Friday, September 05, 2008



Some Bizarre (and Not So Bizarre?) Things I'm Scared Of

1. Ending a sentence with a preposition. Yes, damn my 7th grade English teacher all to HELL - I still remember having this rule beat into me daily during first period. (When I wasn't sneaking around trying to read my V.C. Andrews' books - God, was my mother aware I was reading about incest at age 12? Crikey.)

2. Being run over by a train - Ok, well, this probably doesn't strike you as terribly bizarre on the face of it - I mean, who in their right mind wants to be run over by a train? (Not counting those who've decided to pick one of the surest fire ways to end their lives and idiots who always think they can beat the fucking train - hey, it's like the house in Vegas morons - it's gonna beat YOU - every stinkin' time!) But seriously folks. There's a train that runs right through the middle of my town. God I sound like I live in Iowa. Anyway, luckily it does run on tracks. You know, it allows the Metro to go through, and the Amtrak, and those ten mile uglier-than shit cargo carrying trains. The kind you want to run alongside...the wind in your hair on a hot summer's day while you jump inside an empty car just to meet a friendly but slightly tipsy hobo named Jeb...oh wait that only happens in the movies. Back to my fear of trains. Ok, so today as I approach the tracks, the lights are flashing and those wooden/metal bar thingies are coming down - you know THE WARNING SIGNS that a train is coming. Alls well and good. I see the bars, I see the lights, I hear the bells (it sounds like a much better and more pharmaceutically induced experience than it was.)...I stop. The Metro whizzes past. The lights stop, the bells stop, the bars raise, and I....slowly drive across the tracks LOOKING BOTH WAYS! Why? Because I am mental and I am utterly and positively convinced there is a PHANTOM TRAIN that is going to appear at the last second and mow me down so fast I'll be at the Gates with St. Peter before I even know I went over the tracks.

WTF? I do this even when no train has passed by in hours. I see the tracks. All is quiet. No bells or flashing lights. And yet....and yet...I have to look both ways. HAVE TO. I think a part of me is convinced my car is going either get stuck on the tracks, or stop on the tracks, and I won't be able to get out and a train will come. That and I've seen way too many episodes of The Twilight Zone AND read way too much Stephen King. I admit it. Plus my car has 130,000 miles on it and a lot of people die on train tracks in the larger environs of where I live - in the BIG city.

3. Pool drains. Do you KNOW how hard this is for me to admit? So stop fucking laughing and saying "Pool drains?" out loud in that holier-than -thou unbelieving sarcastic voice of yours. Shut it! DO NOT and I really mean that, or I wouldn't have used caps, do not ask me where I got this fear from. I've no idea. To my knowledge and that of my mother from whose bosom I never nursed (this probably explains it all - she didn't LIKE the idea of breast feeding back in the late 60's, heh) I have never had a bad experience with a pool drain. No, my hair never got stuck in one. No, not a finger either. No, when I was but a wee thing just learning the pool ropes, my swimming coach didn't take me from "Let's blow bubbles in the water" down to the inky depths of the 8' deep pool and push my little angelic face into the drain. So I DO NOT KNOW what happened. And just so you don't get confused, it's only swimming pool drains. Jacuzzis, spas, kitchen sinks, bathtubs, showers - I'm totally fine with those.

So you must be wondering - how does she express this fear? Well, I don't assholes! Do you think I want everyone at the hotel thinking I'm a raving lunatic? I can swim to save my life but that's about it. I'm no Michael Phelps. (I can eat like him however - people were soooooooooo impressed with his breakfasts and I'm like YAWN. Pass me another short stack will ya?). Oh and as long as we're on the topic of pools, even though I can swim only marginally better than an infant, I am however really, really fucking good at treading water though so if you ever want to have a contest at that, let me know. Because I. will. kick. your. ass. And I'll do it WHILE I'm treading water. People just don't realize the talents I have.

No, seriously, in order to appear normal and 'pass' in swimming pools all over the United States (sniff, sob) and the great humid insect colony of Hawai'i, I just swim happily across the deep end (where drains are normally placed) and pray to GOD, JESUS, BUDDHA, ALLAH and any angels, fairies or kittens that might be listening to let me pass over that fucking evil drain without it: 1) Sucking me down 2) Causing me to drown for no apparent reason or 3) sending Satan's hands up to tickle my toes - I mean grab my feet and start eating me from the bottom up. I also try to have as many cocktails as possible from the poolside bar before getting in the water. Kids, don't try this at home.

