Alas, poor werewolves, forever doomed to be Avis to the vampire's unassailable fang-hold on Hertz, Pepsi to their Coke, Burger King to their McDonalds!
(Note to any litigation-happy corporate types out there: The preceding metaphor is merely one lone ink-stained wretch's personal perception of brand-name pecking orders and is in no way intended as either an outright statement or an insinuation of any kind that might conceivably affect—positively or negatively—the public image, good name, market share or income of the commercial entities mentioned. So don't start whining; it demeans us both.)
Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah . . .
Pity the werewolf indeed, always forced to ride in the back seat of the Sexy/Hot/Cool Monster car while the vampire gets to sit up front and choose the radio station. To what may we ascribe this unfortunate situation? How did werewolves get swatted across the snout with the Rolled-up Newspaper of Second-Class Citizenship? There are no easy answers.
Oh heck, yes there are: Let's blame the media!
Think back to the earliest horror movies involving such supernatural critters. Once you get past Nosferatu's presentation of the vampire as overgrown gnome, the blood-suckers are inevitably portrayed as suave, seductive, and snappily dressed. Slap your actor into a swooshy, utterly fabulous cape and presto, you've got a cinematic vampire ready to go, no Transformation Scene required. (What about when Dracula turns into a bat? No biggie. A poof of flash powder and a rubber Fledermaus on a wire and you're done.)
But werewolves? Major Transition Scene nightmare, people, especially in the early days of the monster movie, long before CGI or its poorer but passable predecessors. The on-screen metamorphosis from human to werewolf was a lot of stop-action-add-another-tuft-of-fake-fur tedium resulting in a final product that was—let's be honest—pretty chintzy. Wolves have fangs, but underbites? Tusks? Face it, some of the first wolfmen on screen were Wookies with bad pompadours.
Over the years, werewolves have seen their image improve. Not only are movie Transformation Scenes smoother and the make up and facial prostheses at the end of the T.S. tunnel more terrifying and less snort-and-giggleworthy, but there's even been been some attempts to help those monthly moon-howlers lay claim to a little of the vampire's sex appeal. Yet for all that progress, they're still #2, thus going to show that you never really get over a bad start, especially when it's a matter of something as shallow yet societally key as personal appearance.
If you don't believe this, let's talk about our high school experiences, shall we? Zits and braces or better to open, player.
It is therefore my great pleasure as someone with my thumb on the pulse of the media (somewhere around the carotid artery) to be able to do something towards helping our long-suffering lycanthropic brethren to lay claim to their rightful bite of the American Dream, namely market share. And where better to get a grip on the throat of a national audience than in the still-demographically-influential suburbs?
Werewolves and the suburbs are a natural go-together. Okay, so they're not the Obligatory/Iconic Suburban Golden Retriever or Chocolate Labrador, but they've got a much better chance of taking home the Best in Show ribbon than their Undead rivals. In some suburban households, if it brings home a trophy, who cares if it also brings home bloody chunks of the neighbors every time the full moon shines? And let's not forget one more advantage to the suburban werewolf: If his lupine side does something nasty on your lawn, his human side can come by later with the Pooper Scooper. In your face, Dracula!
Therefore, welcome to the fur-sprouting, mall-browsing, moon-howling, latté -sipping world of Strip Mauled. I think you'll like what you find.
Sit. Stay.
Good reader.