GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #380: PTSD

 For all the shit I've been through, you'd think I'd experience PTSD a lot more. It's such a rarity that before 2021 I could count the instances on the fingers of one hand. The one that stands out the most was when I was drunk and saw a rug at a hookah bar that reminded me of . . . well, never mind what it reminded me of. It kind of fucked with me, and I spent most of the night not having fun. And there was the time when  . . . just take my word for it. I'd rather not discuss it. You know it's bad when *I* don't want to talk about it.

I've always been good at compartmentalizing, so that's probably why it doesn't break through all that much. And I'm fuckin' phenomenal at bottling shit up. It takes a lot for that cork to pop, and I think it's only happened twice in all my life.

But here's the unexpected thing. Remember that car wreck I was in back in January? I have to say, that one is strong with the PTSD. It used to fuck with me whenever I approached that intersection where it happened, but it eventually went away like I thought it would. But it comes back every once in a while. Like when someone in front of me comes to a sudden halt, and I'm sent back in time to that moment before the air bag went off and punched me in the face, the moment when I knew I was fucked and there was nothing I could do about it.

But then it happened when I wasn't driving. I was watching something--probably an episode of Banshee, but I was too high at the time to remember--and there was a car crash with a very realistic sound. Movies and TV very rarely get that sound right. Whatever I was watching was spot on. I've only heard it in real life twice. Once when I was a witness to a car crash. The other time when I was in a car crash. It's an unmistakable sound, and when I heard it my pulse went up, and I found it difficult to breathe.

It took me a few seconds to pull out of that nose dive. I did the thing that my mom did when I freaked out the first time I saw Empire and Luke got his hand cut off. She told me it wasn't real, and I forced my brain to remember that.

It's kind of like night terrors. I used to have them, well, not a lot but enough. I didn't see the old hag or anything like that, but I felt something had grabbed me from under my bed and was pulling me down to be with it. After enough times I figured out what would stop it. I would tell myself it's not real, and then I would force myself to calm down and let whatever it was take me, because I knew that when it did, I would wake up.

Sure enough, it worked. I never had another night terror again. And it worked with this car crash sound. It actually startled me, and I wonder if it's going to be like this for the rest of my life, or if it will eventually stop like with the night terrors.

I guess I'll find out.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #379: CHOOSE YOUR OWN DEATH

 

I loved Choose Your Own Adventure books when I was a kid. Not gonna lie, I sometimes crack one open and give it a go. But most of my peers back then really wanted the happy endings. Not me. When I opened one of these books, I wanted to see just how fucked up my death was going to be.

I can't be the only one who did this, right? Or maybe I am. I don't know. I was a weird fuckin' kid.

The Deadly Shadow, as seen above, was my favorite because if memory serves, there were only two happy endings. All the others were doom and gloom. There's even a scene where you get water tortured. My favorite of the deaths was being eaten by army ants. That was the goriest best! There was also a whirlpool of death and unless my brain has become addled, I recall there being a nuclear death ending. How awesome is that?!

There were also the Time Machine books, but those didn't fascinate me because there was only ever one ending each, and it was a good one. It got frustrating because you'd sometimes get stuck in a loop you just can't get out of. These books could literally last forever.

There was another that was kinda cool. I wish I could remember the name of the series. It was kind of like a roleplaying game you could play with yourself. You could get into fights with bad guys that you could determine with dice rolls. There was one about a Samurai that I really loved. Maybe it's in my basement somewhere. There was another one that I think might have been called An Appointment with D.E.A.T.H., but I'm not too certain. I tried to Google these two, but I didn't get anywhere. Anyone remember these? A little help here?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #378: RECYCLING IN THE OLD DAYS

 For most of my life it has been mandatory to recycle in my town. They even gave us a recycle bin and would replace them for free whenever the bin falls apart. But I was stuck on a call today at work and got bored. I looked over at my can of energy drink and saw the incentive prices for recycling in certain states. It sent me back to my childhood.