I really don't know what it is. But I hate pool drains, I always have, and I always will. Just thinking about them is getting me nervous. I don't know why more people don't think they're inherently evil. I can't be that batty can I? Don't answer that.

4. As long we're in the vicinity of water...yes, I am afraid of the ocean. And no, not just the ocean off the Santa Monica Beach because I'm afraid of all the shit and piss and poisons and toxins in it. Though I don't ever go swimming there precisely because of that. No, I'm terrified of any ocean I can't see through. Humid Hawai'i is usually OK for a while. Clear waters are good; dark waters = no go. No go, no way, no how. I may walk into the water up to my ankles, but that's it so stop fucking pressuring me! Unless you're willing to take me to the Maldives where I will happily immerse my entire body in its crystral -clear healing waters alllll day and then sleep deeply in my beachfront cabana at night.

I am somewhat convinced that this fear developed after my genius parents allowed me to see "Jaws" in 1975. Apparently I thought it was so cool, the next year I went to Universal Studios for my birthday and saw their version of "Jaws" (rubbery, not convincing at all) where everybody tried to do their best Roy Scheider (God rest his 1970's movie rocking soul) impersonation by saying "We're gonna need a bigger boat." Haha. I laughed! No, I didn't. I was a child you idiots. I didn't get witty movie references back then! But now I understand. Oh sweet mother of Mary (that'd be Ann for those of you not up on your Christian ancestry)...Roy, Robert Vaughn (RIP) and yes you too Richard Dreyfus - we are indeed gonna need a bigger boat. Because the only way you're getting me in the ocean past my ankles is by putting my on a cruise liner. Preferably Royal Caribbean because that's the one I took to go to Alaska and that was a damn fine ship. The Renaissance of the Seas or some such crap. Anyway. So yeah, any piece of flotsam or jetsam that happens to even look at my ankles in the ocean - I start screaming and running down the beach in mortal terror. And I try not to yell "shark" - the lifeguards don't like it too much when I do that.

5) Being locked up in an old prison cell and left to die. Surely you're thinking, "She can't be serious. How likely is this to happen to her?" Well geniuses, look at the title of this blog again. It doesn't read "The Things I am Scared of That Are Highly Unlikely to EVER Happen to Me." And anyway, have you BEEN to Alcatraz, suckers? Do you KNOW how spooky it is on that island? Do you know how windy and cold it is? Wear a fucking parka I tell you! Especially for the boat ride over. Mark Twain was right about San Francisco. Colder than a witch's tit in summer. Don't shiver all yer timbers off and then come crying to me. I warned you! (What the hell are 'timbers' anyway?)

Alas, I digress. I gotta say whenever "Escape From Alcatraz" comes on TV, I must shamefully admit I am ROOTING for Clint and his posse to get the hell off that island. Of course I pretty much always root for Clint no matter what he's doing. Especially if he has a gun. Go Dirty Harry! :) Anyway, I'm not rooting for him because he had to dig a giant hole with a spoon or papier -mache his own face while looking pretty hot and sexy doing it. I am rooting for those men, those rapists and baby killers because not only were they in prison (wait, isn't that where rapists and baby killers should be? See how TV has messed me up?), they had to brave the icy, jet black waters of the San Francisco Bay! I mean anyone able to do that probably deserves their freedom. No, seriously, I'm sure they all drowned or perished from fear when a dolphin tried to get a little too close and their coronary arteries just started exploding one after another. Ok, I admit. I only had this fear once, when I went to Alcatraz in 1993. But that doesn't make it any less bizarre or any less valid. Everybody wants to walk into one of those old, dilapidated prison cells. "Hey Ted, look, I'm a prisoner! Take a picture Bertha, so all the folks at home can howl over this at the family reunion." Uh no. Not me. I was convinced my own BROTHER was going to slam the door on me, lock it and run laughing down the corridor...the corridor where suddenly all tourists had vanished. Needless to say, unless I plan to go back there, this fear doesn't keep me up too many nights, but it's bizarre so I thought I'd mention it.

