This time in Dorkville we’ll pick a few TV shows. Not that these are dorky shows; in fact, us dorks consider them more worthy than some of the usual horror suspects. You just gotta be careful what company you’re in when you admit to it. Some diehard will go all Saw on you.
1) Mentioned this under the movie section but Dark Shadows deserves a second mention in its true arena—TV. Not just the original but the 1991 Revival series. Lysette Anthony’s cleavage alone in the new series is enough to get it on the list, but it was a genuinely moody and well-done show. Ben Cross, again severely under-rated, was born to be a tortured vampire. Not sure what was up with Maggie doing the wild thing with Roger, but since she was wearing a see-through T-shirt I never thought to question it.
2) Since so many remember this show fondly, I have to put Night Gallery on the list. One of the creepiest shows of its and any other time. That growing brooch that swallowed a woman…that was worth weeks of nightmares as a kid. I never was really sure if Rod Serling was actually alive during those opening sequences. I suspect maybe not.
3) Ghost Story/Circle of Fear. This show scared the hell out of me every Friday night for about a year. Sebastian Cabot (fresh off that other Horror classic, Family Affair) hosted the first half of the season until it became Circle of Fear. A woman’s whose dead husband kept crawling out of the well in the cellar, a spirit of a dead sea captain in cement, ghostly bonded twins…it didn’t get much better in Dorkville than that. Not on DVD yet, unfortunately.
4) The Sixth Sense. No, not the movie with the little creepy kid who saw dead people. The early ‘70s series that starred Gary Collins as an ESP investigator. One episode where a woman moved into a house and start experiencing visions of scenes from Edgar Allen Poe stories still sticks in my mind to this day. Should note this series was syndicated a few years back as part of Night Gallery, though they chopped a half hour off the show and mutilated it beyond belief. Not on DVD but a cool show.
5) Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. Not technically horror, because the show ventured into sci fi and espionage, but a number of episodes included werewolves, mummies and really bad looking monsters of all kinds. Dork heaven.
6) Friday the 13th. Again, not the movies but the TV series from the ‘90s starring singer/model Robey and somebody or other else. I say that because I could barely get past the perky nipples in the opening credits. Um, anyway, the first couple season were a lot of fun, the premise being the lead characters ran an antique shop had to get back a slew of cursed objects doing all sorts of naughty to their owners. A cursed cradle from the Titanic, a quilt whose owner could dream people to death and the obligatory creepy little doll. Not on DVD, either.
7) The Night Stalker. The original series, not the dreadful remake. Some dubbed it monster of the week, but you know when Karl Kolchak was sewing shut that zombie’s mouth in the back of a station wagon (we now know what happened to at least one of the Brady kids…) and the creature opened its eyes…one of the scariest TV moments ever. Very partial to the Ripper episode myself.
And for guilty pleasures….
1) Me and the Chimp. Well, yes, not technically horror but for anyone who sat through it…you know what I mean. Still, I like chimps…
2) The Groovy Ghoulies. Saturday morning cartoon terror? Oh, yeah. Just because you couldn’t get the infectious songs out of your head for days qualifies it and hey dorky Frankie and Wolfie…
Hmmm, I wonder if the Banana Splits should be on this list…nah, I’ll let Snorky be for the moment…
Oh, and as an addendum to the horror movie list, add The Norliss Tapes—a 1970s TV movie by Dan Curtis that came out around the same time as The Night Stalker, but didn’t quite catch on the same way. Pretty moody stuff.
Ok, dorks and dorkettes, lemme hear your choices…
Showing posts with label authors horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label authors horror. Show all posts
Friday, February 08, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
More MIB Weirdery
As I mentioned in my exploration of my uncle’s “experience” with those enigmatic Men in Black, a related incident occurred with my cousin and his second wife a few days later. The alleged happening occurred on September 24th, 1976, and at face value seems even more incredible than that of my uncle’s, Dr. Herbert Hopkins, encounter.
My cousin’s name was John, his wife’s name Maureen (we called her Moo for short, but I won’t go into the reason…hey, at least she didn’t have three of ‘em like another relative I know…) and they lived on an apartment on the property. The apartment was on the second floor, over the garage, about a hundred yards from the main house, separated only by a large wide driveway. John was the older of two boys, Herb, Jr. being the youngest and much less fantasy prone. He and I got along pretty well and he was always starting this band or that. He was a talented bass guitar player. Maureen was talented at things the adults didn’t really speak of around us kids.
Anyway, the story goes something like this: On that fateful night of the 24th, Maureen received a mysterious phone call from a chap who claimed to know John. This man asked if he could visit for a while. John went to a local fast-food place to pick them up, bringing both the man and his woman companion back to the apartment. John did not recognize either. (Ok, stop here. Anyone else think it odd that this fellow supposedly knew John and yet John didn’t recognize him and brought him back home anyway? I’ll explain the reason a bit later.)
