Cannibalism with a side of Voortman cookies (My Life as a Horror Fan, Part 8)

“WORLD TELEVISION PREMIERE” was a familiar and sometimes exciting phrase for kids in the early 1980s. It meant that you were going to watch a big budget, smash-hit Hollywood movie at home. Unless you had one of the four – FOUR! – premium stations, there were two ways to watch recent popular movies: You could go to the theater, or you could catch one on sychronous broadcast TV. I have a hazy memory of watching Mark Hamill introduce Star Wars on a little black and white set in my room as a preschooler. At the time it was kind of a big deal.

I’ll play the rest if you remove RROH’s restraining bolt.

VCRs became available in affordable consumer models in the mid-1970s, but it took about 10 years for them to catch on. No one we knew had one until my folks bought one in 1985, right smack in the middle of the format war and the golden age of the local video shop. Overnight, it seemed like everyone else got one too.

My parents’ decision, probably like a lot of other people’s, was spurred by the sudden explosion in the number of places to rent movies. The first one in our town appeared in the big shopping plaza that was anchored by Kmart. In an unnecessary investigation that presaged my own obsessiveness about electronics, Dad went there several times with a notebook to  write down the titles of some of the videos in the store, the cost to rent them, and whether they were available or checked out.

That store was followed by Showcase Video, which was next door to the camera shop where Mom worked before I was born, and Video Bank, which was up the street from our house at the end of the same shopping center where we bought groceries. Somewhere else in town there was another store called Video Bank, which forced the owners near us to rename their shop Video Bonk. Network Video opened in a shopping center a few miles further up the same road. Network Video sucked. The only thing in their kids section was several dozen episodes of Inspector Gadget, which I didn’t like. Within a year or two, Marsh set up video rental areas in their stores, and Kroger followed suit a couple years after that.

At first we mostly went to Video Bank/Bonk. It was close to home and we could stop there after grocery shopping on Saturday afternoon. Add in the fact that they had a drive-through window, and there was no beating them for convenience. The kids’ shelves were shaped like a doghouse and the video boxes sat on its roof and sides, almost like shingles. Mom and Dad restricted me to choosing one kids’ tape per visit. Most of the selections were older live-action Disney movies, which was fine for a while because I hadn’t seen them. Through the magic of home video I was initiated into the most prevalent childhood trauma of 20th century America: Old Yeller. For a little boy with a Golden Retriever-Labrador mix, this was possibly the most horrific video available.

It ain’t Air Bud.

Video Bonk enjoyed our patronage for maybe a year. There was a knock at our door one evening. It was a collection agent, who asked to speak to someone we’d never heard of. Dad confirmed the agent was at the correct address, but the person they were looking for didn’t live there. Well, the agent asked, do you rent movies from Video Bonk? Dad responded that we did. The man asked if we had any unreturned videos. No, we didn’t. The guy eventually explained that someone had rented a lot of videos and hadn’t returned them, and had given our address when they signed up for a membership. Well, that cleared that up, or so we thought, until another collection agent showed up weeks later asking for someone else, who had also rented movies from Video Bonk, and had also given our address as their residence. And then another agent came another night. Mom and Dad told the people at Video Bonk what was going on. They seemed sympathetic. Then another collection agent showed up on our porch. And then another. And another.

And so we became Showcase Video customers, and started frequenting the other Marsh near it. This was a doubled-edged sword; Showcase had a way better selection, but the Marsh was bigger and it took longer to shop there. At first I was still only allowed to pick from the kids section. This is especially lame when your mom just wants you to fucking pick something already, and so steers you to a gem like Kid Colter, a 1984 kiddie action movie in which a city boy gets kidnapped by grits, or spies, or grit spies, or somefuckingbody, and they ditch him in the middle of nowhere because they want him dead but why bother killing the little shit when you can let nature do it for you? He survives using some hastily learned survival skills and a set of those three interlocking rings that magicians separate during their acts. Somehow the spybillies realize Mother Nature’s napping on the job because this fucking kid’s not dead yet, and they go chasing after him. In what I think is supposed to be the big set piece, the boy uses the rings to ride down a zip line or an old telegraph wire or I don’t fucking know man, there’s a wire across a gorge, kid’s got his magic rings, whoosh, what a thrill! The movie would have been better and funnier if those fucking rings would have come apart over that canyon. Shorter too.

Not everything in Showcase’s kids section was a dud. Some titles had cross-generational appeal, like the seminal war dramas “Arise, Serpentor, Arise!” and G.I. Joe: The Movie, both of which placed highly on AFI’s 100 Greatest Films list. Seriously though, those scenes in The GI Joe movie after Cobra Commander has been exposed to the mutation spores in Cobra-La, and he’s slowing losing his mind and turning into a big fucking snake – fucking chilling. And touching too; Cobra Commander and Roadblock, man they really bonded. It was like watching Billy Dee Williams exchange goodbyes with James Caan. Perhaps not as wrenching as Old Yeller, but definitely some of Chris Latta’s best work.

Ultimately, Showcase Video was way better decorated and eventually the frequently updated displays, posters, and standees were too enticing. It wasn’t long before Mom and Dad had heard all the begging they could withstand and allowed me to rent from other parts of the store.

I didn’t get all my wishes, life-size cardboard cut-outs of Freddy Krueger and the not-yet-famous Jim Carrey accompanied by Lauren Hutton notwithstanding. I didn’t even bother asking about the teen sex comedy Mischief, the poster for which featured some blonde guy holding Kelly Preston’s panties as they tumbled from the backseat of a red convertible.

Age seven: No idea what they're doing, definitely interested.
Age seven: No idea what they’re doing, definitely interested.

But I did get to see some of the spooky stuff. My cousin Ellen and I became devotees of Disney’s 1980 kiddie chiller, The Watcher in the Woods. It’s 60 minutes of a good, atmospheric supernatural tale, followed by a bizarre and muddled ending. Still, we rented it for two or three New Year’s Eves in a row, along with The Neverending Story. Over the years I rented a lot of kiddo scare-fare, like Saturday the 14th and Monster Squad.

Mom usually was the arbiter of what was and was not appropriate for me to watch. Many of her decisions were questionable, particularly in the early years. Transylvania 6-5000 was full of jokes about the horror genre that I didn’t get, and Geena Davis in a seriously deep V-neck, which I did appreciate. Troll was another questionable pick. It wasn’t particularly good, or particularly scary, except for a scene in which the troll jabs Sonny Bono with a needle on a ring, causing him to vomit, convulse, turn into a cucumber, and rupture in a riot of trees and plants. Like Watcher, it starred a familiar leading lady as a witch; Watcher had Bette Davis and Troll had June Lockhart. Unlike Watcher, it was definitely not made with kids in mind. (It did star Noah Hathaway from The Neverending Story though.)

Some movies I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to watch had I not pleaded and pleaded and pleaded. If you were a boy in the mid-1980s, you had to see Teen Wolf. He’s a teenager! He’s on the basketball team! He turns into a werewolf who can dunk! He also stands on the roofs of moving cars and uses a jimmy card to buy beer for a kegger. In retrospect, Teen Wolf was one of those 80s movies that presents a deliriously outlandish misrepresentation of teenage life. I also begged my way into renting Legend, which probably appealed to Dad as well. Legend is fucking awesome. Tim Curry’s Darkness is the most indelible Satan in film; take it from me, I’ve seen a few. Getting to see this movie was a career-defining achievement in Olympic-level begging for a little kid who had already displayed a problematic fear of Lucifer. Meg Mucklebones was scary as hell too.

Other decisions Mom made were total head-scratchers. She was an ardent Stephen King fan, so any adaptations of his work, anything that featured original writing by him, and anything he produced was a must-rent. At the time, I did not get to see these, except Cat’s Eye. It wasn’t what you’d call nightmare fuel, but if you aren’t going to let a kid watch Creepshow, what’s so different about Cat’s Eye? I was eventually allowed to fully partake in the Stephen King movies, but by then I was 10 or 11.

The one that really puzzles me though was The Terror at Red Wolf Inn. (Some releases are titled The Folks at Red Wolf Inn; it’s the same movie.) I was having trouble settling on something to rent and Mom spotted it among the horror movies. The box description promised a tale of a young woman who wins an all-expenses-paid stay at a quaint seaside inn … an inn with a seeeecreeeet. It strongly hints that the secret has something to do with food and unexplained disappearances, but maybe if you’re a parent looking for somewhat tame horror movie for your second-grader to watch, you might reasonably be thinking “big deal, haunted inn.” You would be wrong.

I mean, there are two human heads on that table.
I mean, there are two human heads on that table.

So we get this movie home, pop it into the VCR, adjust the tracking, and true to its description, within minutes young Regina, a college student, discovers she’s won a getaway at the Red Wolf Inn. The owners contact her to arrange travel, and she’s off.

A few things become apparent shortly after that. One, the movie is of an early 70s vintage, and two, it’s a bit of an exploitation flick. Sure, it’s not Ilsa: She-Wolf of the SS or even The Last House on the Left, but Regina meets two other pretty young things at the inn and, since there’s a beach, she has an opportunity to head down to the water in a skimpy two-piece. The other girls, Janet and Edwina, have a tendency to show up for dinner with the elderly proprietors wearing backless dresses. Look, I’m not a prude, but it is conspicuous. It’s not like the Red Wolf Inn has a lounge where they can cruise for other singles.

Equally conspicuous, unlike other food-serving establishments the mystery meat at Red Wolf Inn is fantastic (and not much of a mystery). Guests also check out in the middle of the night while everyone else is asleep. Regina’s suspicions are confirmed when she enters the forbidden walk-in freezer. But it’s not over yet. In a truly unforgettable scene she joins the innkeepers around their table one more time and tries to hold down the food, while hallucinating that Janet and Edwina are still there, eating contentedly, smiling knowingly.

Our dinners, ourselves.
Our dinners, ourselves.

It was a weekend tradition for us for a long time: Grocery shopping, stop at Showcase, watch a couple movies. Though I did not tolerate grocery shopping gladly, it did present the opportunity to get a snack for movie night. Usually I could pick whatever I liked (within reason), but sometimes Mom steered me toward the Voortman cookie bin. It was a self-serve kiosk near the bakery, stocked with a dozen or so varieties of cookies. There was some sort of discount if you bought a certain number. Most of them were pretty good but I always sort of hoped to avoid the bin because I never knew when Mom would be on one of her “the boy needs to eat healthier snacks” kicks, during which she would only buy me the windmill cookies. Voortman windmill cookies, which bizarrely endure, are MDF-like healthfood shingles with a few almond slices baked in. They are shaped like windmills.

MOM AND POP VIDEO STORES in the mid-80s did not bother with guaranteeing the availability of any new releases, or even buying additional copies of movies that were hits. Every shop had exactly two copies of each new movie: One VHS and one Betamax. Our VCR was VHS. VHS was cheaper, but Beta had better picture and sound quality. Every consumer could see VHS was poised to win the format war, so far fewer people bought Beta, meaning those tapes were always available for rental. For months, Showcase Video’s Betamax copies of Gremlins and Ghostbusters sat on the shelf, calling me, but were unaccompanied by their VHS counterparts.