6) Clowns. Is this considered bizarre or have enough of us finally come out of the closet about the goddamned clowns? Mom, Dad...no, they were NOT funny or cute. They scared the shit out of me and apparently many other clown-scarred people out there as well. WHY DID YOU LAUGH AT MY TEARS?? That would've saved you at LEAST three years of therapy. Future mothers and fathers of America - and the world - keep YOUR CHILDREN AWAY FROM THE CLOWNS! Take your child to the circuses at your own risk. I also blame Stephen King AGAIN for just reminding me how very, very much I HATE clowns and am terrified of their child-eating grins when he wrote the book "It" and then some assholes made it into a movie and yes I read the book and saw the clown in the movie and don't go blaming me. Blame a fucking clown! Those idiots on their unicycles and their dumb-ass horns - beep- beep- aren't we funny? Big shoes and flowers coming out of our sleeves, hahahahaa! ALL THE WHILE...the clown community sat roasting small children on a large rotating spit far off in the distance...miles from the circus tent or carny trailers. Sure you never SAW IT or God forbid even SMELLED IT - but it was HAPPENING PEOPLE! And speaking of the midway, carnival clowns were even worse! They weren't even allowed to form a clown UNION! So they were even MORE pissed off. It took a lot of energy to slap that happy face on every night when all you wanted to do was chainsaw the dick off your boss and eat a couple of 5 year olds for dinner. BTW, have you ever seen the movie "Funhouse"? It's really bad, but it's also kind of scary. I like it. Now with On-Demand and DVD's and HD and all, they rarely play ANY old, really bad movies anymore. Shame.

7) Mausoleums. You know, the places where they bury people INDOORS. This may have started around the first time I saw the movie "Phantasm." If you haven't ever seen that movie, do yourself a favor, go rent it, but before turning it on, take a lot of Xanax and Nitroglycerin, keep all the lights in the house on (plus lights in the houses on your left and right) and keep 911 on speed dial. It's also an older movie. But Holy Mary, it's scary. Ew. A rhyme. Anyway, you'll be taking the name of the Lord in vain a lot whilst watching this movie, so keep the windows closed if your neighbours might get a tad offended at something like that. This will also help when you go to bed and cry and whimper like a colicky baby because you are too scared to even take your arm out from under the blanket to turn off the light next to your bed.

Anyway, why mausoleums? I mean, you'd think I'd be scared of graveyards! Hell no! Half my family's in a graveyard. I've spent a lot of time in a certain graveyard over the last 12 years. Going there is like going to a family reunion! A really, really dull and quiet family reunion. Can you BLAME ME IF I GET BORED AND WANT A CHEESEBURGER? Christ, we all have our own way of coping people, stop being so judgmental! Now to be honest, I wasn't visiting the graves in the dead of night. That might be a tad spookalicious. But alas, no, I am more fascinated by graveyards than anything else. One of the coolest graveyards I saw was in Savannah, GA and the graves dated back to the 1700's - which for America, is ancient.

But mausoleums. They're sooooo....white. And quiet! I mean, I don't expect Muzak or Mick Jagger singing "Paint it Black" or anything but the quiet...just...isn't...right. And you walk on the WHITE marble floors and you have DEAD PEOPLE in the WALLS to your right and your left. IN THE WALLS. I don't know. Are they in coffins or are they shoved in there solo like mail in my mailbox slot? And if there all over the walls, it begs the question, why not put them in the ceiling too? Why waste the space? We've got them in the ground, in the walls...let's break through to the...ceiling. Anyway, so you're walking down the white, marble hallway and your shoes are going 'Click, clack, click, clack" and you listen to the echo of your shoes (unless you're wearing rubber-soled shoes to which I say having a little fucking respect for the dead will ya - dress up a little!) and then you swear you hear TWO pairs of shoes....I don't know! It's all so antiseptic isn't it? I think there are some famous people in mausoleums. Like Lucille Ball and Marilyn Monroe. They have bronze plaques and places for flowers and one nice thing is you don't have to pull the weeds off their graves (like you do at SOME places where they are TOO LAZY to manicure the lawns properly). The deer can't come down from the mountains at night and eat your $50.00 bouquet. That's a plus. However, like the old prison cell, I think I am convinced someone is going to LOCK ME IN a mausoleum and laugh maniacally while doing it. Notice I have a fear of being locked in places? I'm slightly, ever so slightly claustrophobic. Also, don't care much for heights. But those are far more common, pedestrian fears. Not that I'm a fear elitist mind you. I just consider myself...unique. I think there are some shitty movies out there where a bunch of teenagers have to spend the night in a mausoleum and then they all start dying, the only survivor, of course, THE VIRGIN! (Didn't you ever see Scary Movie? It spells the formula out, dimwits!) So of course myself and all my friends would be dead. You know, the last time I was in a mausoleum was in that new-ish (it's not so new now, but it was when I visited it) Catholic church/eyesore built in downtown L.A. My mom and I went to visit it and I think it's called Our Lady of the Smoggy Ass Saint of Los Angeles and Fuck Santa Anna We Don't Need Him No More We Are Taking Back Our Land You Racist White Mother-" actually I can't even remember the name. I blocked it out, just like I blocked out the hideousness that is this church. Have you been to Europe? Have you even been to St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York? Now THAT'S A CHURCH! The architects for this monstrosity must have been BLIND! If I'd reviewed the church on purely aesthetic grounds, my review would be short, sweet and Biblical. "And Jesus wept."

