Fuzzy and I have developed the routine of spending Saturday evenings curled up on the couch watching bad movies on the SciFi channel. I call them modern b movies, because, really, that’s what they are. And since they’re on cable, and we’re not paying for tickets or rental fees, we don’t even have to feel guilty about them.

I have a special fondness for bad monster movies and horror movies, one that was only encouraged by a friend and bus-mate (we were both the last stop for the special magnet bus) from high school, whom I’ll call Camille, because she’d like that.

Camille and I were always good acquaintences, but never really friends until senior year, when we realized we both liked mocking the magnet slut, who also rode our bus, and when we hung out together we’d keep up running commentary on everything.

One of our jokes was that we both wanted to be graduates of “The Linnea Quigley Film School” where we’d learn how to issue bloodcurdling horror-flick screams, and create secret recipes for stage blood. (You have to add a little bit of green food coloring, which cuts the vibrance of the red, and makes it look that much more visceral.)

And of course, we came up with stupid movie titles, either to mock people whose hair was sprayed into that late-eighties thing with the bangs standing almost straight and then curled backwards. We called it the Space Monkey Swirl, I think. The best title we ever came up with was Psycho Sluts of Satan II, which, we said, wasn’t a sequel, but had a number to make it sound cooler.

Tonight, Fuzzy and I watched (and I cannot believe I’m committing this admission to a blog entry) DinoCroc. It was a truly bad, poorly written, horribly acted *thing* that was sort of Jurassic Park meets The Crocodile Hunter meets Jaws. In fact, other than the addition of Linnea Quigley to the cast, the only thing that could have made it cheesier is any cast member uttering the line, “I think we need a bigger jeep.”

I was telling a net-friend about this, resisting as long as possible because I knew I’d be mocked, when memories of wandering around San Francisco in the middle of the night with Camille, telling people we were siamese twins who’d been separated at the elbow, popped into my head., making me emit random giggles.

Fuzzy is perplexed; I am still giggling.