it. It read:

FOR JERRY GARCIA

MAY HE HAVE AN AUSPICIOUS REBIRTH

Sometimes it seems we have little greatness left to us to praise. Our leaders are liar or comedians, and our priests, like teenagers, have a hard time interpreting their own desires, much less the Passion of Christ.

Yet I'm confident that the Grateful Dead were truly great, by which I mean, were able to abide some portion of mystery, and allow it to come through them without naming it or taking too much pride in it, or appropriating its surface aspects as a pose or strategy.

Look at the shaman, standing in his once-living robe, holding up a drum, blazed on the walls of caves all over the Earth. The rock and roll fop, pursing his lips under the pastel lights, is a bare flicker over this image, graven in the back of our minds as surely as if it had been carved in the skull-cup of bone by a hand.

The image says: Drums are doors or vehicles, voices bear messages to the threshold of Heaven, and sliding or flatted notes are blue highways between this world and the other.

I once asked Garcia how it came to be that a young bluegrass banjo and guitar player with a taste for the blues and R&B had found, in the company of kindred spirits, a road back to the collective experience of music as mystery.

We didn't plan it out that way, he said, it just happened, like an escalator appearing in front of our eyes. We had a choice at the beginning, to get on, or not.

That was all.

I remember standing on a train platform after a show, when I heard a freight pass heavy on the rails, the couplings and wheels clattering with a lurching, quirky grandeur that was familiar.

Then I remembered: it was the rhythm of "Ramble on Rose."

For all I know, Garcia might have had the ghost of another tune in mind when he wrote it, or pulled it out of the air - but it was the American air, of boxcars passing (with Jack Kerouac's little St. Theresa hobo shivering inside) through towns with names like Gaviota, Las Cruces and Wichita.

No pomp and circumstance for us Yankees, but hard luck and a little grace - our own raw melodies sent up with the drafts of a campfire - rippling the moon in the corner of a fiddler's eye.

One night at Kaiser, after a delicate, shimmering jam that threaded out of "Estimated Prophet," Willie Green of the Neville Brothers joined the drummers onstage.

Mickey Hart moved from the traps to the berimbau to the Beam, an instrument he helped invent: a ten-foot aluminum girder strung with piano wire tuned to extremely low pitches, designed to launch huge standing waves into very large rooms, to shiver bones and make the walls of a coliseum tremble.

As the drummers faced one another, the tidal resonances of the Beam rippled through the floorboards, ebbing in a series of descending pitches that sounded then, to me, like the root of all music.

I felt my knees weaken under me. My palms came together as if of their own volition, and I dropped to the floor.

I didn't need to know or name what called me to make that full prostration. I only needed a place to do it that was safe, a place where I felt at liberty, so that inner life and outer life could come together.

The root of the verb "to heal" means "to make whole."

That's why the Grateful Dead were medicine men: the music, and the collective energy of Deadheads, together, helped heal the sickness of existence. To those blinded by habit was conveyed sight, and the lame were made - a little less lame.

In Tibet, the medicine that healed the sickness of existence was called amrita, "the strongest poison and medicine of all."

A black muddy river of amrita flowed through Grateful Dead land.

Though from the outside, Garcia had an enviable life, he - like all of us - had to learn to make himself at home among many contradictions. (He once said, "I live in a world without a Grateful Dead.")

An intensely humble and private man, his art earned him the kind of fame that plastered his face on bumper stickers. Branded for the duration of his career in the media by the decade in which he came of age, he sometimes seemed most at home picking the tunes of Bill Monroe, Doc Watson, and Clarence Ashley played for decades before anyone had heard of the Haight-Ashbury. For someone whose craft helped so many people rediscover the pleasures of having a body, Garcia seemed to only grudgingly acknowledge his own.

And while Deadheads tapped a seemingly inexhaustible wellspring of good news in his music, Garcia himself had endured several of life's great tragedies, including witnessing the death of his father by drowning, and the loss of a finger. (The luminous tracks on American Beauty were recorded during a period of daily trips with his brother Tiff to San Francisco General, to visit their mother, Ruth, who had sustained injuries in a car accident that turned out to be fatal.)

A witty and engaging conversationalist, of cosmopolitan interests and encyclopedic reference, Garcia must have realized that his social contacts were becoming increasingly circumscribed by his heroin habit, which he once referred to as a "buffer."

Garcia had made of his instrument a means for direct expression of his soul. In the last year of his life - as his buffer became an adversary to his art, his nimbleness became a thing lost, and the lyrics no longer arrived - the pain was audible in his music.