Both visitors appeared in their mid-thirties and wore odd, old-fashioned clothes (John never told me how old-fashioned, which decade the clothing came from. I don’t think he really thought it through that far.) The woman was a bit peculiar, with breasts set very low and something wrong with the way her legs joined at the hips. Both strangers walked with short steps while leaning forward, as if afraid to fall.
John and Maureen, being the hosts they were, gave each stranger a Coke, though the visitors never took a sip. They sat awkwardly on a sofa and the man began asking very detailed personal questions (ok, if there are children reading this, go get popcorn and a drink and come back in a few paragraphs.) Some of the questions were mundane: what did they watch on TV? Read? What did they talk about? But all the while the man was, er, fondling his female friend. The man then asked if that was ok and if he was “doing it right”.
Uh-huh.
When John left the room for a moment, the man asked Maureen to sit next to him and asked her “how she was made”. And whether she had nude photos of herself. You can see where this is going, can’t you?
Well, as a kid I discovered a curious missing time element in the story and no one would tell me why. I think I’ve got it all figured out by now.
At any rate, the woman announced a bit later she wanted to scram, but when the man stood he made no move to leave. He stood between the woman and the door and it appeared that the only way she could leave was by walking in a straight line to that door. So she asked my cousin to “please move him (her companion). I can’t move him myself.” Then suddenly the man left, followed by miss straight-liner, walking in a perfect line, without even a goodbye.
There you have it. What seemed kinda creepy to a kid now seems…well, no so much. In fact, it is so full gaps and silliness you have to wonder why some of the legitimate journals on paranormal research would even bother to treat it with any validity.
The truth is again pretty obvious and simple. But unfortunately mixed with family sadness. Remember the part I mentioned about John not recognizing the couple but bringing them home anyway? At the time, we kids weren’t privy to what went on there, but later John told me. John and Maureen were swingers (is that term even still used?) It was fairly common for other couples to be coming and going about that place. As I kid I thought, wow, they sure have a lot of, um, “close” friends. Yep, close. Very close. So that they might have brought home an alien or two…not such a big surprise.
Anyhoooo…John was unfortunately addicted to a number of narcotics and, like his father, alcohol. Maureen was into recreational drugs and booze as well…and a particularly friendly gal. Both imagined all sorts of things on a nightly basis. And did all sorts of things that are unmentionable here.
John was basically a good guy, but in desperate need of affirmation and attention. Especially from his father. Unfortunately he never got it. And things happened past that point that get rather murky. They all up and moved a thousand miles way from Maine to Florida. A short time later I got a call from John, asking to come stay with us for a few days so he and his mom could come back to visit the old beach ‘hood. He had terminal liver damage from all the drugs, which he had finally kicked. We expected him and his mom the next week.
And never heard from him again. Maureen—in a story I don’t really know all the reasons for—shot and killed him in their backyard. The last I knew, she was still in jail, but that was quite a while back.
It’s funny the way life goes sometimes, isn’t it? How the outrageous can in a heartbeat turn to the tragic. Well, at least in my family the mysterious Men in Black can be put to rest, if not the memory of my cousin.
Next time, maybe I’ll a touch on the psychic church and aunt with three ta-tas…
My cousin’s name was John, his wife’s name Maureen (we called her Moo for short, but I won’t go into the reason…hey, at least she didn’t have three of ‘em like another relative I know…) and they lived on an apartment on the property. The apartment was on the second floor, over the garage, about a hundred yards from the main house, separated only by a large wide driveway. John was the older of two boys, Herb, Jr. being the youngest and much less fantasy prone. He and I got along pretty well and he was always starting this band or that. He was a talented bass guitar player. Maureen was talented at things the adults didn’t really speak of around us kids.
Anyway, the story goes something like this: On that fateful night of the 24th, Maureen received a mysterious phone call from a chap who claimed to know John. This man asked if he could visit for a while. John went to a local fast-food place to pick them up, bringing both the man and his woman companion back to the apartment. John did not recognize either. (Ok, stop here. Anyone else think it odd that this fellow supposedly knew John and yet John didn’t recognize him and brought him back home anyway? I’ll explain the reason a bit later.)
Both visitors appeared in their mid-thirties and wore odd, old-fashioned clothes (John never told me how old-fashioned, which decade the clothing came from. I don’t think he really thought it through that far.) The woman was a bit peculiar, with breasts set very low and something wrong with the way her legs joined at the hips. Both strangers walked with short steps while leaning forward, as if afraid to fall.
John and Maureen, being the hosts they were, gave each stranger a Coke, though the visitors never took a sip. They sat awkwardly on a sofa and the man began asking very detailed personal questions (ok, if there are children reading this, go get popcorn and a drink and come back in a few paragraphs.) Some of the questions were mundane: what did they watch on TV? Read? What did they talk about? But all the while the man was, er, fondling his female friend. The man then asked if that was ok and if he was “doing it right”.
Uh-huh.
When John left the room for a moment, the man asked Maureen to sit next to him and asked her “how she was made”. And whether she had nude photos of herself. You can see where this is going, can’t you?
