Tom Baker

Joined June 2018

854 stories

Bio

Author of Haunted Indianapolis, Indiana Ghost Folklore, Midwest Maniacs, Midwest UFOs and Beyond, Scary Urban Legends, 50 Famous Fables and Folk Tales, and Notorious Crimes of the Upper Midwest.: http://tombakerbooks.weebly.com

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Groovin'
It's not often I watch comedies unless they're a hundred and five years old. That said, ONE comedy, 1974's The Groove Tube, directed by the late Ken Shapiro and starring a very young Chevy Chase, as well as a young Richard Belzer, is a notable exception. I first saw the kinky, psychedelic thing on Cinemax in the 1980s, when I was a wee tot (staying up late to watch things I shouldn't have been watching, of course), and it gave me sort of a sick feeling in my gut; a lot of it was gross-out, potty humor. It came straight from that OTHER world that had existed just prior to my birth: a world of the late Sixties, early Seventies, a place of funk music, Black Power, psychedelic hippie activism, pot, pot, sexual liberation...and, well, pot. The Groove Tube seeks to lampoon these variant societal tendrils, all the while satirizing the homogenized, domesticated intellectual fluff and brain-programming being offered up at the time on a regular, average, thirteen-channel tube television.
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Geeks
"But for There, Certainly Not!"
"My daughter!" said the Baroness de Fréval to the eldest of her children, who was going the next day to be married, "you are like an angel! Hardly do you reach your coming of age, yet it is impossible to be fresher and cuter! It almost seems that love itself took pleasure in drawing your features; and yet you are forced, tomorrow, to become the wife of an old bird whose weird madness arouses suspicions!"
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Filthy
Lunch Lady
Most everyone wants to fuck someone else's mother. That's just the way shit is. But, having someone's GRANDMA suck you off? Letting her withered, wattled, old (and presumably white) ass ride your face? Fondling her deflated, drooping dugs, her huge hairy nipples, between quivering, tweaking, turned-on thumb and forefinger? What kind of a sick fucking animal are you?
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Filthy
Saturn in Retrograde 2:11
Eleven The cop had not stopped. “God damn that was close. Man, that was really fucking scary.” The joint had been lifted back up, tensely, and toked a few more times. “Okay, now…we have shit to do. Keith, my man…this has been good.
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Criminal
The Talon
A good bourgeois of Picardy, who was perhaps a descendant of one of those illustrious troubadours on the banks of the Oise or the Somme, and whose anonymous life, after a decade or more, now stands revealed by a great writer of the last century; a brave and honest bourgeois, I say, lived in the city of Saint-Quentin, so famous by the great men she gave to literature.
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Filthy
Saturn in Retrograde I 2:10
Ten At roughly the same moment, a BMW sports model that had been obtained for the young driver out of the good graces of his father’s not inconsiderable wealth slicked it’s way down the battered street like a predator. Behind the wheel and in the passenger seat, two young men brooded on what was to transpire during the rest of the night. “Here, listen to this.” The volume of the CD player was cranked to earsplitting level. The car began to vibrate with the fury of the music of a popular death metal band. The lyrics (which were barely discernible) were a glorification of sadism and murder.
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Criminal
In Heaven, Haunted
"Only the marvelous is beautiful." --Andre Breton, Surrealist Manifesto (1924) Eraserhead is the dawning of David Lynch's tumorous, nightmare voyage through the land of cinematic subconscious fear and invasion; I say it is a "haunted film"; its grainy ninety minutes or so, which drag on with the zombie-like gait of a somnambulist, seem to evoke a timeless era of American history that never, in point of fact, actually existed. It is a world that seems ripped from the post-war memories of Eisenhower baby boomers; yet, it hearkens back, because of its curious soundtrack mixture of hissing, churning industrial musique concrete (designed by the late Alan Splet), with the Roaring Twenties jazz of Fats Waller, to an even earlier era: an era of flappers, gunzels, Harlem Renaissance horn-blowers and, well ...Fats Waller, of course. Yet, that is still not quite right. The film emerges, full-bodied, from the recesses of a dream, coming to us as a coded vision from the maelstrom of the filmaker's own subconscious arena, wherein the sins of the past are given growth, naturalistic growth, to blossom and sicken like overripe worms, weeding through the representational rock-like prison of his creative soul.
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Horror
Arthur Rimbaud: "Bottom" and "Barbarian" (1886)