Last spring, when I asked a mutual friend how the sessions for the new album were going, he said that Jerry was uncommunicative, unkempt, and not playing well. I asked him if Garcia's behavior had any emotional coloration.

"Yeah," he said - "Do Not Disturb."

For the last year, I'd been reassuring panicky young Deadheads online that the rumors were suddenly everywhere - that the Summer Tour would be the Dead's last - were untrue.

The venues for '96, I'd been told, had already been booked.

But the mind at large knew better. The universe that set Garcia up as a medicine man in an age thirsting for mystery would not let him exit without the thunderclaps, lighting and palls of doom that Shakespeare brought down on the heads of a tattered kings and his clown.

At four in the morning on August 9th , Maureen Hunter stirred sleepless beside her husband, Robert. Garcia had telephoned the Hunters a day or so earlier, to thank Robert for all the songs they'd written together, and also to say, with unusual explicitness, that he loved him.

Maureen got up and walked into the kitchen where a breeze was blowing through an open window. She bolted the window, looked in on her daughter, and returned to bed.

A few miles away, a staffer at Serenity Knolls paused outside Garcia's room, not hearing the snoring she'd heard earlier. He entered the room, and found Garcia in bed, his heart stopped, smiling.

Part of the joy in being a Deadhead was in wedding yourself to a story that was longer than your life.

When I was writing my essay "Who Was Cowboy Neal?" I began to think of the surging improvised section of "Cassidy" as a place where Neal Cassady's spirit was invited to visit the living. Like Garcia, Neal had been a hero to many, but to himself, a man - fighting a man's struggles beside the titans whose footsteps echoed in those jams that I never wanted to end.

When the chords said look within, we trusted Garcia to ride point for us, to be the headlight on the northbound train, behind which we were grateful to follow. Each of his discoveries was greeted with recognition. He'd taken us someplace new again, but a place we felt we were fated to go, because Jack's words in On the Road - about burning "like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars" - had spoken directly to us, the lucky ones; the ones who found the stone, the old stone in the American wilderness that marks the way.

And when we arrived in that place we were born to seek, all our brothers and sisters were there.

Of course.

So now, the story is over.

As prophesied, Soon you will not hear his voice.

But it is not so.

There's an old Zen tale of two patch-robed monks, students of the same master, who meet, years after his death, on a footbridge over a foaming river.

Seeing one another again, the two old friends laugh aloud.

"Do you miss our old teacher?" asks the one.

"No, now I see him everywhere," answers the other.

For it was our love that wedded us to the ancient story, our love the music called to in the words of a poet, Scheherazade's tale of the Many Thousand Nights that included us, in which real moonlight fell on imaginary waters.

The same moon that Neal Cassady saw in the mountains above Denver, shining over the city of the dead.

The last time the Dead played at Cal Expo - a small outdoor venue outside Sacramento, like Kaiser with no roof - I used a backstage pass and a drop of liquid to peer behind the spectacle, wandering around the picnic tables like a stoned kid at one of my parents' parties.

It was hot and still, but I knew that at the end of the path that runs behind the stage, there was a swimming pool, where you could still hear the music perfectly.

There was no one else there. I stripped, lowered myself into the water, and looked up at the stars, my mind roaming in the constellations as I floated on the music.

Onstage, Garcia had come home to that little place that he and Hunter made, that he loved so much, "Stella Blue." How slowly the world seemed to turn around us in the night as he played it, night after night.

When he came to the line, "I've stayed in every blue-light cheap hotel, can't win for tryin'," I took a breath and plunged, down into the silence, the drifting where I once heard my mother's heart beat.

And back up, breaking the surface just as the moon and stars shone through the strings of a broken angel's guitar.

Friend, when I meet you on the bridge in 10,000 years, please remind me that our teacher's voice is in the wash of muddy river water over the ancient stones, and in the dancing light at the edge, where a fiddler calls the tune and we rejoin the great circle.

For the universe is full of secrets that gradually reveal themselves, but there is not enough time. Barely time for a song to praise this place where we found each other, and pass back into the "transitive nightfall of diamonds," the beautiful melodies and suffering in the meat yearning for transformation - the only song of God.

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wellbodymind · 2 years

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Born into the experimental group

I had a thought this morning about my life. It has followed such an unconventional path, from my parents, to my childhood trauma, my one marriage and two divorces before I was 30…and that’s just part one. I am really weird. I learned yoga from a book! Richard Hittleman’s Yoga: 28 Day Exercise Plan. I was a single mom, working and finishing my bachelor’s degree, and I did it for stress relief.…

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#asana #awakening #book #descending #hatha #kundalini #Paying attention #rising #spontaneous #yoga

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the-ram-67 · 4 years

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Forgotten PBS: Lilias, Yoga and You (AKA Lilias!)