Well, as a kid I discovered a curious missing time element in the story and no one would tell me why. I think I’ve got it all figured out by now.
At any rate, the woman announced a bit later she wanted to scram, but when the man stood he made no move to leave. He stood between the woman and the door and it appeared that the only way she could leave was by walking in a straight line to that door. So she asked my cousin to “please move him (her companion). I can’t move him myself.” Then suddenly the man left, followed by miss straight-liner, walking in a perfect line, without even a goodbye.
There you have it. What seemed kinda creepy to a kid now seems…well, no so much. In fact, it is so full gaps and silliness you have to wonder why some of the legitimate journals on paranormal research would even bother to treat it with any validity.
The truth is again pretty obvious and simple. But unfortunately mixed with family sadness. Remember the part I mentioned about John not recognizing the couple but bringing them home anyway? At the time, we kids weren’t privy to what went on there, but later John told me. John and Maureen were swingers (is that term even still used?) It was fairly common for other couples to be coming and going about that place. As I kid I thought, wow, they sure have a lot of, um, “close” friends. Yep, close. Very close. So that they might have brought home an alien or two…not such a big surprise.
Anyhoooo…John was unfortunately addicted to a number of narcotics and, like his father, alcohol. Maureen was into recreational drugs and booze as well…and a particularly friendly gal. Both imagined all sorts of things on a nightly basis. And did all sorts of things that are unmentionable here.
John was basically a good guy, but in desperate need of affirmation and attention. Especially from his father. Unfortunately he never got it. And things happened past that point that get rather murky. They all up and moved a thousand miles way from Maine to Florida. A short time later I got a call from John, asking to come stay with us for a few days so he and his mom could come back to visit the old beach ‘hood. He had terminal liver damage from all the drugs, which he had finally kicked. We expected him and his mom the next week.
And never heard from him again. Maureen—in a story I don’t really know all the reasons for—shot and killed him in their backyard. The last I knew, she was still in jail, but that was quite a while back.
It’s funny the way life goes sometimes, isn’t it? How the outrageous can in a heartbeat turn to the tragic. Well, at least in my family the mysterious Men in Black can be put to rest, if not the memory of my cousin.
Next time, maybe I’ll a touch on the psychic church and aunt with three ta-tas…
Friday, January 18, 2008
Naked Book Selling
The other day I was having a peculiar conversation with a writer friend about book promotion. Promotion—unless you’re a Big Name or can sleep with your marketing rep and an editor or two—mostly gets left to the author nowadays. So writer friend, who’s mind is even more naughty as mine is, says, ok, how ‘bout this: sex sells.
Um, yeah, ok, but since I ain’t Brad Pitt that’s not an option.
Writer Friend: Maybe implants?
Me says: Nah, I’d just stay in my room playin’ with ‘em all day and get no work done. Or practice makin’ copies of them on the photocopier machine that way writer friend does. (these don’t FAX well, incidentally…)
Writer Friend: Well, what other assets do you have?
Me: I think I’m sittin’ on ‘em.
Writer Friend: Ok, you gotta do it, then!
Me: Do what?
Writer Friend: Pose naked!
Me: Um, we’ve got 10 months till Halloween. One scare a year is enough.
Writer Friend: No, you can maybe photocopy your butt and use it on flyers. Use the slogan, Don’t Let This Book Slip Through the Cracks!
Me: Groan? Aren’t there laws against that kind of thing?
Writer Friend: The fines can’t be that heavy. Think of the publicity you’d get.
Me: Well, maybe I should just have my book covers tattooed on my bum, then…
Writer Friend: That’s it! And wear a thong!
Eek. Conversation over before she decided to fetch the magic markers and start drawing on my cheeks.
But I’m wondering now if maybe she wasn’t on to something? This might be my best angle.
Um, yeah, ok, but since I ain’t Brad Pitt that’s not an option.
Writer Friend: Maybe implants?
Me says: Nah, I’d just stay in my room playin’ with ‘em all day and get no work done. Or practice makin’ copies of them on the photocopier machine that way writer friend does. (these don’t FAX well, incidentally…)
Writer Friend: Well, what other assets do you have?
Me: I think I’m sittin’ on ‘em.
Writer Friend: Ok, you gotta do it, then!
Me: Do what?
Writer Friend: Pose naked!
Me: Um, we’ve got 10 months till Halloween. One scare a year is enough.
Writer Friend: No, you can maybe photocopy your butt and use it on flyers. Use the slogan, Don’t Let This Book Slip Through the Cracks!
Me: Groan? Aren’t there laws against that kind of thing?
Writer Friend: The fines can’t be that heavy. Think of the publicity you’d get.
Me: Well, maybe I should just have my book covers tattooed on my bum, then…
Writer Friend: That’s it! And wear a thong!
Eek. Conversation over before she decided to fetch the magic markers and start drawing on my cheeks.
But I’m wondering now if maybe she wasn’t on to something? This might be my best angle.
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