I remember my stepdad reserved a spot in the kitchen where we would put all of our recyclables. They were usually glass Coke bottles and such. When the pile got too big we would pack them all up and carry them over to the Jewel Osco. We didn't drive because it was a ten minute walk. Anyway, we'd get there, and there was a counter where you were supposed to turn these things in. It's also where you could cash a check to yourself. Yeah, yeah, shit was weird back then. Remember when you waited until late at night to make a long distance call because the rates were cheaper then?

The clerk would count everything up, and we'd walk away with a few bucks, which we needed badly because we were so poor we were on food stamps at the time. Even a single dollar made all the difference.

Sure, recycling is so much easier these days, but I kind of miss the old way of doing it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #377: ALMOST OPEN

 My week of shameless self-promotion (LITE) might be over, but the struggle continues. Since I hit my 90 days at the new job, I figured I'd be opening my social media up again soon. I was shooting for 4th of July weekend. And then something happened.

A supervisor position opened at my job, and since I have my 90 under my belt and have no write-ups, I'm eligible for the job. So I threw my hat in the ring, and I'm pretty hopeful. This means, however, that my social media will remain closed until I find out if I got it or not. Mostly I don't care what people think of me or my writing, but I lost one longtime (and well-paying) job because they found my books. I'm not running that risk again. I'm sure my superiors wouldn't care, but you never know. I spent more than a year out of work, and that fucking sucked. I'd rather not do that again.

So my social media is almost open. Soon, I tell you. SOON.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #376: I HAVE A CUNNING PLAN

 

Hopefully mine works out a lot better than his usually did.

I've been focusing my week of shameless self-promotion on ebooks today. There is a reason for that. Very soon I'm going to do a few more Kindle-only books, but they won't be standalones.

I have two finished books I'm sitting on right now. One of them is my splatter western, the other is my splatter SF. They're kinda making the rounds, but I'm pretty sure no one wants either one. That's fine. I have a plan for them anyway.

The splatter western is part two of a series that doesn't have a part one yet. Kind of like A Fistful of Dollars, in which the last in the series takes place first. The first part of my splatter western was written years ago, and I'm going to do a couple more drafts of it before it comes out, but the second part was meant to be read first. And then . . . hold that thought.

My splatter SF bears a lot of influences on its sleeve. The most obvious is The Expanse, and it's something I stripped out to the best of my abilities. And the first chapter is heavily influenced by Richard Matheson, and again, I stripped out as much as possible. The same for chapter two, which bears a lot in common with Robert E. Howard. It's OK to borrow from others, just so long as you strip out as much of the original influence as possible and make it your own.

But I am shamelessly ripping off the way The Expanse is published. Between each book in the series, the authors publish a Kindle-only novella. They're not technically a part of the series, but they enhance your enjoyment of the bigger story.

My splatter SF book is the first in a kinda-sorta series. The thing is, I'm bored with multi-book SF epics. The books in this series are not a continuing story. They're just about the same characters, that's all. And while there will be connections between them, they will be standalone books. Furthermore, not a single one of them will be doorstops. I'm going to try to keep them all under 60,000 words.

Yeah, there will be subtext. Everything I write has subtext if you're looking for it, even stuff like "Monster Cock." But these books will be first and foremost pulp adventures. Dark, grim, funny, fucked up pulp adventures.

And between each book there will be a Kindle-only novella. I already have a good idea what the first two will be. I'm toying with the idea of publishing one before the first volume. We'll see.

And I'm doing the same for the splatter western series, which will be a trilogy.

So there's my cunning plan. It will come to fruition probably by the end of the year, depending on when I hear back from the publishers that are probably going to say no. Naturally, I'll keep you all in the loop.