This exercise program aired on PBS from 1970-‘99 and was hosted by Lilias Folan,* who had six years of yoga behind her when the show began. (NOTE: The episode shown in the above video, circa the ‘70s, is missing its credits.)

* - She wasn’t the first to bring yoga to US TV; that credit goes to Richard Hittleman, who did it in 1961 with Yoga for Health.

#exercise tv #forgotten pbs #lilias folan #lilias yoga and you #richard hittleman #video #yoga

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uschi-the-listener · 5 years

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A Book A Day

Post the cover only of a favorite book, one a day. Do not offer a review, summary, explanation, or other commentary. Participation is voluntary.

If you have questions, about the books or anything else, please ask. My inbox is always open.

#a book a day #richard hittleman's 28 day yoga

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caramelcat · 5 years

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Hope Street Radio - Woo Woo playlist, Sep 29 2019

Ivor Cutler & Linda Hirst - Women Of The World

Ocean of Love - All We Need Is Love

Dev Suroop Kaur - Ang Sang Wahe Guru

Magana Baptiste - Deep Relaxation (The Baptiste Method of Yoga)

Kali Malone - Litanic Cloth Wrung

Maria Marquez & Frank Harris - Campesina

Delia Derbyshire & Love Without Sound - White Noise

Helen Ripley-Marshall - Under the Sun

Caroline Shaw & Attacca Quartet - Limestone & Felt

Richard Hittleman - Life Force (Yoga for Health)

Felicia Atkinson - Linguistics of Atoms

Grouper - Moon Is Sharp

Lucretia Dalt - Edge

Jenny Hval - Take Care Of Yourself

Laurie Anderson - Someone Else's Dream / White Lily

Julia Holter - He’s Running Through My Eyes

Surya Kumari - Paper Boats

Eliane Radigue - Face A-4

Ana Roxanne - Nocturne

Nirinjan Kaur - Mool Mantra

Constance Demby - At Alaron (Side A)

Radha Krsna Temple - Govinda

Sophia Campbell - Fourth Chakra: Heart of Earth

Alice Damon - Waterfall Winds

Julianna Barwick - Waving To You

Louise Hay - Sadness Is Just Another Feeling

Sarah Davachi ‎- For Strings

Crown of Eternity - Laya Mantra

Taeko Onuki - Gosui

Mira Calix - Le Jardin De Barbican

Midori Tadaka - Trompe-L’Oeil

Leo Mullins - Being Here is Everything

#photo: Eliane Radigue

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leggingshut · 5 years

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"The yogi will tell you that you feel and look as young as your spine is flexible." ~ Richard Hittleman •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• @dharmayogacenter features the incredible Sri Dharma Mittra as he shows us how young he is in this amazing forearm wheel pose. •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Tag someone who would be INSPIRED by this 🙏 #myyogalife https://www.instagram.com/p/Bq79uPbFAZp/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=wrjtbzk304v2

#myyogalife

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visualdesolation · 2 years

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No Return ((triptych) scanned image from Yoga 28 Day Exercise Plan by Richard Hittleman (page 206) Published 1969 printed onto paper made from Yoga 28 Day Exercise Plan by Richard Hittleman, Published by Workman Publishing 1969)

inkjet print with charcoal on recycled paper

2021

#noreturn

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lizshine74 · 3 years

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Theme post for October: Fear

I’m big into decorating for Halloween. And dressing up. For a number of years I’ve picked something that plays on a literary concept, because well, writer–English teacher–makes sense, right? One year I was Ann-Tagonist, and another year I was a meta-4, and another year I was an unreliable narrator. Not sure what this year will bring. Totally open to your ideas!

It’s as an adult that I’ve come to love Halloween and dressing up. Here’s an old post about a Halloween when I was in middle school when my shyness kept me from inhabiting my costume with confidence. That’s partly what dressing up is tied up for me now. A desire to fully inhabit my imagination without giving two fucks what others think of me. This gets better with age, for sure.

But this is a post about fear. While I have a lot less fear these days about what other people are going to think or say than I did as a young person, it’s still in there and comes out at odd times. I worked with a personal coach for three months during the heart of the pandemic who supported me on a quest to be bolder. I’m still working on it.

