What're you lookin' at? | Ramblings from a self-proclaimed yada yada yada...ist

Be Careful What You Wish For

I start out the day with one goal: write a post honoring America's celebration of blood, guts, goblins, and the unknown. After reading Isabel's haunted house story, I'm inspired to share stories about the strange goings-on that've taken place in my own family's apartment building, specifically on the first floor, after its occupant, my grandmother, passed away in 2000. Only the thing is, those goings-on didn't happen to me but to my siblings, so I leave cryptic messages on Ryan's and Samantha's voice mails after work, soliciting their personal experiences for shameless exploitation and cheap thrills for all the Internet to see. I'm able to make contact with my brother Geo, who doesn't have any stories about Nana but is kind enough to remind me that a woman died in one of the first-floor bedrooms and a man killed himself in our garage via carbon monoxide poisoning. "You can blog about that," he says.

By this time it's seven o'clock, and two of our friends have arrived for a private showing of The Exorcism of Emily Rose, a find I was quite proud of, a find that confirmed my suspicions that the desire to take in a respectable horror flick on Halloween must be regarded as a top priority not to be delegated to the last minute. (I painfully learned this lesson last year when Luke and I waited until the night of to check out a movie and were forced to succomb to the mediocrity that is The House of Wax.) We watch the movie, during which the phone rings twice, both return calls from each of my sisters wanting to scare the bejeezus out of me with tales of my grandmother running through the hallway of the first-floor apartment she occupied for sixteen years prior to her death at the same time I'm watching a college student gorge holes in the walls with her fingernails and spit out various names of The Devil in foreign tongues. I get ahold of Samantha after the movie and share with her my new fear that I'll wake up at three o'clock in the morning with visions of spiritual torture and reprimand. I tell her I still have one more movie to go and am now debating the intelligence of subjecting myself to Saw II. "Maybe you should, so you can get the nightmares over with all at once," she says.

Thanks, Sissy. Happy Halloween to you, too.

It's moments like this in which I find myself thankful for having What About Bob? in my possession. Much to Luke's chagrin.

The End of The Ring Runs a Close Third

In the almost three years that I've kept this blog, the topic of scary movies has been addressed several times. Everytime a new horror film is released, I have to reconcile the conflicting emotions I have about the subject, because as much as I love to be scared, I hate dealing with the aftermath, which usually involves a determination not to get up and pee once the lights are out unless Luke escorts me to the bathroom or the sun is shining through the bedroom blinds. As a result of early exposure to religious folklore about devils breaking through the earth's crust to claim bad little children, I can't convince my heart these scenarios have no basis in reality and could never happen, even if my brain knows otherwise. It's not uncommon for me to burst into tears upon a film's conclusion, which is exactly what happened when we saw The Grudge on the big screen two years ago and The Amityville Horror remake in the comfort of our living room last fall. And yet, like a drug addict itchin' for a fix, I always want more. Whenever we're browsing through the aisles of a Blockbuster, gory rentals are the first ones that catch my attention.

Luke and I got to talking about scary movies last week, during which I was shocked to learn he'd never seen Carrie, one of the all-time genre greats. While it's not one of my favorites, some of those scenes are permanently burned into my memory: Carrie's mother being crucified with all those knives in her kitchen, with the Scary Jesus Cross looming in the background; the sole survivor of Carrie's senior class paying her respects at Carrie's grave site when Carrie's arm shoots up from the ground to undoubtedly pull the poor girl into Hell.

In honor of the Halloween season, which horror movie scene has left the biggest impression on you?

Scream 4: Indianapolis

Time: Monday Night

Scene: Frema and Useless Clutter's Apartment

It's 7:30 p.m., and Frema has just come home from a mentoring session with Annie. Tired from staying up late the night before, she is anxious to change into her pajamas and perhaps maybe dabble in some dip of the spinach and artichoke variety. Eyelids half closed, these are the thoughts running through her mind when she unlocks the door to her apartment. The lights to their newly decorated Christmas tree are on; Frema tilts her head and releases a happy sigh at the idea of peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. All should be quiet, as Useless Clutter is participating in the first night of his evening temp job. But what's that noise? The alarm clock? Could Useless have overslept and missed his first night of work?

Frema makes her way to the back of the apartment to the bedroom, where the alarm is set for 6:45 p.m. She turns off the noise and then turns her head. Why is his sock drawer sitting in disarray on their bed?

Frema is very aware now that something isn't right. A cold rush goes through her body as she slowly works her way through the apartment. The garbage can lid is up. Kitchen cabinets are ajar.

There's a good possibility a manevolent stranger is taking refuge in her pad.

