Shining Moments

It bothers me how much scary movies frighten me. Granted, Saturday night was an extra special sort of scary. I hosted the Shining Ball at the Stanley Hotel. It's an incredible place surrounded by nature and elk the size of dinosaurs, but it's supposed to be haunted. It was used as a setting in the scary-ass movie, The Shining, and now TV shows like "Ghost Hunter" trek around its catacombs looking for banshees and the like.

The party itself wasn't scary at all. It was actually a lot of fun, with the exception of two of the qualifiers in the "Sexiest Costume" contest getting mad at me for awarding the grand prize to the third. It wouldn't have been so bad had the Jack Nicholson impersonator not screwed up and given the gift basket to the bosomy baseball player in the mini skirt. Fake Jack had to take the prize back and give it to the rightful winner, the sexy cop, who was oblivious she'd won in the first place. Once the She Hulk caught wind of the mistake, she decided she should be upset, too, I guess thinking the whole thing was a sham. A contest, mind you, judged by the volume of screaming drunks.

The real problem wasn't the party. But the hotel.  It's regal and elegant and, in my mind, where a whole family was murdered by some guy who went bananas with an ax. I know that's just the Stephen King story, but the movie really screwed me up. I can't even watch the whole thing through. I've tried twenty times and the lady-in-the bathtub/kissing scene is unbearably terrifying. When I first saw I thought, "Oh cool, nudity." And then it turns awful.

Right now, writing this, I'm scared. I had Sports Center blaring to keep me calm but then I figured it kept me from hearing something from which I'd need to flee. In the corner of my eye I'm sure I can see those blasted little girls from The Shining. That's what my imagination does to me. It's like I'm out to get me.

At midnight I turned off the music and the Stanley staff lowered a projection screen to show The goddamn Shining. I busted like crazy to break down and get out before something scary happened, but even the opening music is unnecessarily freaky. You might think I was overreacting, and you'd be right, but I was about to drive alone at night through the same damn woods that Shelly Duval and the creepy "Redrum" kid eventually escaped. And I'm the kid who had to sleep with my friend's mom after his 12th birthday slumber party included watching Friday the 13th part 1 & 2.

Before I could leave the Stanley I had one last stop. I needed to get some equipment from the McGregor room. I'd set up a PA system to make announcements during dinner. Three hours prior the room had been bustling with revelers and wait staff. As I approached the door at about 1am it was dead quiet. Some moonlight reflected off the antique furniture. The chandeliers hung dark and silent. I stood at the entrance and wondered if I could just come back some other time. Upon discounting chalking another three-hour round trip to irrational fear, I came up with another strategy.

Singing R. Kelly's "Step in the Name of Love" as loud as I could, I rushed into the room. I thought of R. Kelly, the decadent rapper and his lifestyle. It was sunny and there were beautiful people by a pool. I picked up the volume and went to work looking for light switches. I clawed at the walls like somebody in need of oxygen. When I came up with nothing I sprinted across the room, breathlessly belting the last song I'd played at the ball.
"Step in the name of Looooove…You gotta something something….Step in the name of Loooove." While I fought conjuring images of the gruesome ghost twins of the MOVIE, YOU KNOW A FAKE STORY, A YARN SPUN INTO AN EXPENSIVE HOLLYWOOD PROJECT WITH SPECIAL EFFECTS AND UNION GUYS AND CATERING, I spotted light at the far end of the room. It was the kitchen. I crashed through its swinging door and had little time to think of a body in the freezer. Instead, I rejoiced at the sight of a row of switches and sliders. I cranked them all up. The McGregor burst with light. I picked up my pace on the R. Kelley rap ballad and frenetically stuffed my gear into one giant bag. I hope my lifetime of turning off lights whenever I leave a room covers my leaving the spacious ballroom looking like the sun. I wasn't going back.

The irony is that someone is going to find all the lights on and think the place is haunted.

The problem with running scared is your judgment isn't so keen. I know the way to Estes Park pretty well, but leaving seemed much different than I remembered. I even saw a sign for the little town of Masonville.  Growing up Masonville was closer to my hometown than to Denver.  Normally, someone who isn't sleep and cognition deprived would think, "How have I ended up near a town that's further from my destination than from where I just departed?" No, I took as a neat piece of trivia. I was a little disappointed, but really more tickled that Masonville had moved.

I drove, and kept driving, and wondered what happened to all the sharp curves. It was a longer drive, but definitely faster. That was good, but I was really disturbed by the loss of familiar landmarks, like the little town of Lyons, a place where my parents went to high school.  At night, I thought, those things are harder to spot.

It was like my brain was trying to protect me from sadness.

And I actually thought all those things until I passed the sign welcoming me to the Loveland city limits.  "A different Loveland?", I asked myself.  No, I'd gotten on the wrong highway--34 instead of 36--the empathetic clerk at the 7-11 informed me. I'd added an hour to my trip. It was past 2. I spent the next hour and a half speeding down the interstate with the windows down and the freaks of late night talk radio blaring their paranoia.  I sang some R. Kelly but mostly yelled obscenities at myself.

Comments

[JeanMaez]

Not that it really matters now that you're home. Next time, you're at The Stanley, you'll be at ease knowing he only wrote half of the novel there in Rm 217. The exterior shots were, er, shot, at The Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood in Oregon. The rest was filmed at studios in London. They switch in the film to Rm 237 because the people at The Timberline were worried guests would not want to stay in that room and there was no 237. At the time ,there was'nt a TAPS around and no big bald plumbers wanting to stay in haunted rooms. And I agree, the twins were totally unpleasant. I still get freaked out at the sight of duplicate juveniles .