I fear driving fast in cars. I have panic attacks if I try to drive on the freeway, and when someone else is driving, I white-knuckle it and try to hide my nose in a book. I’m often convinced a car wreck is how I’ll die. At my worst moments when riding on the freeway, my imagination plays out the death-moment.

I fear that I have passed on too much of my fear to my son. More than anything, I want him to inhabit his power and worth and light. He’s anxious, like me, like his dad. He’s starting to find his way out of that trap. There’s nothing I want more. I pass on to him all the books, yoga poses, bits of wisdom he’ll allow me to. I tell him my stories.

I fear incompetence most of all. This one gets hard to describe. It starts way back with a sniffly, bullied kid who learned to tip-toe through life because the wrong thing said could mean a pinch, a bruise, a spanking with a belt. But I was always good at school. And I learned that if I kept my room organized and if I made lists of ways I could be better, I had a sort of control. I learned that I could achieve things. I could lose weight by lying for years that I hated chocolate and learning that if I caved and ate all the things I wanted to, I had a failsafe in the laxatives mom kept in the medicine cabinet. I learned that where there’s a will, there’s a way, and I got really good at managing my time and filling out forms and applications and doing a good job.

I suppose I am too much of a control freak to have ever given myself fully over to alcohol. But it became a failsafe too, a release valve at the end of the day. The first drinks I ever had taught me that when I was drunk, boys liked me. Get a few drinks in me and I would laugh and dance, and fearful me would leave my body for a while, so it was all so easy. I realize now what a trap that was. A release at the end of the day traded for more anxiety the next day, and thus more need of relief. A vicious cycle fueled by a big money industry that preys on people for profit.

I’m sober now. I’ve been sober-ish since last spring, slips along the way, but mostly soaking up resources and support to make the big move, the commitment. I didn’t start out planning to write about how I’m not drinking anymore. This is a theme-based blog post about fear. How did I get here?

Being an anxious person who has managed to live a fairly successful life means that I’ve learned a lot about how to cope with fear. I trained to run a marathon to stave off the increasing panic attacks plaguing me in my twenties. I picked up yoga at fifteen and never stopped because I realized immediately sitting on a towel in my bedroom floor trying to wrap my body and mind around pose after pose in Richard Hittleman’s book that there was something there for me. I’m all in on the movement meditations to garner what peace I can from life.

What I am not very good at is doing nothing. And that’s what alcohol gave me. An artificial stillness from care. Permission to binge-watch. Okay, so I write this, but I don’t know what to do with it. *pauses *reads it over again. Still not sure and that’s okay.

The other day I was driving to the grocery store when I got hit with a wave of panic. No rhyme or reason, just the usual way that feelings of impending doom hit you on a Sunday morning out shopping. My first instinct was to pull over and call for help. Then, I told myself, hey, you’ve got this. You know this fear and you know what to do. So, I remembered where my feet were, where my hands were, and I took some deep breaths and began to sing. Critical me questioned my song choice. Better me said go ahead and sing whatever the fuck you want. There’s a reason there are so many songs about rainbows. I got all the shopping done in the knick of time to make it to writer’s group.

Interested in hiring me as a coach to get you boosted with your writing goals?

Find free resources and information here.

Some past posts to keep you making time:

Adjust your pace accordingly.

It’s about the routine and how you shake up the routine

There are things you will have to give up

See it to achieve it

Washing the dishes

Write slowly

A celebration of the pause

Monday, a run through the driving rain

Zen accident

Get out of your comfort zone

Theme post for October: Fear was originally published on Make Time.

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basicallyanotherwitchesthing · 2 years

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Richard Hittleman - Yoga Natural Foods Cookbook - Bantam - 1970

#witches #yoginis #occult #vintage #foods #cookbook #regenerate #richard hittleman #yoga natural foods cookbook #bantam books #1970

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lushscreamqueen · 3 years

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ROCKY JONES-MANHUNT IN SPACE – 1956 for THE SCHLOCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW

Opening: Hello, good evening and welcome. You look great. But enough about you!. Let talk about Pirates... Arr! When a band of interstellar pirates, headquartered on a hidden planet, threatens the space-ways, and only the Space Rangers can save the day. Richard Crane, and Scotty Beckett star in this feature-length science fiction adventure from loving repackaged from the early TV series "Rocky Jones, Space Ranger. He’s always so cool, he’s always right, and he never fails! What a guy. So sit back, graba space stick and enjoy The delights of Rocky Jones Manhunt in Space.