We had some movies on tape at home, but we did not purchase them. Rather, we recorded them when they were on TV. We had House on Haunted Hill, Devil Dog: Hound of Hell, and Star Wars. I later realized that if I watched a movie while it recorded, I could pause it during commercials to create a break-free copy. Buying movies on home video wasn’t too common mid-decade. Showcase would order you a copy from a catalog, but none of the stores near us stocked movies for sale. The first one I can remember owning was a tape of two Three Stooges shorts, “Disorder in the Court” and “The Brideless Groom,” which my Grandma gave me. Then there were some Ninja Turtle cartoons that were Burger King kid’s meal giveaways. The first feature length movie I owned on home video was either Raiders of the Lost Ark or Tim Burton’s Batman. I don’t remember which I got first.

In fact, prior to owning any movies on home video, we had a game on home video. Mom and Dad were big fans of the Clue VCR Mystery Game. I never played it, but they enjoyed the hell out of it. As best as I could tell, it was something like regular Clue, except you watched these hammy video clips and answered questions about them, which earned you cards, which enabled you to rule out suspects, murder weapons, and locations. Depending on which room a player chose to explore, someone had to fast forward the VCR until a certain number showed on the display counter, in order to access the correct scene. This was the 1985 equivalent of DVD scene selection. It was my job to stand very close to the VCR and watch for the number.

Our VCR was a Panasonic Omnivision, a lot like this model.
Our VCR was a Panasonic Omnivision, a lot like this model. Looking at the counter was fine, but touch the son of a bitch and it would shock the life right out of you.

Speaking of games, not long after we bought our first NES, the video stores started renting Nintendo cartridges – an invaluable public service. We might never have bought Castlevania if we had known beforehand how damn difficult it was. After a million repetitions of getting killed by Igor while Frankenstein’s monster shuffled back and forth, taking the plunge on Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out!!! felt like gambling your entire life on one throw of the dice. In reality it was only several months’ worth of odd job money. I saved up $40 and was delighted to discover it only cost $29.99 at Johnny’s Toys. At the other end of the jewelry case were several less popular carts, priced to sell at $10 each. I could buy Punch-Out and take a chance on one of those games, I thought. This was the precise moment when I learned about sales tax.

Anyway, thanks to the video stores we were able to try out The Legend of Zelda before getting it. (As if there was any need; that game is a fucking classic.) More importantly, we dodged a lot of bullets too. A cover story or feature in Nintendo Power could make any random piece of shit sound like a universally anticipated million-selling cart in the offing. Video stores let you try before you buy.

Wizards & Warriors sucked balls. At the request of Kevin Tanner, who was coming to our house for a sleepover, I rented it from Convenient, which kept a small selection of NES carts right near the beer case. Kevin arrived and played a shitload of Wizards & Warriors, which was a one-player RPG-style platformer. I chilled out nearby on the living room floor, waiting for my turn, which seemed to arrive rarely and never last long when it did. This was at the beginning of the “Kevin is my good friend, but is he a good friend?” phase of our friendship. When he went home the next day I finally had the chance to play the game for more than a few minutes. It was basically a series of fetch-quests. You come to a place in the map where you can’t jump high enough or the lava pit is too wide to walk through, so you have to go back and explore until you find the hidden area that contains the item that allows you to overcome the obstacle. Like a lot of early “RPG” video games, there was very little role playing and a shitload of accumulating gear.

Why did we rent Rush’n Attack? I’m just thankful we did. It was an NES port of a military-themed coin-op beat ’em up. A very repetitive coin-op beat ’em up, it turned out. We rented it on a Friday afternoon on our way to a mall. The whole shopping trip, I was dying to go home and play it. Such a letdown.

Licensed games based on movies, cartoons, and TV shows were a big deal to me back then because I was too little to notice the pattern, to wit that they always sucked. The Dick Tracy NES game offered an interesting take on the 1990 summer hit; instead of rounding up Big Boy Caprice and his underlings, Tracy always died in a hail of sniper fire pouring down from as many as six different rooftops at a time. I guess the designers got confused and took inspiration from the wrong Warren Beatty movie.

Fester’s Quest struggled to match theme to game play – or game anything. The Three Stooges cart was a ho-hum collection of minigames, but it least it was a well-themed ho-hum collection of minigames. Fester’s Quest took Addams Family characters and grafted them into a lame 2D overhead adventure in which Uncle Fester collects ever more powerful guns in order to go into the sewers and shoot Giger Lite aliens. What the fuck did that have to do with anything?

But you can’t talk about crappy licensed-IP Nintendo games without talking about Friday the 13th. My cousin Ellen and I actually enjoyed it for a while, just running around throwing rocks at zombies and hoping Jason would show up so we could shit a brick, yell a lot, and get killed. Friday was a one-player game too, but we resolved this equitably by picking three each of the six playable characters before every game. Eventually we decided we’d try to actually finish the thing, at which time we started to get really pissed.

We had no fucking clue why Jason’s mother’s head was a boss in the game, because of course we’d seen the recent Friday the 13th sequels but not the original movie.

THE FIRST CHAIN TO ARRIVE in our town was The Video Store. It went into a big storefront pretty close to the former location of the rental shop where Dad had done all his research. It was big, about three times the size Showcase Video. It later changed it’s name to Video Towne before moving to a similarly-sized space in a new shopping center that featured Kroger and K-Mart on opposite ends. Eventually it became Blockbuster.

Locally owned shops endured for a while. A guy my Dad worked with opened Rainbow Video, which had the best horror selection in town but only lasted a few years. Video Bonk became Ebner’s Video, and introduced the concept of stupid cheap prices for older movies. I think they were four for a dollar. Dad liked to wore out our VCR. Showcase lasted until the mid-1990s.

Hollywood Video arrived in 1997. It was under construction next door to the movie theater where I worked as a senior in high school. In one of my best-ever work related memories, my boss and I watched with glee as a windstorm blew in and swept up an ocean of styrofoam peanuts apparently intended to insulate Hollywood Video’s then unfinished roof. They rose and wheeled like the ping pong balls in the tornado at the end of Twister, while a single, forlorn worker stood next to his truck, watching them settle all over our parking lot. “Take a dustpan and broom over there,” my boss chuckled, “and tell him he has to sweep all this up.”

Like Ebner’s – which didn’t last long at all, and was already gone by senior year – Hollywood Video also made a selling point of renting out older movies for pocket lint and car wash tokens. I think it was five nights for a dollar. This was a major boon when my remaining friends and I entered our college-years peonage and became interested in growing beards and talking about film noir and arty SF movies. Those were the days of the five-dollar film festival.

Fast forward from the sunset of the VHS tape to the twilight of an entire business.

When you run the biggest video store chain in the world, with who-fucking-knows how many stores in probably every damn state, the important thing to do is keep fucking eating your competition. By 2005 the video rental industry had transitioned to DVD and Blockbuster Video, with all it’s shitty horror sections packed with mockbusters and direct-to-video excrement, had proliferated like dogshit; you couldn’t put your foot anywhere without stepping in one. But it wasn’t enough. Big Yellow turned its attention to Hollywood Video that year.

Hollywood Video always had a decent horror section. For one thing, they put all the horror movies there, instead of dispersing the better ones throughout the thriller and drama sections – which is to say, they didn’t dismiss the validity of the genre, like Blockbuster did. Hollywood was the second-largest rental chain in America, so of course Blockbuster, being number one, had a pathological need to devour them. Blockbuster attempted to buy a controlling stake in Hollywood, which responded by selling itself to the third-largest chain, Movie Gallery, for roughly a billion dollars.

Movie Gallery bought Hollywood Videos debt along with its stores, and the bills became too much to bear around 2007 or 2008. Stores branded Movie Gallery were liquitdated and shuttered first, then Hollywood Video locations started closing. I went to the going out of business sales to pick over the bones of both chains’ local shops. Movie Gallery’s selection was pathetic. When the nearest Hollywood Video closed I scored a copy of Dark City and talked for a second with the shop’s longest-tenured employee, a kid who had been in my Cub Scouts den and later became the leader of a face-painted coven of Marilyn Manson fanatics in high school. I ran into him again a year later; he had transitioned to working at the box office of a cineplex.

I stumbled upon a still operating Hollywood Video about 15 miles from home and immediately, gladly, went through the rigmarole of signing up for a membership. It was worth the drive too. They closed their doors a month or so later. I moved to Illinois in August 2009 and found there was still a Hollywood Video in town. Score! Then it closed by the end of fall.

And then, with Netflix still mailing people discs but pivoting toward streaming, and RedBox letting customers borrow movies at a DVD vending machine but charging them late fees even when everything was returned on time thus encouraging them to go bitch at a bank teller because what the fuck else are you going to do, stand outside Walgreen’s and yell at that goddamn box?

Ahem … As all that was going on, even Blockbuster started to totter. Within a couple months in 2010 the company was delisted and then filed for Bankruptcy. About a year later it was purchased by Dish Network. Commencing more or less then, and concluding within a year and a half, all Blockbuster locations except those owned by franchisees were liquidated.

Ironically some of the mom-and-pop video stores were among the last to disappear. That’s Rentertainment in Urbana, Illinois and Movie Fan in nearby Normal were shops for the connoisseur and the casual alike. In addition to its comprehensive horror and sci-fi sections, Rentertainment also had a foreign film section that included movies you absolutely did not find at any chain store, like the Herzog-Kinski collaboration Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht. Movie Fan had a much better, even festive, ambiance, with movies constantly playing on a little tube TV near four soda shop tables at the front of the store. Movie Fan closed in 2014, and That’s Rentertainment in 2015. Though I no longer lived in Illinois, I was really sad.

That leaves Family Video, green-roofed provider of new releases, almost new releases, and older titles. One alphabet for each, and no sections for genres.

I was at the old Marsh near my Dad’s house a while back (before that went belly-up too). There were the same floor tiles they had when I was a kid, still 12 aisles, still the same shelves, a little bit of redocrating but that’s it. No more movie or Nintendo game rental though. No more tiny credit union next door, where I got my first checking account. No more running into people I know while grocery shopping either. That’s the hardest part. When I was a kid my aunt and uncle lived right at the top of the hill near the store, maybe a tenth of a mile away. They’re both gone now. So is a high school social studies teacher I saw there from time to time. Jared Little’s family lived across the street from the store, but they moved away ages ago.

And certainly no more Video Bonk or Ebner’s. A trip to the video store was one of those small treats that I looked forward to in a big way as a kid. As a parent, I struggle to find similar experiences for my children to enjoy. In an age when no one seems to want to leave their house, there’s not a lot of neat stuff to do in public.

You’re traveling through another dimension (My Life as a Horror Fan, Part 7)

Rod Serling’s immortal gift to mankind, The Twilight Zone, will forever reign as the king of television horror-SF anthologies. It will never be excelled. Zone had worthy contemporaries, too. The Outer Limits and Alfred Hitchcock Presents rightfully have taken their places among the legendary, One Step Beyond was available on Hulu for a while, and the Boris Karloff-hosted Thriller was, until a couple years ago, airing late at night on one of the OTA subchannels.

That the bar for excellence was set so high so early did not deter later generations of TV producers, directors, showrunners, and writers. Many in the years since have striven to create their own unforgettable horror anthologies, and many indeed have succeeded. Every decade has its own standouts in the genre. Serling himself reloaded in the 1970s with Night Gallery, and people a bit younger than myself still speak affectionately of Nickelodeon’s Are You Afraid of the Dark? I’m confident that today there are thousands of American and British kids, mostly in their teens but a few maybe a bit younger, who turn off every light in the house before watching Black Mirror in deep, intent silence.