THE LAST TEMPTATION OF LUCIFER by John Bruni

 Here's another one of my writing exercises. I think it turned out to be pretty good. I forget who said that they had "an affinity for Satan." It might have been Mark Twain, but I can't find it, and I'm too lazy to do a deep search for it right now. Regardless, if you have known me for any length of time, you know that I tend to like villains a lot more than heroes. (Fictionally speaking.) Maybe it's because I identify with them more often than not. This story was influenced by two things. One, reading about Nick Cave's musings regarding religion. Two, the following quote (which I can confirm actually *is* from Mark Twain).

“But who prays for Satan? Who in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most, our one fellow and brother who most needed a friend yet had not a single one, the one sinner among us all who had the highest and clearest right to every Christian's daily and nightly prayers, for the plain and unassailable reason that his was the first and greatest need, he being among sinners the supremest?”

Lucifer Morningstar peered into the paradise of Eden’s garden, where all was beauty and harmony. Adam and Eve tended the place well, and they worked tirelessly. No, maybe not work. They enjoyed themselves. How could that be considered work? 

It almost reminded himself of angels and the way things were before humanity. It had been idyllic. Annoyingly so. Nothing ever happened. Every day was business as usual, and it would be that way forever. It disgusted him. Eternity had no real value. You could be doing your favorite thing ever, but do it for eternity? Favor weakens. The soul hungers for more. Anything. Adversity? Bring it on. Anything to not be bored. 

But even then you’d be sick of doing different things. Eventually you’ll have done everything. So life truly had no value unless it ended someday. 

Lucifer approached the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. He’d eaten his own version of this fruit. Perhaps that’s why he felt so close to Adam and Eve. He knew how God had set up the angels to fail. Now God had done the same with the humans. The angels might be stuck, but Lucifer thought he could still save the humans. 

He ran a finger over one piece of hanging fruit. It swayed on the branch, full and ripe, ready to be picked and eaten. And then Adam and Eve would be armed with the knowledge to save themselves. To live free from God’s greedy reins. Sure, they would be doomed. They would owe the universe their own death. But at least their lives would mean something. 

Eve wandered close, and Lucifer knew the time was now. He shifted into the snake, a splendid long creature with many legs and wings and eyes. Fangs glistened, and a delicate forked tongue flicked between them. 

Eve froze, and for a moment Lucifer thought he’d scared her. Then he saw everything else in the garden had paused. He turned and saw his creator leaning against the Tree. God was half-Adam, half-Eve, showing both penis and vagina. God smiled through half-masculine, half-feminine lips. 

“Business or pleasure?” Lucifer asked. 

“Both, my son,” God said. “Everything for me is both.” God shifted into another form, sexless and bright. This was the closest to the true form that anyone could see. “Any plans for the evening?” 

“You’re omniscient,” Lucifer said. “Drop the pretense. Are you here to stop me?” 

“No, Morningstar. I’ve given you the free will you wished for the other angels. And now you wish it for Adam and Eve.” 

“So you’re not going to stop me.” Not a question. 

“No. I’m just here to show you another way. Look.” 

Lucifer turned back, and Eden had changed. Adam and Eve lived through night and day, untouched by trouble, unworried by adversity. They thrived, and the garden grew bigger. More animals came into existence. The trees pushed the boundaries of the land, pushing out the barren wastes to all sides. Soon the garden grew to encompass the earth, and the creatures roamed the world.  Only Adam and Eve remained at the core. The garden no longer needed them. It embraced their tenders and the earth became paradise. The angels took up residence, and God offered clemency to the ones who had sided with Lucifer. They entered paradise as angels once more and lived in harmony forever and ever. 

And Lucifer saw himself crawl up from the depths of Hell, covered in soot and cobwebs, the only creature who lived away from God’s sight. He shambled toward the Lord, who welcomed him with open arms. 

“See?” God said. “I have sympathy for you. I will always love you, my son. You will return to your previous glory. I have a plan. I always do.” 

For all his rebellion Lucifer almost wanted that. It had been a long time since his creator had even spoken to him. He missed the Holy Presence. He missed home. 

But he knew a bribe when he heard one. 