Bottom Reality being just too prickly for my illustrious self,--I was, nevertheless, transformed into a great, grey-blue carrion bird, a vulture soaring to the ceiling.--Yet, dragging one wing through the black shadows of nightfall.
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Poets
Saturn in Retrograde 2:9
Nine “We’re getting the fuck out of here. C’mon” Milt Seebaum stumbled from the men’s room. His head was a massive, pounding industrial press of pain, but at least he could circumnavigate through the tiny dotted crowd.
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Criminal
Saturn in Retrograde I 1:8
Part 2 Eight What we have not made clear in the preceding narrative was a peculiar series of events that led up to the tragedy that was the cornerstone of the national headlines. What happened was terrible enough, but can anyone doubt that the fact that some one as young as little Lindsey Lavender was involved made it all the more ironic, and horrifying? Lindsey had been sleeping peacefully, innocently; her dreams a reflection of the distortions of the day. In her dreams she was often accompanied by a friendly Dwarf she thought of affectionately as "Skimmy." Skimmy was little, cute, and had a wagging dwarf beard. Skimmy could walk through walls, talk to animals, and do all sorts of things that real dwarfs obviously cannot. So let’s establish the fact, from the get-go, that Skimmy is not some form of supernatural intervention.
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Criminal
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1973)
I just finished watching, for what seems to be the hundredth time in my life, the 1974 grind house mega-classic, the horrific blockbuster, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, a film that has achieved a legendary cult status. It is a stark, ugly, brutal film, calling to mind that other film of the era with which it shares the most infamy--Wes Craven's social shocker cum medieval morality play Last House on the Left (1973). Both films seem, by the standard of mere "entertainment," to be grueling, morbid experiences, films calculated to bring about the most dire feelings of revulsion, if not titillation, on the part of eager but undeniably guilty viewers; morally guilty for indulging such "entertainment", but, with that same sense of morbid wonder at the graphic display of violence, sadism, mutilation and morally repugnant acts offered by each respective film. Last House is the kinkier, most sexual, most "human" and rational, if utterly grotesque and macabre, of the duo. Texas Chainsaw Massacre is, by contrast, like sticking the viewer's head in the mouth of a particularly grisly and mutated feral animal, a vomitus descent from an "idyllic summer afternoon drive" (as described by opening narrator John Larroquette) into what, indeed, is the depths of an actual cinematic nightmare; albeit, one that is based upon the real-life doings of such individuals as Ed Gein and the medieval Scottish "monster brood" known to history as the "Sawney Beane" clan. (The last inspired, incidentally, Wes Craven to later go on and make The Hills Have Eyes (1977), exploring similar themes as Texas Chainsaw.)
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Horror
Saturn in Retrograde I 1:7
Seven Milt Seebaum followed Pat Ireland into her little apartment, noting the soft smell of womanhood as it rose to greet his nostrils. His own place never smelled like that, he thought bitterly. Inside, the refuse of an over-intellectual woman that had sublimated her femininity in a pile of boring course work, lay scattered around the dim room. Text-books lay half open, revealing diagramatical constructions that were as perplexing as the inside of Pat Ireland’s head. Mountains of papers were stacked precariously upon a flimsy computer desk. A few dirty dishes rounded everything out. It was a normal, boring, compact place; the place a thirty-three year old faculty member might be expected to live. There were framed posters of The Beatles, and a screen saver of Stonehenge. There was the regulation poster of the Eiffel Tower bought in Paris. It was bourgeois chic. “Make yourself comfortable Milt. Want something to drink?” He felt the first few stirring of excitement grip him. How long had it been since he had been offered a drink by a young woman? “Sure,” he said as evenly as possible. He was getting a little nervous now. What was she expecting him to say, “hell no”? “How about a beer? It’s what’s handy.”
By Tom Baker5 years ago in Criminal

Tom Baker

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Stories .css-1svwz57-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-default-mute);}(854)

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Groovin'

"But for There, Certainly Not!"

Lunch Lady

Saturn in Retrograde 2:11

The Talon

Saturn in Retrograde I 2:10

In Heaven, Haunted

Arthur Rimbaud: "Bottom" and "Barbarian" (1886)

Saturn in Retrograde 2:9

Saturn in Retrograde I 1:8

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1973)

Saturn in Retrograde I 1:7

Stories (854)