This blog at this stage however is concerned with the 1980s. We had our anthologies then too, and they were nothing to sneeze at. About the same time that I was struggling to find and later enjoying the finer titles in Tyler Elementary School’s library, I was also seeking every opportunity to be terrorized by television.

Tales from the Darkside was the best of the decade. It even surmounted Zone, Limits, and Hitchcock in one significant aspect: Whereas all four had memorable title sequences, Darkside’s intro was positively gut-wrenching, inducing bottomless dread even upon repeated viewings. (Darkside and Limits had notable exit sequences too.) It started with pastoral images of clouds and fields, covered bridges and pebble-strewn creeks, accompanied by a light but minor-key synthesizer melody. Imagine a clown making balloon animals for children at a party, but he’s covered with oozing sores. Now imagine the sort of calliope music that might play during such a scene. That’s what Darkside’s theme music sounded like.

There was, of course, a voice-over:

“Man lives in the sunlit world of what he believes to be reality. But there is, unseen by most, an underworld. A place that is just as real, but not as brightly lit … A dark side.”

“But there is” cues a change of scenery, from placid pastures to gaunt white aspens so thick the dreary sky can barely peek through. At “a dark side,” a scene of leafy trees at the edge of a field is inverted to a negative image and the synth goes full-on dark wave with a long minor-chord drone. This was the part that twisted the insides of many a little kid; any American now between about 35 and 45 could tell you about it. I remember at night the view from my bedroom window looked a lot like that final, negative image, with the sky purple from reflected city lights and the trees standing out as pitch black wraiths. The showed debuted in September 1984, and a lot of nights the following summer I surreptitiously closed my window after my parents put me to bed.

The series was created by George Romero and there was some very top-shelf writing talent behind some of it. Romero wrote a few episodes and Stephen King contributed two. A paperback author named Michael McDowell wrote a bunch. Like other anthologies, there were some “based on a story by” episodes, that adapted the work of Robert Bloch and Harlan Ellison.

I don’t remember any of the episodes as clearly as I remember the intro, but I do remember a few. Jerry Stiller starred in one as a talk radio shock jock resentful of the entire world, especially his callers, who on one particular day are dialing in from 1922, 1967, and sometime during America’s Wilson-era involvement in the Mexican Revolution. On top of that, before getting to work he went to his car and found a dead man slumped behind the wheel. FORESHADOWING!

Another episode, “Seasons of Belief,” had my friends and I reaching through windows, doors, and pass-throughs to grab each others’ heads for the rest of an evening. A pair of smart-assed, jaded kids are given something to believe in on Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Santa Claus. In a hilarious but probably unintended “Christmas Story” kind of touch, their parents are played by Margaret Klenck (born 1953) and E.G. Marshall (1914).

In “Word Processor of the Gods,” a writer less frustrated by a block than by his hectoring wife and slobbish son hooks up a computer built by his late, cherished nephew and finds it’s good for more than just printing fiction. That was a Stephen King one, the story ended up being included in his collection Skeleton Crew. In another, Harry Anderson plays a television writer who becomes dependent on his answering machine for ideas. Have you ever noticed writers love to write about writers?

Tales from the Darkside had a successor, Monsters, which aired from the time Darkside ended in 1988 until 1991. I didn’t watch Monsters nearly as much. Usually if I saw it, it was because I was stuck in an ER waiting room late at night. (I had relatives who were frequently ill at the time.) I remember the pilot, “The Feverman,” in which a sick girl is taken to a local healer who has a terrifying folk cure for her illness: He draws out a hulking, gristly physical embodiment of her fever and fights it to the death, hand to hand.

Romero wasn’t the only big name to try his hand at anthology TV. Stephen Spielberg got into the act too, with Amazing Stories, which lasted two years on NBC, when I was in first and second grade. Like Darkside and Zone, Amazing Stories didn’t skip on talent; most episodes were based on stories by Spielberg, though Richard Matheson contributed a few. The list of directors is even more distinguished: Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, Joe Dante, Clint Eastwood, Irvin Kershner, Robert Zemeckis, Tobe Hooper, Todd Holland, Danny Devito, Burt Reynolds, and Timothy Hutton.

Unlike Darkside/Monsters, Amazing Stories debuted smack in the middle of Sunday night, at 7 o’clock if I remember correctly. Despite the impressive roster of writers and directors, things didn’t go well and the series was moved to 8:30 p.m. Monday, airing just after ALF, for its second season.

The most memorable episode as far as I’m concerned was “The Sitter.” It’s about two little boys who terrorize all their babysitters. One of the kids was played by Seth Green, who became famous a few years later as “the Cha-Ching Guy” just before being decapitated in a car accident. Anyway, one day a new babysitter shows up, and she’s smoking a cigarillo and speaks with a thick Caribbean accent. No matter what they do, the boys can’t rattle Jennifer, the new sitter, who parries their pranks with what appears to be magic … or voodoo. “Jokes on old Jennifer sometime loop the loop,” as she says. As the plot’s final crescendo commences, she informs them there’s a duppy in their bedroom closet. Or, as I misunderstood it as a first-grader, a “deputy.” The brothers put on their adventure clothes and launched their final sortie against Jennifer, and at the episode’s most critical moment they sought shelter in the closet, revealing THE DEPUTY. It looked and sounded a lot like Slimer, but corporeal and hairy, and though it was only on screen for an instant, for months I was gripped by the fear that there was a deputy in my closet.


Years later, when YouTube became a thing, I tried to find the episode online. As you might imagine, feverishly Googling variations on the phrase “amazing stories the deputy” didn’t do me any good. It took “Mr. Brown” by Bob Marley and the Wailers to set me on the right track. Thank you, Bob, and thank you too, three john crows.

Another episode starred Jon Crier as an undergrad science prodigy who invents a pink concoction that looks like amoxicillin and smears it on photographs, making their subjects come to life. So, of course, he starts dumping it onto his skin mags, trying to find the right dosage to bring Miss Whatevermonthitwas into his life. This was maybe a little too PG-13 for a seven-year-old. The following day I reviewed the episode in my second grade writing journal and read my highly detailed synopsis to my classmates. It’s a pretty cringy memory; there were a lot of those that year. Looking back on it, second grade was the year when I transitioned from fairly normal child to pre-adolescent weirdo.

In its season 1 Sunday night time slot Spielberg’s TV project had competition from another formidable name: Walt Disney. Though it had hopped around from network to network, a (mostly) Sunday night presentation of a Disney show had been a part of America’s TV landscape for the better part of three decades, dating back to just after my father’s birth. In the mid-80’s it was on ABC at 7 p.m. as The Disney Sunday Movie. Most of the movies were made for TV. The only two I really remember were Mr. Boogedy and The Bride of Boogedy, which aired in April 1986 and April 1987, respectively. Mr. Boogedy looked like a toned-down Freddy Krueger and was the hateful ghost of a dead pilgrim who, along with two more benevolent spirits, haunted a family’s new home 300 years after fragging himself in a sorcery accident. Richard Masur played the family’s dad, and Kristi Swanson, Bud Bundy, and the whiny kid from ALF played the children. John Astin plays a neighbor. Among the little boys in Mrs. Mello’s first grade class, Mr. Boogedy was a smash. It hit the same spot as something like Saturday the 14th, if you remember that one.

Ray Bradbury was on the anthology scene at the time too, for two seasons on HBO and four on the USA Network. Some episodes were original teleplays and others adaptations of his fiction, but every episode of Ray Bradbury Theater was written by the man himself. I’ve never been much of a Ray Bradbury fan, but I suppose I can thank him for the sight of a deboned Eugene Levy puddled on a floor, gurgling and trying to talk. Hell’s bells, even Rod Serling and Alfred Hitchcock were back posthumously. A Twilight Zone reboot and a new Alfred Hitchcock Presents both ran from 1985 to 1989. Wes Craven directed an excellent episode of the new Zone, “Dealer’s Choice,” that had built-in appeal for a boy growing up in a family of Poker players. The only thing I remember about the new Hitchcock was it was hosted by Alfred Hitchcock, who had been dead for about five years at the time. I understood that they were using previously taped intros, but I still thought it was fucking odd.

And speaking of big names, you can’t talk 80’s horror without Freddy and Jason, and they had TV shows too. I don’t remember ever watching Freddy’s Nightmares, and all I remember of Friday the 13th: The Series was a two-parter in which some Satanist was trying to fulfill a prophecy that would unleash Lucifer upon Earth. It wasn’t actually an anthology series, it had a cast of characters who ran an antique shop full of infernal knicknacks and every week they embarked on a different struggle against darkness. Imagine The X-Files with no mytharc and Ed and Lorraine Warren’s rec room instead of a basement office at the FBI. It was like that.

My parents loved The Hitchhiker, which I was not allowed to watch. Speaking of HBO, you might be wondering where Tales from the Crypt falls into this story. The short answer is “later.” Tales from the Crypt didn’t debut until summer 1989, meaning the bulk of the series aired during the 1990s.

Phantasmagoria of the Library (My Life as a Horror Fan, Part 6)

The library at John Tyler Elementary School was not a place of welcome. When I was in second grade, it became a battleground.

That’s a strange reminiscence from a librarian. My mom found it odd back then too that her son, who read everyday, loved the public library, and always left it with a pile of books, complained that he didn’t like the school library and couldn’t find anything to read there. I was quick to explain. There were books there that I wanted to read, but I wasn’t allowed to read them.

The school library was divided into three large sections. The low shelves under the windows held picture books and early readers for first- and second-graders. The floor-to-ceiling shelves facing the desk and lining the two alcoves across the reading area from the windows were for grades three and up, offering YA fiction and nonfiction. An additional wall of tall shelves on the east wall at the end of the reading area were off limits to everyone but fifth- and sixth-graders. And as far as the librarian Mrs. Huffle was concerned, those age restrictions were absolute.

I struggled all through first grade to find anything interesting at all during our class’ weekly visit to the library. I tolerated a lot of Barney Beagle, Nate the Great, and Amelia Bedelia that year. As second grade began, I asked about the books on the opposite side of the reading area, but as far as Mrs. Huffle was concerned, the first rule of reader’s advisory for children was “Grade level, not reading level.” When she tried to steer me to a Ranger Don book I responded that I had already borrowed the public library’s entire collection of Ranger Don books. My irritation was amplified by the fact that we were a split class of second- and third-graders, so half of my classmates were already allowed to browse the alcoves. Eventually I was unwilling to even try to find something on the low shelves.

Mom was informed of this, in what was probably an attempt to bring me under parental pressure to stop bitching and just borrow a book. It backfired, badly. In what was both a justified protest and an early example of the erosion of the parent-teacher alliance, Mom discussed the matter with Mrs. Carp, my teacher, and told her it was okay if I took books from the third-and-fourth grade shelves, because everything I read at home was above my grade level too. Mrs. Carp was left to square this with Mrs. Huffle. Problem solved, or so Mom was allowed to believe.

My next visit to the school library, I browsed around the alcoves and thumbed through several books before reaching an agonizing decision about which to borrow. I took my selection to the desk, where Mrs. Huffle harrumphed and told me that while she and Mrs. Carp had agreed I could look at the books for older children, I certainly could not check them out.

