If you love your movies with a dash of cheap horror production values, you've got to check this out.
To convince you:
"Fade-in/Prologue
I'm writing now about the time before things got weird and there was high school to kiss off, college to plan, girls, parties and the All-Night Horror Show come Friday night at The Orbit Drive-in off I-45, the largest drive-in in Texas. The world, for that matter, though I doubt there are that many of them in say, Yugoslavia.
Think about it for a moment. Set your mind clear and see if you can imagine a drive-in so big it can hold four thousand automobiles. I mean, really think about it.
Four thousand.
On the way to The Orbit we often passed through little towns with fewer people listed on the population sign than that.
And consider that each of those cars generally contained at least two people, often more -- not counting the ones hiding in the trunks -- and you're talking a lot of cars and people.
And once inside, can you imagine six monstrous drive-in screens, six stories high, with six different movies running simultaneously?
Even if you can imagine all that, there's no way, unless you've been there, that you can imagine what goes on inside come Friday night and the tickets are two bucks each and the cars file in for The All-Night Horror Show to witness six screens leaking buckets of blood and decibels of screams from dusk to dawn.
Picture this, brethren:
A cool, crisp summer night, the Texas stars shining down like rattlesnake eyes glowing in a deep, dark wood. A line of cars like a tacky necklace trailing from the paybooth to the highway, stretching alongside it for a mile or better.
Horns are honking.
Children are shouting.
Mosquitoes are buzzing.
Willie Nelson is singing about blue eyes crying in the rain from a tape deck, competing with Hank Williams, Jr., Johnny Cash, ZZ Top, The Big Boys, The Cars and Country Bob and the Blood Farmers, groups and singers you can't identify. And it all rolls together into a metal-velvet haze until it's its own kind of music; the drive-in anthem, a chorus of cultural confusion.
And say your car is about midway in line, and clear as your first good wet dream, standing tall, you can see The Orbit's symbol -- a big silver globe with a Saturn ring around it, spinning on a gradually tapering concrete pole jutting up to over a hundred feet above the concession stand; little blue and white fairy lights flittering out of it, alternating colors across your windshield. Blue. White. Blue. White.
God Almighty, it's a sight. Like being in the presence of The Lord of Razzle-Dazzle, The Dark Crown Prince of Blood and Mayhem and Cheap, Bad Popcorn. The All-Night Horror Show God, his own sweet self.
You drive on into this Friday-night extravaganza, this Texas institution of higher partying, sex education and madness, and you see people dressed out in costume like it's Halloween night (and it is Halloween night every Friday night at The Orbit), yelling, talking, cussing and generally raising hell.
You park your car, go to the concession stand. Inside it's decorated with old horror-movie posters, plastic skulls, rubber bats and false cobwebs. And there's this thing called bloody corn that you can buy for a quarter more than the regular stuff, and it's just popcorn with a little red food coloring poured over it. You buy some and a king-size Coke to go with it, maybe some peanuts and enough candy to send a hypoglycemic to the stars.
Now you're ready. The movies begin. B-string and basement-budget pictures. A lot of them made with little more than a Kodak, some spit and a prayer. And if you've watched enough of this stuff, you develop a taste for it, sort of like learning to like sauerkraut.
Drooping mikes, bad acting and the rutting of rubber-suited monsters who want women, not for food, but to mate with, become a genuine pleasure. You can simultaneously hoot and cringe when a monster attacks a screaming female on the beach or in the woods and you see the zipper on the back of the monster's suit winking at you like the quick, drunk smile of a Cheshire cat.
So there you have it. A sort of rundown of The All-Night Horror Show at The Orbit. It drew me and the gang in there every Friday night like martyrs to the sacrifice; providing popcorn and Coke instead of wine and wafer.
Yes, sir, brethren, there was something special about The Orbit all right. It was romantic. It was outlaw. It was crazy.
And in the end, it was deadly."
To convince you:
"Fade-in/Prologue
I'm writing now about the time before things got weird and there was high school to kiss off, college to plan, girls, parties and the All-Night Horror Show come Friday night at The Orbit Drive-in off I-45, the largest drive-in in Texas. The world, for that matter, though I doubt there are that many of them in say, Yugoslavia.
Think about it for a moment. Set your mind clear and see if you can imagine a drive-in so big it can hold four thousand automobiles. I mean, really think about it.
Four thousand.
On the way to The Orbit we often passed through little towns with fewer people listed on the population sign than that.
And consider that each of those cars generally contained at least two people, often more -- not counting the ones hiding in the trunks -- and you're talking a lot of cars and people.
And once inside, can you imagine six monstrous drive-in screens, six stories high, with six different movies running simultaneously?
Even if you can imagine all that, there's no way, unless you've been there, that you can imagine what goes on inside come Friday night and the tickets are two bucks each and the cars file in for The All-Night Horror Show to witness six screens leaking buckets of blood and decibels of screams from dusk to dawn.
Picture this, brethren:
A cool, crisp summer night, the Texas stars shining down like rattlesnake eyes glowing in a deep, dark wood. A line of cars like a tacky necklace trailing from the paybooth to the highway, stretching alongside it for a mile or better.
Horns are honking.
Children are shouting.
Mosquitoes are buzzing.
Willie Nelson is singing about blue eyes crying in the rain from a tape deck, competing with Hank Williams, Jr., Johnny Cash, ZZ Top, The Big Boys, The Cars and Country Bob and the Blood Farmers, groups and singers you can't identify. And it all rolls together into a metal-velvet haze until it's its own kind of music; the drive-in anthem, a chorus of cultural confusion.
And say your car is about midway in line, and clear as your first good wet dream, standing tall, you can see The Orbit's symbol -- a big silver globe with a Saturn ring around it, spinning on a gradually tapering concrete pole jutting up to over a hundred feet above the concession stand; little blue and white fairy lights flittering out of it, alternating colors across your windshield. Blue. White. Blue. White.
God Almighty, it's a sight. Like being in the presence of The Lord of Razzle-Dazzle, The Dark Crown Prince of Blood and Mayhem and Cheap, Bad Popcorn. The All-Night Horror Show God, his own sweet self.
You drive on into this Friday-night extravaganza, this Texas institution of higher partying, sex education and madness, and you see people dressed out in costume like it's Halloween night (and it is Halloween night every Friday night at The Orbit), yelling, talking, cussing and generally raising hell.
You park your car, go to the concession stand. Inside it's decorated with old horror-movie posters, plastic skulls, rubber bats and false cobwebs. And there's this thing called bloody corn that you can buy for a quarter more than the regular stuff, and it's just popcorn with a little red food coloring poured over it. You buy some and a king-size Coke to go with it, maybe some peanuts and enough candy to send a hypoglycemic to the stars.
Now you're ready. The movies begin. B-string and basement-budget pictures. A lot of them made with little more than a Kodak, some spit and a prayer. And if you've watched enough of this stuff, you develop a taste for it, sort of like learning to like sauerkraut.
Drooping mikes, bad acting and the rutting of rubber-suited monsters who want women, not for food, but to mate with, become a genuine pleasure. You can simultaneously hoot and cringe when a monster attacks a screaming female on the beach or in the woods and you see the zipper on the back of the monster's suit winking at you like the quick, drunk smile of a Cheshire cat.
So there you have it. A sort of rundown of The All-Night Horror Show at The Orbit. It drew me and the gang in there every Friday night like martyrs to the sacrifice; providing popcorn and Coke instead of wine and wafer.
Yes, sir, brethren, there was something special about The Orbit all right. It was romantic. It was outlaw. It was crazy.
And in the end, it was deadly."