Frema barely refrains from wetting her pants as scenes from Halloween, Child's Play, and Pet Sematary race through her head, and she hesitates at the doorway of each room. She resists calling out, as that very act has resulted in many Hollywood characters meeting their maker prematurely and with lots of blood. She does, however, turn on each light and investigate each space: behind the shower curtain; inside the laundry room and the hallway closet. She cannot bring herself to crouch down and check under the bed. She'd rather be knifed in the ankles then in the face, as her Prada glasses offer no stab-free guarantee.

The check is complete. Nobody is in the house. But that doesn't mean there never was. Frema realizes that Useless could have been kidnapped and tortured into revealing his girlfriend's schedule. He might still come back for her. Maybe to rape her. Maybe to slash her throat or pump bullets into her skin. Frema thinks she needs to get THE HELL out of there.

But first, she turns on the TV. That guy with the mustache from The Insider is talking about some obese woman with a disease that makes her think she's hungry all the time. She has a bad habit of hiding unbaked cookie dough in the soles of her shoes.

This could be interesting. And she IS really tired. Surely the killer wouldn't arrive in the next half hour, she thinks, and settles her bottom into the softest spot of the couch.

Later, Frema will learn that Useless made it to work unscathed. However, he did have some trouble finding his ID.

End Scene

Musings on How Johnny Depp Took Over the World

Warning: This entry has nothing to do with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which I did see this weekend but did not very much enjoy. Gene Wilder will always be Willy Wonka to me.

At some point in my childhood, I began to dream about Judgement Day--that wonderful event where God determines if you're naughty or nice, worthy of Heaven or destined for Hell. How it happened varied; sometimes, all the lights would blow out and everyone would gather in their backyards, where lifespans of mistakes would appear on a huge TV for all of humanity to see. Others? Well, I can't remember others. Last night, though, I had a new version involving Johnny Depp and the Super Target near my house.

I think we knew it was coming. Luke was there, along with This Gal, Reggie from All My Children (apparently a good friend of mine), and dozens of other shoppers, all of us attempting to stock our refrigerators with supplies. Maybe in case It happened and we weren't armed with enough ho-hos to make it through the judging part. I was in the chip aisle (which of course is right next to frozen foods) when a huge wave of water suddenly flooded the aisles and started carrying people away. But it was a selective carrying away. The first wave went over everyone, but only certain people went with it. This Gal was one of the first to go (sorry, This Gal), and all I could was watch. Didn't reach out my hand or anything. Reggie? No more acting jobs for him. Luke was one of the last. We were holding on to each other when the water pulled him in. At that point I started to pray, but then it was over and only a handful of individuals were left. Then, suddenly, Johnny Depp. Coming up to me, holding on to me, his demeanor making it clear he was the cause of the water and the reason I was now alone.

His tone of voice was seductive, his eyes piercing, his sense was familiar. Not sensual, but hypnotic. Not what I expected of the Devil. He knew I was upset when he said I needed to go home with him, and he knew I was trying not to show it, though I did ask if it was OK to cry. He didn't answer. I didn't cry. I tried to act brave by pulling out bags of chocolate and peanut butter Nestle chips and eating right out of the package. I went home with him. Chris visited us. I remember wanting to escape and hoping he didn't feel it. And then I woke up.

My subconscious is constantly bringing to life the scenarios I am most afraid of. During the day, I do silly things like will for dolls to blink or smile at me, daring them to reveal their evil selves. In my dreams, I do these things and they happen. Last night it happened twice. One doll was as big as those life-sized Barbies popular about five years ago, but she didn't catch me. It also happened with a doll made of flannel. Luke grabbed her hands, and she didn't come to life until I started cutting her with scissors. Go me.

WHY do I freak myself out like this? Because my grandmother taught me I could go to Hell at any moment? I'm unsure of what God really wants? Early exposure to bad movies? If you have any ideas, feel free to pass it on. Or just say something funny so these images won't be burned into my brain.

Hello Procrastination, My Old Friend

For shizzle! Here I am facing a 10:00 a.m. Tuesday deadline, at which time I will hand over copy for the college's alumni magazine for layout and design, and I'm blogging. As I check the links to my friends' blogs, I mentally criticize them for not updating more consistently. But then, as I gather material for what is certain to be a very long night, I think maybe they're onto something by not blogging when they have more important things to do. For me, though, writing helps me to sort out any lingering thoughts that may interfere with said work. Also, the longer I put the work off, the better it will be, as I work best under pressure - definitely a good thing, as I finished only 5% of the work I intended to this weekend.