My mother never dealt well with being defied, but she would absolutely under no circumstances brook any deceit. While Mrs. Carp and Mrs. Huffle’s assurance that I could “look at” and “take books from” the older kids’ shelves was not technically a lie, it was certainly a weaselly semantic evasion, which in Mom’s esteem was even more shameful. It was not just deliberately misleading, it was spineless too.

A new round of discussions ensued in which Mrs. Huffle had to deal directly with Mom, the tone and character of which I do not know, though I have a good guess. As the battle wore on someone had the idea to rely on an upcoming reading assessment to settle the mater. When my reading level was determined to be fifth grade, Mom had the footing to assert that the entire library should be open to me. Even worse for Mrs. Huffle, my friend Jared Little was also discovered to be reading three years above grade-level, so his parents joined the debate.

All of this took place over the course of weeks, but sometime after Christmas break Mrs. Huffle and Mrs. Carp admitted defeat and surrendered. The terms were unconditional. Not only could Jared and I borrow books from any part of the school library, but with exceptions made for two boys and all the third-graders in the class already permitted, there was not much pretext for restricting the other second-graders to the picture books. I don’t know if Mrs. Huffle abandoned her grade-level policy altogether, but for the 45 minutes a week our class spent in the library, the entire collection was open to everyone.

For readers, libraries are where we discover our heritage and inheritance.
For readers of any genre, libraries are where we discover our heritage and inheritance.

THE FIRST THING I DISCOVERED was the vaunted fifth- and sixth-grade stacks were merely a continuation of the YA nonfiction section that began in the second alcove. As a whole, the books there were no harder to read than those in third-through-sixth area. Mrs. Huffle’s rules were strange and fussy indeed.

The first clutch of books I seized upon during that latter half of second grade was the orange and black Crestwood House Monster Series. These were nonfic books about famous monsters, the subjects being a mix of Universal Pictures ghoulies, giant creatures, 1950s sci-fi villains, and famous literary horrors. The common thread was all of these monsters were either born in cinema or famously adapted into it. Each book focused on one monster, recounting its development from its conception and first cultural depiction, through film adaptations and sequels, and its legacy of other works and monsters it spawned. The pages bore a moderate amount of text and were splashed with publicity photos, posters, and stills from the movies. They were kind of like coffee table books for morbid children. My fascination with these books led me to draw werewolves and vampires during that spring’s rash of indoor recesses, and to ask my dad to take me to the video store to rent Tod Browning’s classic 1931 Dracula adaptation. Creativity, sparked. Horizons, broadened.

A short while later, in the first alcove, I encountered the durable Hardy Boys series. Frank Hardy and his brother, Joe, were teen detectives who were always butting into and ultimately solving the investigations of their police detective father, which had to be embarrassing for a veteran cop. Tyler’s library had the revised editions of the first two or three dozen novels in the original series. The plots were a little bit Scooby Doo and a little bit Encyclopedia Brown, the brothers dressed like Pat Boone, and the setting was pure mid-century Mayberry. Despite that bountiful wholesomeness, or more likely because of it, publisher Archway Paperbacks attempted that spring to update the Hardys for a darker era by launching a new series, The Hardy Boys Casefiles, which I discovered on the public library’s bookmobile. My eyes widened at the jacket summary for #3, Cult of Crime, in which Frank and Joe match wits with an apocalyptic death cult. I read it within a few days, and it retains its distinction as the only book I ever insisted on reading at the table during dinner.

The jacket illustration is anachronistic, as Joe's sideburns are not blocked off above the ear.
The jacket illustration is anachronistic, as Joe’s sideburns are not blocked off above the ear. It was 1987.

The school library had James Howe’s Chester and Howard mysteries; I had already been through the battered rag that was once my copy of Howliday Inn over a dozen times, but was finally able to read Bunnicula, which was no longer stocked by B. Dalton or Waldenbooks.

The library’s crown jewels, however, as far as I was concerned, were the works of Daniel Cohen, and the best of these was Superstition. Cohen was a YA author who specialized in writing about the paranormal and the occult for young readers. As careers go, it seems like the market would be narrow and the work itself liable to draw the attention of scolds, censors, and scrutinizers. And yet, Cohen wrote lots of these books. Often his tone was pretty light, and textually Superstition was no different. Despite his apparent fixation on legends and UFOlogy, Cohen was a skeptic, and most of this book’s chapters are dedicated to rational discussion of umbrellas, ladders, salt, and dowsing rods.

The cover is ominous. The illustrations are are cure for constipation.
The cover is ominous. The illustrations are are cure for constipation.

Then there are the consecutive chapters on witchcraft and devil worship. In the text, Cohen sticks to his discuss-and-debunk mode. Superstition actually offers, for a children’s book, a pretty sophisticated explanation of how the concept of witches and witchcraft changed over the centuries and ultimately led to the witch hunts of the late Middle Ages.

Whoever was charged with choosing illustrations to accompany the text, on the other hand, was not fucking around with all this “light and reason” horseshit. The first page of the witchcraft chapter is adorned with a hypnotically leering sorceress. It’s the unexpected, stomach-flipping drop midway through the roller coaster.

The plunge continues, with additional twists and dips, into the subterranean inferno of Hell itself. The images were far more impactful than Cohen’s measured words. A Goya painting of witches making treat with the Great He-Goat, featuring the painter’s gigantic, hideously bearded, and amply horned conception of Lucifer, occupied an entire page. The Baphomet provided a primer on the origins and significance of the “Satanic” pentagram that accounted for 80 percent of all graffiti in the 1980s. There was also a medieval woodcut of the Devil dragging a child away by his ankles while his bored-looking parents casually waved goodbye. Cohen explained that it was believed, in days gone by, that men and women desirous of material wealth might seek the succor of Satan, and promise him, in exchange, one or more of their children. I became preoccupied with speculation of how awful it would be to not only be hauled away to Hell, but to realize that your parents were permitting it.

Dear Mom and Dad, I'm having so much fun at camp...
Dear Mom and Dad, I’m having so much fun at camp…

The devil worship chapter was followed by an entire chapter about dowsing. What a joke, right? Could anything seem less consequential after all that diabolism? I always felt hollowed out and rattled, reading the dowsing chapter. I mean for fuck’s sake are we really going to fucking waste our time with all this piddling business about some dipshit walking around with a forked fucking stick looking to drill a well? Just get connected to the water main and save yourself the trouble, asshole. We’ve got bigger fish to fry, because as we’ve just seen, the Devil is a huge honking motherfucking goat sitting around in a circle of witches while one of them plays with a skeleton baby. Further, we were informed that if you speak of the Devil he shows his face – so he’ll probably be here any minute. Good luck fighting him off with your tree branch, you stupid witless bastard.

Published in 1971, by the time I encountered Superstition 15 or so years later Satanic Panic was in full swing. Contrary to Cohen’s intent to dispel irrational fear, for me Superstition became a critical epistemic support for belief in the existence of a global yet secret worldwide network of Satanists who had infiltrated every city and town in the U.S. and were looking everywhere for children to abduct and sacrifice. Don’t laugh at me, man, my only mistake was watching the news and listening to adults.

Was this the reason Mrs. Huffle restricted first- and second-graders from the higher reading level books? I doubt it. Acquisition of a book implies some level of endorsement; that it at least merits inclusion in the library’s collection. There’s certainly no point in buying books if you aren’t going to let users read them – for any reason. Also, librarians are champions of intellectual freedom. Lastly, if some previous school librarian had selected the book, or if Mrs. Huffle herself had and later changed her mind about it, there’s always the recourse of a quiet after-hours deselection. No, my best guess is that Mrs. Huffle didn’t like reshelving throughout the library after classes left, and the restrictions were meant to ensure that only one section needed tending at a time.

I think about that little library sometimes. It was the first place I ever served a detention, for not completing my spelling homework. It was also where I learned terms that would hold meaning for me as an adolescent, like “extraterrestrial biological entity” and “bug-eyed monster” – again, thanks to Mr. Cohen.

A couple years ago I scored a copy of Superstition on HPB Marketplace. The illustrations remain chilling.

Reagan-era fairy tale tone poem: American Fable and others (movie reviews)

How about a few movie reviews? That was, after all, the intent of starting my first website ten long years ago, and it’s the weekend prior to Halloween. You might be looking for something to watch some evening.


I’ve had the chance to watch several horror movies lately and the best of the bunch by far was American Fable, which is a chiller, a period drama, and a fairy tale. Before the backdrop of the Midwest farm crisis, Gitty, a tween-age girl, roams her family’s verdant but imperiled Wisconsin farm. From the living room television, friend of the working man Ronald Reagan pontificates that it is not the role of the federal government to intervene as family farmers default en masse, allowing large businesses to buy their homes and farms at a discount. (Someone has apparently used this speech to place the movie’s events in 1982.) Gitty’s father, Abe, voices the anxiety and resentment of the other side, listing a series of foreclosures and suicides among their neighbors. Abe is not going to let it happen to their farm, their home.

reagan farm crisis cartoon

During one of her rambles Gitty ignores her father’s admonishment to stay away from their disused silo and finds a spectacled, waistcoated man named Jonathan trapped inside. Though Gitty flees their first encounter, she returns later with books and a chess set, and strikes up a friendship with Jonathan, who bargains with Gitty for his release; he will do anything she asks if she helps him escape. A short time after their first meeting, a dark, horned rider is seen from a distance, riding a black horse across the farm.

Abe falls from a loft in their barn and is hospitalized, in a coma from which no one can say whether he will recover. He is eventually brought home, where he lies motionless while Gitty’s mother attends him. Gitty’s vile brother, Martin, attempts to pull himself into manhood in his father’s stead, but achieves only a cruel and psychopathic hypermasculinity.

It’s a marvel how this movie is so evocative as a 1980s period piece while at the same time being essentially a Brothers Grimm tale, charged with menace both human and supernatural, and haloed with trance-like cinematography reminiscent of a Terrence Mallick film. From Reagan’s televised speech to Abe’s boxy Chevy, the movie transports the viewer almost physically to the 1980s. You feel you could touch the screen, walk through it and back into those years; they look just as you remember them. And yet the fairy tale motifs are just as unmistakeable: the prisoner locked in a tower, the gnomish wish-granter, the Faustian bargain, the enchanted slumber, the hateful sibling, and the child heroine.

American Fable is also a horror film, for certain, even though it doesn’t become explicitly a frightening until its final act. It’s a perfect combination of slow-building tension, a what-the-fuck twist, and fear-charged final act.


Metal, horror, and madness have long been associated but few movies take advantage of the connections between them. The Devil’s Candy gathers these strands and combines them into a single oily black devillock that divides your twisted snarl from hairline to chin for the entire length of the film.

Jerry Only: The creator, the emancipator, the architect ... of devilocks.
Jerry Only: The creator, the emancipator, the architect … of devilocks.

The movie opens with the ingeniously-named Ray Smilie standing before a crucifix, banging out the same earsplitting chord over and over again on his Gibson Flying V guitar. When his mother tells him to turn it down, he tells her he plays it loud so he can’t hear “him.” When she tells him he needs psychiatric help, he pushes her down the stairs.

That happy prologue out of the way, we see the Hellman family viewing, buying, and moving into the Smilies’ old house. Jesse, the husband and father, is a metal-loving painter with an “Iggy Pop at 40” sense of personal style. His daughter, Zooey is a metal-loving middle schooler. Astrid, the wife and mother, might or might not love metal, it wasn’t clear to me.