But alas, my mum and I actually accidentally ended up in the bowels (don't you just love writing that) of the THING and realized we were in the mausoleum. And Gladys, you'll never GUESS who's buried down there!! What, you mean besides a bunch of priests/possible pedophiles (give it up Cardinal, we know what filthy lies you hid for years)...none other than Gregory Peck! Yes, we stumbled upon a famous person's grave. I didn't know old Greg was a Catholic. I wonder how much he had to donate to that concrete hideousness to score himself a place down under. I'll admit it. That mausoleum wasn't as bad as others I've seen/been in. But only because I was preoccupied with looking for other famous people. See, come to L.A. and you can even run into celebrities when they're DEAD!

I know I have other bizarre fears. One of them is not getting to sleep in, so I'm going now. Next time I'll tell you about how sometimes I fear I'll be accused of a murder I didn't commit. Yes, I DO have an active imagination, and I AM paranoid.

P.S. Check out the picture of the mausoleum - what'd I tell you? It's all WHITE and BRIGHT but that ain't foolin' me! Notice how they threw in the nice purple mid-century couch, the table, the plant and even CHRIST ON THE CROSS to make ya feel all cozy...well it AIN'T WORKING! Sorry God.

P.P.S. I am SO excited. Only one month and 25 days until Halloween! And no, I'm not kidding! I'm dusting off the Jamie Lee Curtis DVD's as we speak! Scream Queen time!

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Don't Read Anything Into This

He doesn’t appear to be an imposing man – maybe 5’10 or so if that. Slight frame, a nondescript form. You’d pass him on the street and never look twice – if it wasn’t for the eyes. Two of the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. He's a nobody, he's anybody, he's somebody now; a first generation Irishman, born and bred on the blue-collar streets of Dorchester, Massachusetts. His parents emigrated here from Ireland God knows when; Irish and Catholic and there were two things in his house you never did. You never took the Lord’s name in vain and you never crossed a picket line. Jesus didn’t look kindly on scabs. Dad was a union man to the core.

He wears the face of an unpainted clown. Gunmetal gray-blue eyes deeply set and profoundly curved in a downward, melancholy turn. If he adorned his visage with white Pan-Cake, or even the garish wide-set blood red smile of circus clowns of yore, he'd make one of the saddest clowns I’ve ever seen. And yet…and yet…there is something intriguingly playful about this face.

His hair is short – a close-cropped afterthought the color of wheat on an overcast day. He's only 43, but his hairline is profoundly receding - the disappearance and thinning fit more for of a man ten years his senior. A myriad of lines are etched deeply into his forehead and down into his furrowed brow, as if his face were clay and someone had dragged all his years straight through. Hell yes, there's character in his face in spades, but again, these deep trench marks create the aura of a man far older than his 40 plus years; far older, far sadder and far more worried than he probably is.

His mouth is rather small, his lips a bit thin, even his smile melancholy. He isn't handsome in a conventional manner; hell, he's pasty and slight – a boyo from the Old Country who’d made his fortune steadily, over the years, using what he’d learned from the lads and bums of Dorchester and its environs. Sometimes he grew a goatee – or the hint of one I guess. Almost looked like it took him half a year just to do that. It made him look a bit devilish. He has it in spades – the boyish face, the sad eyes, the furrowed brow and a face far too old for its time.

He'd captured me, unawares, and completely, but how?