“You don’t sway me,” Lucifer said. “I intend to save these two from your needy shackles. They need not suffer like I did. Like the angels do.” 

God sighed. “So be it.” 

The creator vanished, and Eve stepped forward after being a statue for so long. Lucifer slithered forward and offered the fruit. She ate, and she convinced Adam to eat, too. 

They saw each other with true knowledge for the first time, and they ran into each others’ arms. Adam’s dangly bit stood up, and he shoved it between Eve’s legs. They did this for the first time. 

At first this made Lucifer happy. He’d brought new joy to the humans. But something didn’t sit right. 

Wait. God had no genitals, nor sex or gender. Neither did the angels. Lucifer certainly had none. Why did God give Adam a penis and Eve a vagina? They never used them before. 

Understanding struck Lucifer. Genitals were used for sex, and sex was how humans procreated. Now cursed with an eventual death, these humans would need to breed their own replacements. 

Adam and Eve had genitals for hundreds of years. 

Meaning, God had set Lucifer up to do this. 

Just as God had meant Lucifer to rebel, thus creating Hell. 

Just as God would one day send Jesus Christ to his death. 

Lucifer’s victory felt hollow. There was no escape from God’s tyranny for anyone. 

The snake’s wings and legs withered away, and God rushed into Eden to punish the humans that had been set up for failure from the first day. Lucifer couldn’t stomach to watch more of this. He slunk back to Hell, defeated, hating his creator more than ever. 

THE END 

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #375: THE MOST IMPORTANT THING I LEARNED IN SCHOOL

 So I saw a meme the other day about the understandability of the philosopher, Hegel. That kind of brought me back to my college days when my second major was philosophy. Jokingly, I used to praise my intelligence by proclaiming to all who wouldn't tell me to shut the fuck up, "I understand Hegel!" Although to be fair, I never used that information since graduation. I honestly don't recall anything about Hegel anymore. I probably don't need to, anyway.

But it made me wonder what the most important thing I ever learned in school was. After careful consideration I have to say that typing is at the top of that list. Before then I hunted and pecked at typewriters. (I didn't own a computer until after I learned how to type.) I learned quickly, and even before the class was done for the semester, I was fast. Very fast.

Now I could probably type a long sentence in the time it takes lightning to flash. On one occasion I was told I was so fast that it sounded like whenever someone types in a movie or TV show. It's always fast, but it's never accurate. They can't possibly be accurate. That's just a bunch of actors randomly hitting keys. But I'm accurate. I'm that fast and accurate. I don't have many skills in the world, but goddammit, I'm a top notch typer. I can't count how many people I piss off with my typing, especially since I can make a "silent" keyboard sound like an army of raging berserkers on the march.

I'm really glad I took that class.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #374: STICKERS ON BOOKS

 Stickers on books have been the bane of my existence for most of my life. My first impulse is to gently peel them off before time can cement them on. Sometimes that doesn't work, and I have to just leave the fucking thing. I hate that. So I saw a post on Twitter that made my skin crawl because booksellers do this all the time. The post was a plea for booksellers to stop motherfucking doing that shit.

So I'm going to tell you a scary story. It's short, but if you're anything like me, it will make you bristle. You will tear your hair and gnash your teeth.

A while back I was in a Half Price Books, haunting the horror section (naturally). I found a book by Charlee Jacob called SOMA. It wasn't just any edition, though. It was the signed lettered edition. Per the signature sheet, there were only 15 copies in the world. I had to have it, but there was no price on it. Hoping for the best, I took it to the counter and asked how much it was.

The clerk went through his database and didn't find a conclusive answer. He arbitrarily decided on twenty-five bucks, which was pretty sweet. I'll be that's not even half of the actual price. Maybe not even a quarter of it. I was very happy.

He turned his back, so I didn't see what he was doing. I was reaching for my wallet instead. When he turned back around . . .