So Jesse sets up a studio in the barn and gets down to some Maude Lebowski-level creative fits, like full contact painting on a 6′ by 6′ canvas. His new paintings would be at home in the Denver International Airport. He also starts hearing voices and having inopportune mental lapses. Ray eventually turns up at his old home, gives Zooey his Flying V, and otherwise starts lurking around. He’s also creeping everybody out with always-darting-around eyes, which actor Vince Pruitt Taylor also displayed in the season three X-Files episode “Unruhe.” (Pruitt Taylor has a medical condition, nystagmus, that causes involuntary eye movement.)

The Devil’s Candy is legit scary. Ethan Embry is unrecognizable as Jesse. I mean, he looks nothing like Rusty Griswold #3 or the pencil-wristed Gwar fan he played in Empire Records. Dude looks shredded. Anyway, the movie is nearly great, there’s just one confusing and unneeded aside about an art gallery called Belial. In the context of a movie about metal, murder, and two men who might or might not be under the influence of the Prince of Darkness, that’s a clumsy-ass baseball bat of a name. It’s not as bad as calling the gallery “Satan,” but it’s about as subtle as “Asteroth” or “Beelzebub.” Combine it with the insouciance and “in on the joke” smirks of the gallery’s owner and receptionist, and you’re left wondering if they are agents of the Evil One. This question is not further explored after Jesse leaves the gallery, so it ends up being a sort of auxiliary nipple; mildly interesting, but ultimately without purpose or function.


As a former owner of Nightmare: The Video Board Game, this movie was a nostalgia trip I could not pass up. Beyond the Gates is about two brothers who reunite to liquidate their father’s owner operated video store several months after his disappearance. In his office, they find an old and foreboding VCR board game. The movie’s like a requiem for VHS, video stores, and VCR board games, all three.

You had to be there.
You had to be there.

The game is called Beyond the Gates, and they pop it into a VCR. The recorded moderator doesn’t much seem like a recording though … it seems like she’s watching and reacting to them in real time. Craziness ensues.

As far as horror goes, it has the same aesthetic as the 1987 kiddie horror flick The Gate. It has a harder edge and it’s not for kids, but the lighting and makeup are similar. For even more nostalgia value, though, Barbara Crampton was cast as the game’s moderator. I don’t know if you have to be a board gamer or Generation X to appreciate this movie, but it certainly helps.


Reddit let me down with this one; strangers I talk to online led me to believe it was going to be great.

I can understand the early hype: It’s an anthology film of loosely connected stories that take place in the same town on Halloween night. If you loved Trick ‘r Treat – and a lot of people did – this sounds like a winner. What I can’t understand is so many people remained enthusiastic about this movie after having seen it.

Because the thing is, Tales of Halloween has ten fucking vignettes. If you’re thinking, “More is better,” it’s still only 92 minutes long. So whereas Southbound had five vignettes across 89 minutes, for roughly 18 minutes per story, and V/H/S had six (counting the frame story) across 116 minutes, for roughly 19 minutes per story, the stories in Tales of Halloween are nine shitty minutes long.

Nine minutes is not much time to establish atmosphere or get viewers invested in characters. Maybe that doesn’t matter. There’s an audience for horror movies like these. I call them “people from Middletown, Ohio,” but depending on where you’ve lived, that might be useless. They’re the same people who went to every fucking Saw movie and insisted they kept getting scarier. They like horror movies that are “badass,” as in, “D’yude, thet Saw IV is fucking is ba-yadass.” They’re the horror fan equivalents of the people laughing at the movie Ass is Idiocracy.

The makers would be impervious to the criticism that their movie is mostly cheap set-ups for gore. They even seem to have anticipated it. In the seventh vignette – and I can’t believe, in reference to a 90-minute movie, I’m even using the phrase “the seventh vignette” – a fussy, uptight man decorates his lawn in old school horror style while his new neighbors across the street come outside in their biker leathers, crank up some thrashy music, and start hacking limbs of mannequins. It’s painfully obvious that to the makers of the movie, this other guy with his Universal Pictures sensibility is basically Martha Stewart with a cock, and these dicks across the street are fucking awesome. I MEAN, THERE’S GORE, MOTHERFUCKER! LOOK AT THET SHIT, THET SHIT’S BA-YAD-A-YASS. Because horror is only about blood and viscera, and if there’s no gore, it’s bullshit for pussies. RIGHT? RIGHT?

Also worthy of particular scorn is a vignette in which someone tries to summon some creature to get vengeance on three apparent thrill killers who, as children, burned his parents to death in their camper on Halloween night.

Apparently they set that fire after leaving a My Chem concert. Who's a whiny pussy now?
Apparently they set that fire after leaving a My Chem concert. Who’s a whiny pussy now?

I mean, I’m guessing, I don’t actually know much about these characters BECAUSE THEIR VIGNETTE IS LIKE NINE MINUTES LONG. So yeah, these little kids burn a camper with two people inside it, those people’s son seeks supernatural creature revenge. It happened in an alley, because there are no vagrancy laws anywhere that would prevent a family from parking their camper in an alley. Good thinking.

Two of the vignettes manage against all odds to be good. Well, both are amusing and one is good. In one, a boy in a devil suit gets shamed into chucking an egg at the creepy house in his neighborhood. The occupant, a top-hatted, demonic Barry Bostwick, catches him and promises to show him a Halloween stunt he’ll never forget. Soon Barry and his devil-costumed pal are engaging in increasingly brazen acts of mayhem, including standing on the counter of a convenience store, firing a snub-nosed revolver at the ceiling during a hold-up. The little guy is cute.

The other also features a diminutive hell-raiser, this one kidnapped by a of ransom-seekers who immediately regret their decision. It’s not nearly as strong as the other, but it’s fun and John Landis is in it.

That’s all for now. I’m sure I’ll be watching some more movies in the next few days.

The Devil and Kevin Tanner (My Life as a Horror Fan, Part 5)

Folklore and urban legends are fiction we choose to believe, enhanced by person-to-person transmission. If a novel or film can be said to be a window into another place or time, then surely some part of the mind recognizes the conduit of book or screen can be closed at will. Folk legends have a verisimilitude no found footage movie or false document fiction could ever match, because we receive them from real people in the real world; not peering at a page or a rectangle of projected light, but immersed in and surrounded by the great limitless sphere of everything we can see and hear and feel, and everything behind and beyond that. You cannot close the book against the horror of an escaped madman or the mystery of a vanished hitchhiker because it exists in the real world that we inhabit – if you choose to believe the tale, or are gullible enough to accept it without question.

I don’t remember how or why I started hanging around with Kevin Tanner, but I remember we bonded over stories of Bigfoot, flying saucers, and psychic premonitions of the Titanic sinking. Kevin and his gift for storytelling are central to one of the most cringe-inducing memories of my childhood.

I do remember I met him in first grade. We had the same teacher and rode the same bus, and by the time his birthday on Halloween rolled around, we were best friends. I went to his party dressed in a shark costume my Mom made. He was also the first kid other than my cousin Erin who came over to my house for a sleepover. Usually we’d play with some GI Joes, maybe Mom and Dad would take us to dinner somewhere or order pizza, we’d have a snack, watch a movie, and make a tent out of blankets. And, like normal little boys, we would whisper about alien abductions, the Kenneth Arnold incident, the actual guy from a long time ago who put sticks through people and might have been a vampire, and how you can be sure Bigfoot is real because the Indians have a word for him: Sasquatch.

What I wish I could remember is how the fuck did a couple six-year-olds know about that shit? How do two children barely out of kindergarten, learn about Betty and Barney Hill for fuck’s sake? I have no recollection. I do remember that as the next few years went by, Kevin outgrew those things but I didn’t. I did not, and they became an early wedge between myself and most of my classmates.

Our favorite discussion topic in those very first weeks of all-day schooling was the Bermuda Triangle. Bounded by Miami, San Juan, and Bermuda, tales tell of mysterious disappearances in this part of the Atlantic Ocean, possibly caused by magnetic anomalies, or by the submerged ruins of the once-mighty Atlantis, or by aliens, or perhaps by all three.

If you’ve heard any of these stories, you’ve heard of the disappearance of Flight 19. In December 1945, 14 men aboard five bombers took off from Fort Lauderdale, Florida on an eastward training flight over a patch of ocean that years later would gain the name “Bermuda Triangle.” The airmen lost their bearings and radioed for help determining their location. Their commander believed they had somehow ended up over the Florida Keys, and later that they were over the Gulf of Mexico. Intermittent radio contact over the next several hours revealed to personnel on land that Flight 19’s two compasses had stopped working and the airmen flew back and forth as the weather deteriorated, hoping to sight land and arguing betwixt themselves about which direction to go. In the last of their communiques heard on land, they planned to ditch into the ocean together as they expended the last of their fuel. The Navy sent rescuers to an area in the Atlantic a couple hundred miles east of Central Florida, where triangulation of their radio transmissions placed the planes. Among these rescuers was a bomber crewed by 13 men, PBM-5 BuNo 59225, which was lost to an apparent explosion. How did they get so lost? How is it that they never sighted land? Why did the compasses stop working? Isn’t it a big coincidence that one of the rescue planes was also lost?

I’ll grant that I have no explanation of why the compasses broke, and that losing a rescue plane too is a pretty unsual run of shitty luck, but Flight 19 fell into the ocean because they started out flying east, then got disoriented and thought they were somehow over the Florida Keys, and so started flying to the northeast hoping to reach South Florida – but in fact they were headed further out to sea. They never reached land while flying west because they were so far out over the ocean and didn’t go back far enough. As for PBM-5 BuNo 59225, the burning oil slick believed to represent it’s final resting place was far from the triangulated location of Flight 19 and not even over the Triangle.

Anyway. There are other stories like this, and many of them are similarly not so mysterious, but we’ll leave aside further discussion of Bermuda Triangle lore, because Kevin had additional stories about the Triangle of an entirely different and more frightening character. Stories that hinged upon its other name: The Devil’s Triangle.

Kevin and his family had recently taken a vacation in Florida, and there he had gained terrifying new knowledge of the Bermuda Triangle and the cause of all it’s unexplained phenomena. It was worse than Atlantean ruins or alien plane-nappers. Kevin was playing on the beach when something caught his eye. He stood and looked out into the Atlantic, out into the Triangle, at an island not far from the shore. And there, on the island, in the Triangle, there stood the goddamn Devil.

Or so Kevin said.

A storyteller is loath to relinquish a rapt audience, and so Kevin went on and on over the next several days with tales ever more terrifying about diabolism in the Devil’s Triangle. The final nightmare was the worst and hit closest to home – because it was literally close to home, in Kevin’s own backyard. Once again, Kevin had been playing outdoors when the air began to warm and the ground to quake, before a fissure opened in the earth, spewing smoke and heat. The Devil emerged, huge and scaly, and chased my horrified friend. Kevin hid in a shed in his yard as the Lord of Darkness strode back and forth in search of him, his every hoof-fall jolting the ground. The shaking intensified then abruptly stopped, and after several long moments Kevin emerged from hiding. The rift from which Satan had emerged had closed, but for three things: The tips of his horrid pitchfork protruding from the scorched dirt. There the Lord of Flies waited, there where Kevin played daily, there close by his bedroom window where he slept each night, there Satan would remain until the time was right to burst forth again, red and blazing, his trident flashing, his lupine grin dripping slaver, to snatch Kevin and carry him bodily into the burning bowels of Hell.