I did, however, manage catch up on two weeks' worth of All My Children, Scrubs, and Sex and the City. I DID eat a half a package of Oreos over the course of two days. I DID NOT put on make up, and I DID NOT wear anything dressier than a tee-shirt and jeans. All in all, a spectacular time.

P.S. Seeing The Grudge on Friday night scared the bejeezus out of me. I woke up at 6:00 a.m. the next morning having to go to the bathroom in the worst way, but I was too petrified to even let my feet touch the floor. Luke was forced to accompany me down the two-feet walk to the john. And he didn't even bitch about it; the mark of a truly wonderful man.

Holding A Grudge

I'm not really holding a grudge; I'm in a much better mood than I was yesterday. No, The Grudge is the latest Japanese-inspired thriller to hit the show, and I'm tickled pink at the idea of seeing it tonight. Rensselaer's new (and sorely needed) movie theatre opened last week, which means no more having to drive 45 minutes out of town in order to catch a flick. As I'm a huge horror fan and Halloween is fast approaching, this is the perfect thing to get me in the mood. We'll see what happens, though; as excited as I am to watch scary movies, I'm not very good at handling the aftermath once the lights turn on and the credits start to roll.

In honor of this very scary season, may I present:

Frema's Favorite Scary Movies

Pet Sematary
Not only did seeing a three-year-old child get hit by a truck traumatize me for life, the images of a guy with brain-guts on his tee-shirt and an invalid with an f'ed-up spine shouting "Never get out of bed again!" gave me nightmares for years. YEARS. Dead is never better.

Child's Play
When I first heard this title, I thought it was a sex movie. (Who knows why? I was 10.) Anyway, he's another guy that caused me to lock my closet door and glue my eyes to the door at bedtime. However, the last two Chucky movies are pretty campy and just make me laugh. I even bought Bride of Chucky dolls for my sister Samantha as a Christmas present a few years ago. I'm patiently awaiting the release of Seed of Chucky this fall.

Children of the Corn
Try watching this movie when you live in a town surrounded by cornfields. Not a good time.

The Ring
"Seven days" my @$$. This movie STILL scares the crap out of me.

Candyman
I grew up in Chicago, so this one implied an extra layer of terror. I've thought "that word" in front of the mirror several times but never had the guts to say it out loud - kind of like the Bloody Mary thing. Has anyone ever really done that?

Rosemary's Baby
I believe in God and angels AND devils, so the idea of this actually happening is enough to do me in.

Halloween
I saw this for the first time at a fifth-grade sleepover; by the end of the movie, I think we'd all wet our pants. It's the way he walks, just like Peppie La Pew. It says, "I could hop on one leg while you run and scream your head off, and you'll still get knifed up but GOOD."

And on that note, Happy Friday!

Nightlights Are Good

Not that I ever had one, but the idea sure is nifty. Thanks to the whodunit storyline on All My Children, I had horrible dreams last night about trying to track down a killer in the very scary town of Rensselaer. Only MY murder mystery had more blood and fewer attractive people. When I wake up from dreams like that, I'm very aware that my feet have wandered outside of the blanket, therefore giving the devil the perfect opportunity to grab them and pull me into Hell.

Cheery, huh? This ain't the first time I've been plagued with a bad dream. I've been having them consistently since age nine, after my first viewing of Child's Play, which I originally thought to be an adult movie about sex. (Don't ask.) Then came Pet Sematary, Freddie Krueger, Michael Meyers, and a variety of B-grade horror movies. Pet Sematary was probably the scariest; the ghost and the bed-ridden sister haunted me for years. At night, I had to position myself in such a way that I could keep an eye on the closet and the main doorway. The closet had to be closed - there'd be no Chuckies plotting against ME - and I had to be underneath the covers as much as possible - you know, to protect myself from the whole devil thing. (That phobia, though, didn't come from scary movies but my grandmother's religious folklore.) Once, I laid in bed covered from the neck down, stiff as a board for 45 minutes because I thought I heard a voice that didn't belong to either one of my parents. I was too scared to even turn my head.

Most of these habits have carried over into my adult life. I can't go to the bathroom alone after a scary movie, my feet still have to stay under the covers, and I can't sleep with my back to the door. When I moved off campus into my first house, I slept on the couch in the living room for two weeks straight, too scared to be alone in my own room - and that was with a roommate. The closet was huge and held to many terrifying possibilities.

Luke says I'm silly, that I'm old enough to know that there aren't monsters in my closet, devils under the bed, and crazy old ladies waiting to crack my spine. But, bless his heart, after movies like The Ring, he's still kind enough to walk me to the bathroom.