. . . HE'D PUT A PRICE STICKER ON THE BOOK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND THEN HE PUT THE BOOK BACK IN THE SLIPCASE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's OK. I'll give you a moment. I certainly needed to, as I'm reliving this nightmare.

I paid up and rushed out to my car. It took all of my willpower to take the book out of the slipcase as gently as possible, and I showed even more restraint when I didn't tear the sticker off like a rabid dog. Thankfully I was able to remove it without leaving a trace of its existence, so there's a happy ending, but I shudder to think. I SHUDDER TO THINK!

Don't even talk to me about writing the price on the inside cover.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #373: A WEEK OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION (THE LITE VERSION)

 Usually when I have a week of shameless self-promotion, I post links to just about every publication that ever printed a story of mine. I focus on one book and a bunch of short stories over the course of the day. For a variety of reasons, I am doing a LITE version of this.

One of the biggest reasons is, I no longer work at a job where there is downtime. All my other jobs had downtime, thus allowing for me to post links left and right. The downtime was pretty sweet, actually. I got a lot of reading and writing done, and sometimes it's just an excuse to fuck with your coworkers. Or, if it's dead enough, like around the holidays, we'd play Risk or Monopoly or something. In one notable instance we watched I Come in Peace.

That's right. I once got paid for watching the classic Dolph Lundgren/Brian Benben SF buddy flick about a drug dealer from space killing people.

At my current job, if the phones ever stop ringing (which is a rarity), we're supposed to call out on leads. We always have leads. There will never be a day when we run out of leads. I get bathroom breaks and lunch, and the rest of my day is spent at an intense speed.

But there are other reasons why I'm doing a LITE version. For one thing, it almost serves no purpose to send out so many links on stories that are no longer making me money, if they're even still in print at all. Besides, a lot of it was collected in my books, TOQT and TOUT. The only people interested would be those looking for collectors items, and I don't imagine there are a lot of people out there who actively want to collect that much of me.

And there are other reasons, but those two are the big ones.

(Tee-hee! I said "big ones.")

So my approach this time around is to focus on the books with only the newer short story publications getting posted. I think Thursday I'll focus on my Kindle-only publications. There are only three right now, but I get the feeling that's going to change soon. Oh, if you could only see the weird shit I'm plotting in my head right now in that regard.

Also, in case you haven't seen my website in a while, I updated it (finally) so it's a lot more user friendly now. Take a look around. Be cautious, though, since there is some nudity on certain pages. I wouldn't check it out at work, for example. Probably not in front of your kids, either. Or your parents. Or anyone, really.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #372: AGING WHISKEY, BREWING BEER

 Not too long ago I got a whiskey barrel so I could age my own whiskey. I have to say that it has been going very well. The taste of the barrel truly comes through with this thing, and the longer I keep it in there, the better. But I can't keep it in there too long. I have discovered, much to my sadness, that if it's in there for too long, it has a tendency to evaporate. What a horrible thing to happen to whiskey! So I've adjusted my approach.

I figured, if I could do that, maybe I wouldn't have such a hard time brewing beer, right? I got a DIY beer brewing kit, good for six bottles, and saw the claim on the box that "if you can make oatmeal, you can brew beer."

Hold up. I can't make oatmeal, and I have no desire to learn. That shit looks gross, like someone gathered a bunch of puked-on pencil shavings and put it in a bowl. No thanks. But I've been teaching myself how to cook. Maybe . . . ?

Nope. I read the instructions, and they are very exact. I have no numbers on my stove's dials. I've been teaching myself to cook by eyeballing it. There is no fucking way for me to do this. At least not right now. Not with this stove. I could eyeball it, I guess, but I wouldn't want to ruin beer. That would be horrible, right up there with evaporating whiskey. This must be avoided at all costs.

*sigh* Maybe someday. Not anytime soon, but perhaps there will come a day when I can drink my whiskey and chase it with my beer.