And if Satan had ranged all the way to Ohio from … Miami, Florida … what was to stop him from roaming around my hometown? I lived less than a mile from Kevin, and our school wasn’t far off. In light of Kevin’s revelations about the infernal attack on his backyard, it was obvious that no place was safe.

I would have been at home in Salem perhaps, 300 years earlier, among Puritans who feared the tread of the Dark Man in the wilderness around them. Satanic Panic was in full swing, and despite neither my parents nor our priest being the sort who spot Old Scratch behind every rock, tree, and album cover, the moral panic about Devil worship had somehow seeped into my intellectual drinking water. That Satan is real is Catholic dogma. That he bursts from the ground sporting horns and a goatee to drag children away is not, nor is his alleged massive global – and paradoxically secret – network of worshippers who put backmasked messages in heavy metal songs. But that rotten stuff was in my head too. The Reagan years were Godly years in the Heartland, and even if your parents didn’t haul you twice a week into the First Southern Fried Holy Rollin’ Spirits on Fire Church of Lookit Over There It’s the Devil Again, you were nonetheless liable to get the distinct impression that Lucifer and his agents were everywhere. So Kevin’s stories played to that.

It also has to be said though that as a boy I had no guile whatsoever. I was an only child and the streets near our house were way too busy for anyone to trust a 6-year-old to roam the neighborhood without getting hit by a car. Consequently I spent way more time around adults than other kids. The idea that another kid would tell a lie just for the hell of it never occurred to me. So everything Kevin said, I assumed to be the truth. The lesson I was about to learn would prove invaluable a year later when a prize-winner named Jared Little arrived at my school.

Whatever the reasons, Kevin’s stories were real and terrifying as far as I was concerned. Prior to Beelzebub’s Backyard Brou-ha-ha though, I had been able to manage my fear. Not after, and terror seized me immediately. Kevin told me the story at lunch, as usual. Also as usual, an hour or two later I poked along changing clothes after gym and found myself the last boy in the locker room. If the Man in the Red Pajamas was planning to take me – and let’s face it, he definitely probably was – this was his chance. I yanked my clothes on, heart crashing as I fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. I laced my shoes and bolted from a crouch into the hallway, narrowly avoiding the Prince of Hell.

I was still composing myself when Miss Hough, our gym teacher, noticed something amiss.

“Why is your shirt inside out?”

To put a shirt on inside out is one thing. To fucking button it is another. Miss Hough was justified in feeling this was curious indeed. She told me to go back into the locker room and put my shirt on rightside out. I then did something I had never done outside of home.

“No.” I flatly defied an adult.

Miss Hough was taken aback. Another kid, she probably would have yelled at; Miss Hough was more than able to summon the requisite demeanor to compel insubordinate grade-schoolers to shut up and do jumping jacks, and was not above grappling with the occasional kid who refused to relinquish a playground ball or perhaps another child’s shirt.

“Why don’t you want to go back into the locker room?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get back in there. Fix your shirt.”

I shook my head.

That she didn’t tee off on me, I can only ascribe to curiosity at my extremely uncharacteristic and perplexing refusal. The boys’ locker room at John Tyler Elementary School, in my defense, was not a pleasant or soothing environment. It stank to high Heaven, for one thing. The building was then 35 years old – my Mom had gone to school there two decades earlier – but bore the hallmarks of having been designed in one era, and retrofitted for a new one with an eye on avoiding expense. So whereas boys might have used the locker room shower in the 1950s, by the mid-80s elementary age kids weren’t required to do so and the showers were closed off with chicken wire and piled full of junk that still hadn’t completely settled and was prone to crash and creak ominously. There were ragged holes here and there where old fixtures had been pulled from the walls. It had other charms.

My brass-balled yet chickenshit disobedience elicited interested stares from my assembled classmates in the hall outside the locker rooms. The whole episode was so damn interesting, in fact, that Miss Hough shared it with Mrs. Mello, my first grade teacher. Back in class, with everyone seated she asked me, amused, why I refused to go back into the locker room. I shrugged.

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“Your shirt’s still inside out. Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Why wouldn’t you go fix it?”

I looked down at my desk. “I was scared.”

“Why were you scared?”

I grinned a little bit, pointed, and cringed – kind of like I’m cringing now. I pointed at the floor.

“What’s wrong with the floor?”

“Not the floor. The Devil.”

My classmates were delighted. Mrs. Mello was at a loss for something to say to a child who wouldn’t go into the boys’ lockers for fear of the Adversary. Kyle turned around and gave me a sheepish grin, acknowledging that we both had some explaining to do, not unlike earlier in the year when he taught me the word “fuck,” which I promptly went home and said loudly in front of my mother while she was on the phone with Mrs. Mello.

This is Kevin Tanner’s last appearance in my life as a horror fan. That was a surprising realization for me. Kevin was the first really close friend I made outside my family. But I guess we weren’t close friends for all that long.

We were classmates again in second grade. I remember our class put on a fairy tale themed play that year, and Kevin and I were two of Old King Cole’s fiddlers three. I also remember we hung around together a little less. I was becoming buddies with Jared Little and Kevin with a kid named Jeremy Valen, though they fucking fought all the time, including one truly cacophonous shit-fit in the middle of their act in a class talent show, during which I was sure they were about to fistfight. Kevin’s Dad and stepmom divorced sometime that year, so Kevin, his sister, and Mr. Tanner moved into a different house, near a different school. When third grade started at Tyler Elementary, Kevin was long gone.

Kevin came over to our house a few times a year between then and fifth grade or so. Mostly we’d play GI Joes or Nintendo or watch a movie. I was never invited to his house for some reason, except for one birthday party in first grade. Only that once. Despite his interest in the paranormal, horror wasn’t really Kevin’s thing. In fact, during one sleepover he got heavily freaked out and had to leave the room when the vampire gets out of his coffin on a cargo plane during the kiddie monster rally Monster Squad. It was a little bit of turnabout I guess, but it would have been more equal if it had happened in front of 25 of our peers.

As the idea of “popularity” began to emerge when we were preteens, Kevin became sort of a dick. He was was chosen to be one of the cool kids, which made him confident and a bit mocking. I was not, and that made me moody and prone to self doubt. Kevin started to find ways of leveraging my insecurities against me. One time close to the end of the friendship he cowed me into a patently lopsided ballcard trade. Dad and I dropped him off at his house – because Kevin’s Dad almost never came to pick him up, either – and Dad asked afterward why Kevin left with one of my higher value cards. I had to explain, which was embarrassing. Dad frowned and growled, “Have you learned your lesson about this kid yet?”

I had. I don’t believe I ever hung out with Kevin after that. Or at least not by choice; Mom forced me to invite him to my 11th birthday party. To this day, I have no idea why she had some stake in whether Kevin was going to be at my party. The next summer I ran into him at a weeklong basketball clinic, where he and his newer friends laughed at me – literally right in my face – for missing a lot of free throws. Months later he called my house and seemed confused that I hadn’t talked to him in a while and didn’t seem interested in hanging out or doing anything.

We ended up in a few of the same classes in high school, by which time he’d actually become a cool, interesting guy; loved beat poetry and Siddharta by Herman Hesse. We’d talk about books in our English classes, but we were never friends again.

How Ghoul Was My Valley (My Life as a Horror Fan, Part 4)

It’s funny how some things you did as a kid seemed like inviolable, era-spanning traditions, when in reality you only did them for a few years. The Creature Feature is a good example. When I was little, it felt like a Halloween tradition I had observed for years and years, but in reality it was three at the very most.

The Creature Feature was an annual airing of Creature from the Black Lagoon – in 3D – hosted by the Cool Ghoul, Cincinnati’s erstwhile Saturday night horror host, on WXIX. Or at least my parents called it “the Creature Feature,” and I remember it being Creature from the Black Lagoon every time. The internet offers no record of the Cool Ghoul’s 1980s Halloween specials or what they were called, and the Creature Feature was also the name of a Sunday afternoon movie presentation on WXIX during the Ghoul’s heyday in the 70s.

Anyway, The Ghoul, whose real name was Dick Von Hoene, moved to a station in North Carolina sometime during the mid-1980s, and my parents certainly wouldn’t have let me stay up until 11 o’clock or midnight to watch it when I was a two-year-old. Three years old, maybe. So at most, I took in the annual Creature Feature three times, around 1983 to 1985.

The Cool Ghoul

I don’t remember the show itself as much as the excitement it generated. The Cool Ghoul was beloved throughout the Cincinnati area, even though his weekly show, Scream In, had been off the air since 1972 or so. He still did public appearances all over Cincy and the surrounding communities, and the Creature Feature (or whatever it was called) was hyped during damn near every commercial break on WXIX for the entire month of October.

Every promo reminded you that you could pick up your free 3D glasses at Arby’s. I remember sitting in the backseat of the Skylark at age 3 or 4, pulling through the drive-through with my parents, bursting with excitement to get my 3D specs and jamoca shake. Arby’s association with the Cool Ghoul was just one more reason to love the place, in my book. The one on our side of town had a glass tunnel over a carpeted ramp that led down from the counter and registers to the dining area. I loved to lay on my side and roll down the ramp, popping up at the bottom dusted with crumbs and the occasional smear of horseradish. My Mom was so enthused, let me tell you, she just loved it when I did that. Anyway, I concluded that Arby’s would be a terrific place to take shelter during a tornado because the dining area was sort of underground and they had great fries.

The picture in my mind as I rolled down a carpeted ramp at Arby's.
The picture in my mind as I rolled down a carpeted ramp at Arby’s.

The Cool Ghoul was one part Bela Lugosi, one part Bud Abbott, two parts Uncle Fester, and one part John Fred and his Playboy Band, or maybe Crazy Elephant. (Many thanks to Mom for the master class in 1960s one-hit wonders.) Like a lot of other horror hosts, the Ghoul was a happy jokester in Halloween regalia, but with the added twist that he was kind of a hippie. The word “longhair” certainly applied: The essence of his costume was a shoulder length reddish-orange wig as bright as a highway caution sign. He also wore heavy eye-shadow, a newsboy cap, and what looked like an open red cassock. His signature exclamation, still famous throughout Southwestern Ohio and Northern Kentucky, was, “Bleagh! Bleagh! Bleeeeeeaaaaaagh! Bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl-bl…” A lot people can’t do it. I can. I practiced. The inserts – the hosted segments played during breaks in the movie – featured skits, pantomines, corny jokes, puppets, and movie trivia. Frequently mentioned but unseen until decades later was Gladys Purplelips, the Ghoul’s college sweetheart from Drain University. “That’s Drain U.” Also unseen was the Cool Ghoul’s “friend,” a Karloff-like voice provided by Von Hoene himself.

My relationship with the Ghoul as a kid was not all jokes and grins, however. Sure, he came on TV with concerned warnings about safe trick or treating, but I harbored suspicion that he might have a hidden, sinister side. Once, during a parade in my hometown, he looked right at me and made his “bleagh, bleagh, bleeeeaaaagh!” face as he rounded the corner of Market Street and Second, where my Dad and I stood in the colonnade outside Elder-Beerman. I just stared, unsure what to make of him. He seemed harmless but … there was all that makeup. I was just too young to understand horror host personae are supposed to parody the genre.

