where the boys are

As the temperatures here in Dallas rise to anger-inducing levels, I’m reminded of my summers spent avoiding the sun at my grandmother’s house in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. My parents would ship me off to visit our “Amish” relatives, experience a simpler country life, and even spend a week at Jesus camp, which happened to be my concentrated dose of religion for the year. While I would come home after the month-long excursion thankful to be around luxuries like air conditioning and cable, I secretly loved visiting Grandma because I had the chance to work as child-labor at my aunt’s video store where she paid me in free movies. Unlike my cautious mother, my Aunt Katie never censored the videos I picked to take home each night. However she did require I watch the original of any remake or sequel of a classic. I guess that explains why one summer I spent almost every night watching Hitchcock films in preparation to see the remake of Psycho. When most people think of summer films, images of explosions, beaches, sweating, and (most importantly) sex fill the brain. Yet not all the films I watched those formative summers were, in fact, happy summer fare. The films that remind me the most of summer are ones involving a heavy amount of smut and questionable characters making despicable decisions.

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