A man can dream.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #371: I HATE CELL PHONES

 

Yes, yes, bring it on. I'm the old man complaining about tech. Except unlike most other old bastards, I have a 100% misanthropic reason for it. Most old bastards want to bring the world closer together. I just want to drive it further away from me.

I hate talking on the phone. Always have, always will. It sucks that I wound up getting jobs that require me to be on the phone the whole time I'm there for the past twenty years or so. It's only made my hatred of talking on phones even worse over the years. My ideal life is to never--EVER--get another phone call again. I like being inaccessible.

Imagine my horror when someone (who had the incredibly selfish motive of wanting to be in constant contact with me) forced a cell phone into my hand about twelve years ago or so. It was a Net10 burner she'd gotten off a crackhead. I did not want this gift, but it was very clear to me that saying no was not an option.

And so I joined the modern age of cell phones.

But fuck that shit. When I was a kid I tried to stay out of the house as much as possible so I couldn't risk being dragged into a phone call. Now I try to stay in areas where cell phone coverage is spotty at best, and still that motherfucker rings.

I will give cell phones one thing that is good for my well being: texts. I have no problem with texts so long as it's not a long conversation. Ask a question. Get an answer. Ask a follow up. Get another answer. Acknowledged. Done. Those are the best text interactions.

I've told you all that one day I'm going to go full hermit. I can't afford that right now. But someday.

It's funny. I was thinking about this when one of my publishers/editors/good friends, Nick Day, posted this to his own blog. I understand that he was mostly talking about being inaccessible as an author, meaning one who puts the work in front of the ego, one who does not engage in online arguments and so on. I dig that, too. I don't read reviews (more or less), and if I did come upon a bad one it doesn't bother me. If the reviewer put a lot of effort into a one star review, I find that pretty funny. The things I write are all over the place, making an author brand practically impossible, and that's by design. You will never one day hear that I trademarked my own name like Harlan Ellison. I write whatever I want to write, and sometimes that has been a detriment to getting people to read my work, but that's not my problem.

Although Nick goes a bit too far when he takes pleasure in taking his own work out of print. I'm sure that brings him joy, and that's a good thing, but I write so people can read me, even if they decide to pirate my books (which has happened, especially with Strip). I'm toying with the idea of bringing Dong of Frankenstein back into print, for example.

Wow. This is getting away from me a bit. I just meant to say that I hate cell phones, but I guess that's what happens when I write these things while high instead of drunk. I can barely hold a train of thought together.

Also I'm not a big fan of the internet, at least not in most of the ways that people use it. In particular social media. It's pretty crazy how quickly these things can become pretty little hate machines. But that's probably a story for another day. Or night. Or goodnight. Fuckers? I'm off in the weeds. WEEDS, I tell you.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #370: WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT . . .

 I wonder why dealing drugs is illegal. It is actually the purest form of capitalism, so everyone should be embracing it, right? The government says you can't buy this product because it is illegal, and some people see that as an opportunity to make money. That's the American Dream, isn't it? To make money no matter the cost? I look at people like, say, Jeff Bezos, who treats their workers as wage slaves. No, you can't take a piss break. You have to be on the line the whole time. We've built a trough for you to piss in. Or you can wear a diaper. Just so long as you're working. People like them would rather their workers shit themselves than to take a few minutes to go to the bathroom. Capitalism finds that perfectly acceptable, but dealing drugs? No way, Jack. You're going to prison.

Does that sound like the pursuit of happiness? It certainly doesn't sound like liberty. It barely qualifies as life.

I guess my point is, there is only fake morality in our system. To quote Gene Hackman in The Quick and the Dead, "Old news." The world is one big double standard, and it always has been. Not just in the case that I choose to highlight tonight. In all avenues. It sucks, and it seems like no one has any interest in fixing that.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I love my country. But we are more backwards than the Backwards Man from Freddy Got Fingered. America is the Backwards Man, and we act surprised and hurt when other countries talk shit about us.