Years later I was able to grasp it. I got acquainted with other horror hosts, particularly Joe Bob Briggs and Svengoolie. I even got to interview and write a short newspaper story about the Cool Ghoul’s Dayton-based counterpart, Dr. Creep. Dr. Creep, at the time, was gearing up for a short public access run in the city where I was working. He was a good guy, working as a corrections officer in those days.

Dr. Creep was also reportedly known to cluster all the tornado symbols around Xenia on WKEF's weather map.
Dr. Creep was also reportedly known to cluster all the tornado symbols around Xenia on WKEF’s weather map.

As for the Cool Ghoul, he did one more Halloween comeback show on WXIX in 2002 or 2003. Mr. Von Hoene died in February 2004.

Footage of the Cool Ghoul is hard to come by – a documentary and a short promo congratulating Indianapolis’ Sammy Terry on his run at WTTV are about all the videos I’ve ever found online. Apparently, early Scream In inserts were broadcast live, so obviously there are no tapes of those episodes. As for the rest of Scream In, it was only on the air for two years, during a period when very few people owned VCRs. A bootleg of the Phantasmagorical Funky Fonograf Record, on the other hand, was fairly easy to track down. It was a 10-track 1971 album laden with jokes, puns, and parodies, on which the Ghoul is backed by a group called, I believe, the Crypt Creepers, and visited by his Friend, his father, and an admiring Scream-In fan. I got it from a buddy whose cousin has a vintage copy of the LP.

I miss the Cool Ghoul, which is curious because I don’t remember him very clearly. To be sure, some of that is just longing for things from my childhood. But I also lament the demise of locally created TV programming that brought an end to the hometown horror host. There was a point in time where just about every television market had one. Back in the day Cincinnati also had lots of other homegrown TV content: The Uncle Al Show, which I do remember, and The Skipper Ryle Show, which I don’t, and things for grown-ups too, like Nick Clooney’s midday variety program.

Within a few years of the Cool Ghoul’s departure for the Carolinas, Michael Flannery’s Club 19, an after-school block of cartoons on WXIX, was about the only local non-news programming. Eventually that was gone too. I guess it goes hand in hand with the disappearance of local restaurants and retailers in the face of ever encroaching national chains. RIP, Swallen’s and Hickory Hut. Long live United Dairy Farmers!

Gertrude Stein once said of Oakland, “There is no there there.” There’s less and less there anywhere these days.

My Life as a Horror Fan (Part 3): Kiddo’s first drive-in double feature

Maybe it was because my descent into near-panic a few months earlier watching Fantasia, or maybe they just wanted to introduce me to one of Americana’s finest institutions, but sometime during that same Summer of Cujo, 1982, when I was three years old, Mom and Dad decided to take me to a movie I could watch from the safety of our Skylark. It my was first visit to the drive-in movie theater.

Drive-ins were still plentiful around the Midwest in the early 1980s. One town away from where we lived, the Sky-View loomed over a back country crossroads. Not far off, the Colonial sat on a low strip of land between a two-lane state highway and the river. There were many others whose names I no longer recall. We went to the Holiday Auto Theatre, on a hilltop just west of town.

The screen at the Holiday Auto Theatre. outside my hometown.
The Holiday Auto Theatre, outside my hometown.

The first feature that night was The Secret of NIMH, a Don Bluth adaptation of a children’s book. Don Bluth was a name you knew if you were a child during the 1980s. It was repeated in the commercials for a string of successful animated features created by his eponymous studio, including NIMH, An American Tale, and The Land Before Time. Bluth and his crew were also behind the arcade game Dragon’s Lair, which spawned a Saturday morning cartoon from Ruby-Spears. Don Bluth Productions was sort of the DreamWorks Animation of its day, in that it produced quality animated features with big time distribution and competed toe-to-toe with Disney. Of course, Warner Bros. and Hanna-Barbera were still standing tall in the face of the Mouse and releasing animated features back then too, so it’s not a perfect analogy. But I digress.

The Secret of NIMH is about a family of field mice facing a disaster – the annual springtime tilling of the field where they live in a nest within a cinderblock. One of Mrs. Jonathan Brisby’s children, Timmy, is very ill and too sick for the move, sending her on a quest for help from her animal neighbors, who possess uncanny intellect and are swayed by the memory of her late husband and the unexplained debt they owe him. How did these mice and rats get so smart? What did Jonathan Brisby have to do with them? Can they delay the farmer until Mrs. Brisby can move her family? There’s a scientific (albeit implausable) cause behind the animals’ human-like intelligence, which you can probably guess if you’re old enough to know your government acronyms. It does not, however, explain the working of magic and magical artifacts in the movie.

I remember it being a little bit scary, so of course I sat down to watch it with my kids. Like their dad, they seemed to find it very mildly spooky. I can see why, but I think the swirling fogs and vivid colors were meant to lend mystery rather than chills to the film’s otherworldly, bearded and glow-eyed rat-sage, Nicodemus. The Great Owl, on the other hand, was definitely supposed to be scary. Which is great actually. What could be scarier to a mouse than an owl? A cat, at least, doesn’t fly.

Bluth was a believer in older techniques used during the Golden Age of Animation of the mid-20th century, and the animator’s care and regard for tradition is apparent in how The Secret of NIMH looks. Just as memorable as the animation, however, are the performances of the distinguished actors who lent their voices to the film. Elizabeth Hartman finds a balance between plaintive and persistent as Mrs. Brisby, a timid soul who dares greatly on behalf of her son. The Great Owl and Nicodemus are voiced, respectively, by Shakespeareans John Carradine and Derek Jacobi. Dom Deluise, whose name was synonymous with funny during the late 1970s and early 1980s, is Jeremy the Crow. Wil Weaton and Shannen Doherty have smaller roles as two of the Brisby children.

Dom Deluise, the funniest man in movies for much of the 1970s and 1980s.

The second feature during my first evening at the drive-in was Clash of the Titans, the original one with Harry Hamlin, Burgess Meredith, Laurence Olivier, Maggie Smith, and Ursula Andress, which had been released the previous year. I have not seen Clash of the Titans in its entirety since, but I remember being immediately freaked out by its early scenes, in which the infant Perseus and his mother, Danae, are imprisoned in what I thought was a coffin and then thrown into the sea. I remember being fascinated by the enchanted weapons and armor crafted for Perseus by the Olympian Gods. I don’t remember watching his combat with Medussa or the Kraken that night, but I definitely remember Calibos, the vainglorious young prince turned into a hideous satyr by Zeus. I thought Calibos was the Devil, and I was terrified. Looking back, I have to wonder why I had such a well-formed idea at age three of who and what the Devil is. We attended Mass, but I hadn’t yet started CCD. Anyway, maybe Clash of the Titans is a movie I should *not* share with my children anytime soon.

Calibos. I forgot to mention the body hair. It’s like James Caan had a kid with Rondo Hatton.

The Holiday at that time still had speakers you hung on your rolled-down car window. I remember drifting off to sleep under a blanket in the back of the Skylark late that night, looking out the window at the twinkling stars and staying watchful in case Calibos might appear there, trying to quietly open the door and sneak into the car.

The the late 1980s and the decades after were harsh for drive-ins. The Colonial and the Sky-View both closed. The former deteriorated for ages along the riverside, its sign losing letters and very gradually collapsing, until the concrete company that has taken over its grounds finally, only a few years ago, tore down the battered, tilting colossus that had been its screen, removing the last vestige of the theater. The screen at the Sky-View likewise towered over a lot overgrown with weeds for at least twenty years. The Oakley Drive-In, far to the south, operated until the summer of 2005 but did not linger long after; it was quickly demolished to make room for an animal hospital.

The Holiday Auto Theatre endures, however. Taking me to the drive-in that night was a great decision on my parents’ part, and not just because upon our return to indoor theaters that winter my seat folded up while I was fucking sitting in it during the Gary Coleman vehicle Jimmy the Kid, which led me to demand to park my bony ass on someone’s lap at the movies for a year afterward. No, apart from the convenience of being able to sit on a non-folding car seat, I came to love the Holiday for dozens of other reasons: The clear, stary skies overhead, the abundantly stocked concession stand, memories of watching movies with my parents and later my wife, vintage cartoons and intermission reels, and all the other awesome movies I’ve seen there over the years – Labyrinth, An American Tale, North by Northwest, Dial M for MurderGone with the Wind, The Dark Knight, The Exorcist, Halloween, the Shining… I still return at least once a year for Terror at the Drive-In, their annual Halloween quadruple feature.

My Life as a Horror Fan (Part 2): Cujo, a paperback book cover review

My Mom loved horror, and loved to read. The mass market paperback was made for her. She had stacks of them, usually in a brown paper grocery bag in her bedroom. Whenever she’d finish the last in a bunch, we’d walk a couple miles to a second hand bookstore to sell them and fill the bag with new ones. Whichever book she happened to be reading at any time, she’d keep on the left side of the vanity in her room. I thought they were neat because – this was the early 1980s – many of their covers had an opening that framed a face or a flame or some image, and when you opened that cover there was a second, and you’d see the small image you were looking at a moment ago was also part of a larger illustration. For instance, the front cover of a novel might have a drawing of a woman with red eyes, and when you opened the cover you would see the red of the eyes was part of a second illustration of blood oozing from a wall.

One book cover in particular really caught my attention when I was three years old. It was summertime, so I probably found it on the vanity only a few months after having the life scared out of me by Fantasia. This cover didn’t have the “illustration behind the illustration” effect. As a matter of fact it didn’t have much of anything on it, but what was there was drawn to great effect.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. It seemed to be an alien or monster, kind of like E.T., but mean and scary, and covered in slime. There were pointy things on it’s neck or body. Years later I’d realize it was a dog’s snout, its lips pulled back in a frothy snarl. This was Mom’s copy of Cujo.

If you look at it wrong, the nose is Scary Twisted E.T.’s head and the drool is slime. I was three, okay.

It horrified me. And I couldn’t stop looking at it. What’s wrong with E.T.? Why is he twisty and slimy? Is it him? Or is it a different E.T., a bad one? Could he get me? IS HE GOING TO COME GET ME IN MY BED AT NIGHT?

It turns out he could and did. I had nightmares about the thing, I mean. I dreamed it was chasing me. In the dreams it was huge, and it made wet noises as it glided across floors behind me, just inches from my heels. If it caught me, it would eat me, I was sure.

And yet… Mom was recovering from cancer at the time, and she was worn out a lot. She’d take naps on the couch after lunch when my cartoons were on. During the Summer of Cujo I’d sneak into her bedroom while she slept and get the book from the vanity. I’d look at
it. Stare at it. Then put it back.

There was a part of me even then that wondered why I kept looking at this thing. It was scary, and I realized it was the source of some of my bad dreams. If you’re a horror fan and you’re not too jaded to be impervious to every book, movie, and tale you encounter, this is the question you spend your entire life trying to answer: Why do I watch and read this stuff that scares me? Why do I like being scared?

Stephen King wrote, in Danse Macabre, that the horror genre lets us confront our fears in a safe way, with the additional protection of being in the company of other readers and viewers. We confront the fear and whether the tale ends well or badly for its protagonists, we are intact and unharmed. We faced the monster and lived.

