Appropriately enough, the most terrifying thing to happen during the last weekend of March – a weekend I spent among grim reapers, zombies, stilt-Nazis, and filmmakers – was driving through Gary, Indiana. NOBODY has made a fiction that is as frightening as Gary, Indiana.
The driver of our adventure took us through the hell that doubles as both Chicago’s Toilet and Michael Jackson’s birthplace in his girlfriend’s Prius. The car was as out of place as a drag queen giving a lap dance to Bono at a tractor pull. When I made the mistake of cracking a window, the outside air swooped inside our climate-controlled sanctuary, shat itself, and then died. The Gary-Air belied a greater desperation which seeped into every inch of the landscape. Thankfully, the safer pastures of Indianapolis awaited, and the ghouls of HorrorHound Weekend made us forget about the devastation – well, at least until we had to drive back home.