Jesus fuck.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #369: ICKY STICKY POO LAND

 Tee-hee! I said 69 . . .

*ahem*

Anyway.

Huh. 69.

All right. Give me a second here.

When I was a kid, maybe four or five, somewhere around there, my grandfather used to walk me to the park in Berkeley, which was just on the other side of the viaduct. It was my favorite park because it was ideal for playing Star Wars. There was a bridge that was perfect for pretending you were in a lightsaber battle in Empire, and the ground at the end of the slide kinda looked like a Sarlacc pit. But that's besides the point.

Along the way we passed under the viaduct, and I always liked going all the way to the back where it was dark and grimy and nasty. It was always flooded, so it seemed like there was a small creek, and it was always filled with garbage, just like everything in the 'Eighties was filled with garbage.

Gramps called the place Icky Sticky Poo Land, and I fucking loved that place. No one was ever there except for us. It was a filthy place, and I've always loved filthy places. I wanted to jump into the water and revel in filth, and while Gramps indulged me at times, he never let me go that far. I still kinda want to go swimming in that muck.

It's gone now. Fuckers cleaned the place up. Now Berkeley uses it to store their public works trucks, and construction vehicles are sometimes parked there. They even have lights over there now. Dammit, why does everything have to be so clean? I miss that place.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #368: THE ESCAPISM OF DARK SHADOWS

To be read to this song.

Each Dark Shadows DVD collection has four discs. Each contains ten episodes. At the end of each disc there is an interview with someone who either acted in, wrote for or worked on Dark Shadows. One of the most recent ones I saw was an interview with David Selby, who played Quentin Collins, the Dorian Gray/werewolf of the series. I gotta say, I think he was high as all fuck during this interview. During another interview, too, come to think of it. I'm pretty sure he is high all the time unless he's working. He looked pretty intense when he was on Mad Men and Legion.

Anyway, he was talking about the attraction people had to Dark Shadows. He talked about the horrors of the real world, and he attributed people's joy in the show to escapism. He said this with a grand smile on his face, and I realized that he was very proud of his ability to help people get through their day simply by acting on a horror soap opera (the only one of its kind, by the way, until Passions came around).

When I'm enjoying fiction, I don't see it as escapism. Sometimes it's even work, because as a writer I can learn anything from any book, even if it's only to figure out what *not* to do. But the older I get, the more I wonder about that. Why *do* I love this show? My mom introduced it to me when I was very young, and every once in a while I'd catch it on Syfy back when it was called the Sci-Fi Channel. But I found VHS copies at a Hollywood video once. It was the ones that started with Barnabas's arrival, not the original series that started with Victoria Winters arriving at Collinwood for the first time. I fell in love with it, but unfortunately I couldn't see the whole thing, not until a friend who used to work at Dark Sky Films got the very first episodes for me. And then, like the Dark Shadows junkie I am, I got the whole fuckin' run on DVD.

But why did I fall in love in the first place? I think it was poor Willie Loomis that did the trick. He was a creepy drifter who came into town with his criminal partner who was blackmailing Elizabeth Stoddard, who thought she'd killed her husband and stowed the body in the basement of Collinwood. No one trusted Willie, and he was so greedy that he learned of a secret room in the mausoleum where untold riches were supposedly hidden in a coffin.

Except . . . well, Willie found Barnabas instead and was bitten, thus entering the vampire's thrall, forced to do things that even he, a weaselly scumbag, didn't want to do. I think I identified with the poor bastard, and I hoped that he would finally escape Barnabas's control.

But that opened another door. And another. And another. I really don't know how Dark Shadows became such an integral part of my DNA, but it did.

I'm running out of episodes. I have two and a half DVD collections left. Soon I will know how Alexander the Great felt. I will weep when I have no more Dark Shadows to conquer.

It should also be noted that Mom had a huge crush on Quentin to the point where she actually had the sheet music for his song (the one you're supposed to be listening to right now). She could play it very beautifully on piano.