I would add to King’s assessment that horror offers powerful ways to distill big, broad, global fears – our apprehension and anxiety about society, the future, government, institutions, and just people who aren’t part of our own group – into a single bogeyman to stalk and slash through blood-drenched morality plays. Take for example the movie Halloween (1978). If you understand that babysitting is, figuratively, a dress rehearsal for parenthood, and drinking, smoking, and sex are behaviors for adults only, you can see that Michael Myers embodies the looming adulthood of the movie’s teen characters, and the peril they face as they take the final steps toward a future they might not be entirely prepared for. Michael kills those who reach for things they haven’t matured into. Steadfast Laurie Strode, however, survives by not repeating the mistakes of her friends.

But the need for a metaphor is definitely not why I spent so much of my fourth summer staring at what I believed was E.T.’s deformed, child-eating cousin. I don’t much think I did it for the thrill of gazing at the monster and surviving either. That brings us to a third appeal factor: Horror fandom correlates to a tendency toward thrill-seeking. So it could have be our physiological reaction to horror that keeps the fans coming back.

I wasn’t what you’d call a thrill-seeker as a little kid though, as the next several posts will probably illustrate. During adolescence I developed a love of roller coasters, legend trips, and driving with my foot firmly on the floor. As a kid, however, I was afraid to watch Scooby-Doo. My obsession with Cujo as a three-year-old remains a mystery, even to me.

My Life as a Horror Fan (Part 1): Fantasia

Disney didn’t bowdlerize this one.

The first movie that ever frightened me was a Disney movie. Weird right? Well, let me explain. Disney wasn’t always a kiddie culture brand-colossus that churned out toothless, G-rated snoozes that dumbed-down their source material and bolted it onto a formula that combined toy-transferable heroes with wisecracking animal sidekicks and insidious, merciless earworms, pausing occasionally to buy up fresher companies or demand tribute from the government in the form of trademarks to fairy tales that have existed for centuries.

No, Disney wasn’t always a behemoth. In fact, Disney used to be an actual person, a living, breathing artist who might have had some weird ideas about civil society, but was a bona fide creative genuis who on occasion elevated animation to high art. Fantasia is one of those Disney films. Although Walt Disney didn’t direct any of Fantasia‘s eight segments, it was his idea to create a feature-length anthology of non-comedic animated shorts that would depict fantasies inspired by and set to great works of classical music, with the animation accompanying the music – not the other way around. It was like the 1940 equivalent of Heavy Metal  or maybe Laser Floyd. My point is, for a variety of reasons, I think it’s safe to say this is a film that would not get made today. Disney used to push artistic and social boundaries.

From the 1943 short Education For Death
For instance “Education for Death,” a propaganda short about the indoctrination of a sweet-eyed German cherub into the Hitler’s army.

My parents took me to see Fantasia during its 1982 theatrical run. I was three years old. I don’t remember where we saw it and neither does my Dad, though he suspects it was the then-giant seven-screen cineplex by the freeway. I have a fragmentary memory of passing a building with big, cuckoo-clock style figures over the door, which would indicate a downtown theater somewhere, but I might be conflating my memory of Fantasia with the Festhaus at Kings Island. I do remember the red curtain around the stage and the pink light cast on the screen as we waited and waited and waited for the movie to start. Dad hated to go to anything with a scheduled start time without arriving at least an hour early.

The only segment I remember watching that day was the last one, “Night on Bald Mountain.” There was a mountain, and the mountain had wings. It was a bat. No, it was the Devil! Bats and skeletons wheeled in a macabre riot as the Devil, bulging with muscles, smiled with delight, his horrible yellow eyes glowing. My heart raced as I gripped both armrests. I was frozen with terror.

Chernabog from Disney's Fantasia
It was looking at me.

This seems like the appropriate moment to begin the story of my lifetime of horror fandom. So I did what any intelligent and caring parent would do: I decided to show Fantasia to my three children and see if “Night on Bald Mountain” would scare the shit out of them too.

The film was a tough sell for the oldest, six-year-old Boo Boo Bear, from the very beginning. Her three-year-old sister, Caterpillar, was antsy. The movies and cartoons they watch don’t begin with a spoken introduction by a bookish emcee, nor silhouettes of a conductor and his orchestra in pink, orange, red, and blue.

“Dad, is this going to be music the whole time?” Boo Boo complained. I didn’t think we were going to get through “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.”

Deems Taylor, emcee of Disney's Fantasia
Compare this scene from Fantasia
Sonic Boom
… with their baseline for cartoons.

Caterpillar burst with excitement at the sight of the first fairy in “The Nutcracker Suite.” This segment, with its dancing flowers, fish, and mushrooms, hooked them both. Their brother, Superman, age one, was also sucked in.

The kids were somewhat concerned about the wizard in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” They asked if he was a bad guy. I was explaining that he was just stern when the girls exploded with a shout of “MICKEY!” when the titular budding mage appeared. There were other dark moments throughout the film, for instance the dying dinosaurs in “The Rite of Spring” or Zeus hurling lightning during “The Pastoral Symphony.”

Arlo and Spot from The Good Dinosaur
Another comparison: Here’s a tender moment between Arlo and Spot in The Good Dinosaur


Fantasia Dinosaurs
… And here is the death agony of several Stegosauruses in Fantasia.

The penultimate segment is “Dance of the Hours,” with its manic ostriches, hippos, elephants, and alligators. It’s wild fun, the aligators chasing after the other animals in a crazed dance that brings the house down. “Dance of the Hours” also sets viewers up for the gut punch, the segment that flies in the face of Disney’s more recent image as a squeaky clean company that makes dull, moralizing cartoons peppered with pop culture references to make sitting through them bearable for parents.

“Night on Bald Mountain” begins with night falling over a mountainside village. One crag towers over the others like the spire of some dark, blasphemous church. One leather wing darts out, then a second. Thus the horned demon Chrenabog reveals himself, perched atop the mountain.

He casts his hands down, and where his shadow falls bats and phantoms rise from town, graveyard, and murky lake. Wraiths astride skeleton horses gallop upward through the night. Flames erupt from a mountain cauldron beneath Chernobog’s infernal throne. Lesser devils emerge from the fire. Chernobog picks them up adoringly, as skeletons caper, before casting them back into the conflagration.

Skeletons and demons caper about the fire

Three burning vixens appear then melt and twist into a wolf, a pig, and a goat. The echoes of ancient paganism are unmistakable. Flame and smoke fill the screen. Ghastly faces, skulls, and harpies with erect hot pink nipples fly directly at the viewer. Paganism and erect nipples. Erect, blazing pink nipples. In a Disney film.

Finally, a church bell peels as dawn begins to break. The ghosts and imps fall silent and Chernabog is dazed. Eventually he falls into slumber, as a procession of monks, singing “Ave Maria,” make a lantern-lit passage through the forest. This is how the segment ends, but for a little over 10 minutes, Disney was metal as fuck.

Tenacious D
Even more metal than the motherfucking D.

So how did my kiddos do? Superman lost interest. He only pays half attention to anything they watch on TV, and this was the end of a feature film. He was smiling and playing with his toys. Boo Boo Bear made it through the segment, albeit with her arms crossed tight over her chest and her nervous eyes locked on the screen. Three-year-old Caterpillar, however, did what I could not do in that long ago darkened movie theater at the same age: She got up and noped the fuck out. As for me, I was left with a hankering to listen to Ghost.

Watching Fantasia again led me to reappraise my opinion of Disney movies. I really liked them when I was a little kid. I can remember going to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Pinocchio, Bambi, Cinderella, Lady and the Tramp, The Jungle Book, and The Fox and the Hound, and I remember renting and repeatedly watching The Sword in the Stone and Robin Hood on VHS. And now that I have kids of my own, I’ve seen some I either missed as a kid or forgot about as I got older, like The Aristocats, Dumbo, and Alice in Wonderland. Maybe not every one of those is what you’d call a classic, but it’s a damn fine list. Many of them are also evidence of a willingness to take creative risks. I don’t think anything like Dumbo‘s pink elephants scene would get into a Disney film today, and Bambi‘s revelation that the enemy is man would probably get squashed for being too dark.

And yet the same studio produced shit like The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin, The Lion KingHercules, and Tarzan. And then they followed a string of total crap with Lilo & Stitch, which was fucking awesome. What the hell happened during the 1980s and 1990s? Well, those years do mostly coincide with Michael Eisner’s tenure as Disney’s CEO. My opinion of Disney during those years was probably also darkened by my emergence into adolescence, and particularly my transition from “sweet little kid who tries to please everyone”to “future pissy, horror-obsessed, outcast teenage boy.” In school I was surrounded by a group of goody-goodies who continued to gush about Disney kiddie movies long after you might reasonably expect a person to outgrow them. They were the primary antagonists of my grade school years for a number of reasons. In the case of one girl, her mother was the leader of the local Upright God-Fearing Family Values Morality Police, and tended to clash with my Mom over things like trying to censor the Scholastic Book Fair, or proposals to have parent volunteers stand outside the school in the morning to catch kids swearing and report them.

But even realizing my own adolescent bias … I fucking hate Disney animated films from the mid-1980s and 1990s. They all seemed to combine a family friendly, no sharp edges story with an underdog who can succeed if he or she just looks inside and finds the something-or-other to try, one or two goofy but unfunny sidekicks, a memorable song, a product line, and a Happy Meal Toy. Aladdin was the worst, because in addition to all that horseshit, it had Robin Fucking Williams at the height of his “kid-safe but still outsized, manic and hammy as shit but not really funny oh God please don’t make me watch Hook again” phase.

But they’ve been good lately. Frozen kind of followed the 80s-90s template, but my daughters love it, so I have a soft spot. Wreck It Ralph was beautiful, hilarious, and novel. And maybe Disney’s purchases of other companies aren’t so horrible after all. Pixar movies are still good, and The Force Awakens was every bit the Star Wars movie I had waited 32 years to see, and it was amazing. You could say that was J.J. Abrams’ doing, but I’d counter that Disney let him have creative control. I still hate that Warner Bros. lost their battle for cartoon culture dominance to Disney, because Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck beat the living hell out of Mickey any day of the week, and they deserved better than to be second banana to the fucking Mouse.

Anyway. Fantasia was visionary and unflinching, and “Night on Bald Mountain” scared the living hell out of three-year-old me. It was my first encounter with the horror genre, and as I left the theater with Mom and Dad I wanted no more of Bald Mountain. The next encounter though was one I’d keep going back to.

Je me souviens (Presenting Roberts’ Rules of Horror, again)

I remember bats swirling before me in the darkened theater. I remember a snarling mouth full of sharp canine teeth. I remember 3D glasses. I remember Vincent Price. I remember Daniel Cohen and Alvin Schwartz, and Stephen Gammell’s drawings of the eyeless, ethereal dead. I remember a basement and its cornucopia of horror movies on VHS. I remember the board and the planchette. I remember chainsaw chase-outs and Joe Bob Briggs. I remember a long drive home on an empty tree-lined backroad. I remember amusement parks shrouded in fog. I remember propping the baby up to burp her when the lights went red and the gymnasium doors slammed shut.

Those are the stories I like to recall, the days I wish I could relive, just once more with the knowledge of how fleeting they were and how irrevocably lost they later would be. Horror is a thread that’s run through my entire life, tying me to people, places, and events, interwoven everywhere with personal memory.

Roberts’ Rules of Horror will begin, then, with a vain attempt to restore flesh to the bones of memory. In the next several entries, I will attempt to trace my life as a horror fan through scores of movies, books, games, TV shows, and haunted attractions, from my earliest memories to now.