Break: All that cheese and not a cracker in sight. Perhaps one of these nice chap can sell you some. And then after the ad break. More Rocky Jones-Manhunt in Space on the SCHLOCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW!

MIDDLE: So LONG before television was learning to do “Clip Shows” and call them Flashback or encore performances TV executives had learned to repackage a “3 part serial from 1953” as a fully fledged 1955 motion picture called Manhunt in Space and send it off to the cinema. Rocky Jones, Space Ranger was a syndicated science fiction television serial originally broadcast in 1954. The show lasted for only two seasons and, though syndicated sporadically, dropped into obscurity. But because it was recorded on film rather than being broadcast live as were most other TV space operas of the day, it has survived in reasonably good condition. The film format also allowed more elaborate special effects and sets, exterior scenes and much better continuity. Indeed, many of the effects that became standard sci-fi fare, such as the forward view screen and automatically opening doors were seen first on Rocky Jones. They may have been plywood but they were NEW plywood. In this film Rocky and crew's spaceship must defeat "space pirates." Of course the writers Carl K. Hittleman who also Wrote Jesse James Meets Frankenstein's Daughter and Marianne Mosner from Lassie and Shazam, couldn't just refer to them as pirates; in fact nearly everything in this show with a name is prefaced by the word "space" just to make it clear where it's being used. This early 1950's Space Opera is complete with a hero by the name of Rocky Jones, played by veteran movie and television actor Richard Crane later to be known as DICK Crane. Poor Dick was not at all typecast when he left Rocky Jones to play Commando Cody Sky Marshall of the Universe, while simultaneously, appearring in the Lone Ranger as Billy. He eventually settled into the world of medicore guest appearances on shows like Perry Mason, General Electric Theatre, 77 Sunset Strip,Wagon train and Lassie. But back in the 50’s, Rocky Jones is the quintessential action hero – brave, strong, handsome, highly moral, and always ready to defend his beliefs with action. To women he was irresistible but like bollywood there was no kissing or physical displays from Rocky. That kind of comraderie was strictly for the compulsary annoying sidekick’s Ranger Winky played by Scotty Beckett, who for most of his acting carreer before was know as Child Uncredited and after this just as Uncreditied. It seems Rocky Jones stole his childhood and in a twist Michael Jackson couldn’t get away with, sidekick number two was 10 year old Bobby played by Robert Lyden . Fortunately for us Robert left the acting profession in 1957 after playing Creighton Chaney. Not so the case with the lovely Sally Mansfield aka Vena Ray, Naviatrix and Rocky’s love interest in that wholesome 1950’s hubba hubba mini skirted but non sexual way. She moved onto the upbeat world of the Gene Autry Show , Mchales Navy and the Andy Griffith show.

And what would a Space Opera be with an elderly and brilliant Professor Newton, Played almost to perfection by Maurice Cass, who in spite of being a genius, makes just enough miscalculations to get them into real trouble. Maurice had bit parts in Over 50 films before Rocky Jones Plucked him from Obscurity before plunging him back into obscurity. Blondie Goes to college, Enemy Agents meet Emery Queen and Charley Aunts to name too many.

Surpisingly the Director Hollingsworth Morse is actually quite a big name in Hollywood. Fall Guy, Dukes of Hazard, Isis, Marcus Welby MD, Shazam, H.R. Pufen stuff and the Lone Ranger are just a few of the 69 TV shows he directed For a complete list please send a 10 note with a self address envelope to the address at the end of this film and I’ll see what I can do.

Closing : So for those of you who fell asleep, Vena is stranded in space by wicked pirates! Rocky makes the Orbit Jet invisible with Professor Newton’s latest doohickey! Winky sings a song! Rocky & Winky track the pirates to their secret base -- it’s no surprise that

they turn out to be employed by the naughty Cleolanta, who’s still so hot for Rocky that you can almost see her thighs quiver whenever his name is mentioned.Played superbly by Patty Parsons, another of those shy acrtesses’ who choose to use the name“uncredited”.If it wasn’t for the costumes and vanilla bondage, this could have been long Friday night for me. I don’t get out much at my age. And what was with the actors pressing buttons and pushing levers that don’t exist; that was just a blank wall. I don’t even have eyes and I could see that. And if Rocky Jones tells you to "go knit a sweater" (and she actually does!) when they have a disagreement! All I can say in closing is Hooray for emancipation and join me next week as we sift through the chaff of the Public domain to find that ine germ that is good enough to be shown on THE SCHLOCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. “Toodles”

by Lushscreamqueen 26th May 2009

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