Welcome to my Nightmares

Welcome to my Nightmares

Allow me to share some of my fears and show you just how twisted I really am...

Fear is one of those emotions that are a common denominator through every country and culture, through all eras of time.  I don’t mean phobias.  I mean the type of things that give you the heebie-jeebies; I’m talking about those things that cause you to shudder, look away, and send that uncomfortable tingle on down your spine, whether you're experiencing them or making that shit up in your twisted imagination.

Sweet transvestite or creepy, sewer clown,
you still weird me out, Tim Curry.

Let’s think about that lame hack Stephen King and his over-rated novel, It.  In case you lived in a cave with the Taliban for the last 20 years, It centered on a spider (named Pennywise…stupid fucking name) disguised as a creepy clown.  I, for one, was not at all scared by it.  I read the book and was bored reading about the tree’s leaves blowing in the wind for 6 pages or the 12 page, pre-teen gang-bang.  But when the TV movie came out, I will admit that the foppish Tim Curry was a tad creepy, but certainly not the ingredients of nightmares.  Then, I was (and still am) astounded by the countless friends coming out of their fear-closest, admitting to coulrophobia.  I snickered at times, but more often I openly ridiculed those folks for their silly fears, deeming them “ninnies” and “silky-boys”.

However, let’s be honest: fear is not rational.  It’s fucking fear, for chrissakes. Some things just freak us out and it doesn’t make sense to us whatsoever.  And as I was reminded earlier in the month of my derision for peoples’ above fear (having to fly from Cali to NY, and taking measures to control my anxiety of airline travel), I realized that fear is not only irrational to the person it affects.  See, my wife chided me over my uneasiness as we approached our plane’s gate. She has flown all over the world most of her life.  To her, getting on a plane is like getting on a bus.  And her reaction made me realize something. Our fears are utterly irrational to anyone outside ourselves.

And it is with this that I would like to share some of my more irrational (and, admittedly, borderline ridiculous) fears that plague me, hoping to find some slight bit of reason, but, more so, I want you to feel more comfortable with you and your dark nightmares.

Zombies

If you know me in the slightest bit, you know that zombies scare the shit out of me.  Anyone will tell you that I actually have a zombie plan in case the infestation of walking cannibal corpses start traipsing the land looking to sink their grimy teeth into my supple skin.  I feel that it’s not a matter of if, but it’s a matter of when. Between stem-cells, vaccines, flu-virus mutations, and the general fucked-up uncertainty of Mother Nature and the unexplained, it is a valid possibilty.  I won’t get bogged down into too many details, as I feel this is a larger fear shared by many (hence the undying [pun not intended…ok, it was] popularity of the zombie subculture). Let's get to the source, shall we?

I know that this fear was instilled by my older brother, Vinny.  And if you know him, the following tale will not surprise you.  When I was about 7 or 8 years old, my parents decided to go out for some function or party in their effort to get away from their 2 maniac sons.  They left Vinny, 5 years my senior, in charge.  Always the fan of scary movies, he decided that we would watch some while the parents were out and have some brother time.  He chose Night of the Living Dead.  I heard of it and assumed since it was black and white, it couldn't be too frightening.  But I know that demented bastard chose it because it was prequel to Dawn of the Dead, a film whose mere trailer sent me screaming in the aisles of the movie theater like a little pussy.  And I am certain that my brother selected this film based on that memory, hoping to inspire that terror.

The movie starts quietly enough, slowly building the tension until the forst zombie arrives.  But soon enough, the dead were swarming and I was starting to get shit-pants.  I tried escaping, but my brother convinced me over and over to stay.  It became too much, too real for me.  There was no safety from these monster.  As I made my last ditch effort to flee the living room, my dear brother tied me to a chair with scarves and forced me to watch the rest of the film.  He then showed me another zombie film immediately after to cement the damage he inflicted upon my psyche.  I had nightmares of the undead pulling me apart in graphic, torturous ways for several months after.

Vinny fueled my inner horror further by saying, “They’re coming to get you, Nicky!” (in the mimicked voice of Bill Hinzman ).  He bought me a poster of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”, full of blood-drenched ghouls and hung it over my bed.  He would dress as a zombie and pop out around the house and yard, scaring me to instant defecation level-1.  Fuck him.

And now I’m all warped in the head, having a constant freak show populate the majority of my thoughts.  How so? When I meet new people, I assess their survival value, in case the dead rise to feast upon the living.  When I go to someone’s house, I check how zombie-proof it is (in the case of both my brother-in-law and my friend Josh, I had to inform them that they were living in a “zombie death-trap” and “good luck with that”).  On a recent house-hunting trip, my wife had to tell the realtor that I was inspecting the house to see how zombie-proof it was.  The realtor took it as a joke until I looked him in the eye and said, “No, she’s dead serious.  Laugh now, but you’ll be sorry, bud.” The realtor uneasily slinked away. (*Side note: My wife just showed me a house she was interested in as I was writing this section. My initial reaction?  “I don’t like those big bay windows.  Zombie death trap.”).

I bar the doors, have a door-jam, a chain, and 2 locks.  My bug-out bag and official US Army survival guide is not for hurricanes; it’s for the inevitable swarm of cadavers.  At work, I have an escape plan.  Anywhere I go, I first think how I can flee the scene to safety with my wife and meet with my loved ones and valuable friends (yes, some of you I have rated as without value in regards to the Zombie Apocalypse.  Sorry).  I openly tell my co-workers that they are free to follow me in such emergency, but if I feel they are threatening my safety, I will turn them into zombie-bait. I took advantage of a Comic-Con panel so I could approach Dr. Ali Khan of the CDC to discuss my worries and theories.  He tried to allay my fears and dismiss my concerns, but I felt he was hiding something.

Please, Dr. Ali Khan, make the bad zombies go away.


I am sick. I know it.  Go ahead and laugh.  I urge you to.  Unless, this all makes sense to you, too.

And what really scares me is the likelihood that I will get bitten and turned.  It’s gonna happen.  I know it.  I’ve somewhat come to grips with it.  Why? Because I will undoubtedly be saving my wife from a hungry cadaver and be chomped on in the process.  I’m sure she’ll disagree with me or question one of my decisions, forcing us to slow down and me to get bitten.  Even though I told her that when the Zombie Apocalypse hits, she is not to argue, question or suggest anything until we are safely lodged away, although I am 200% sure that she will somehow cause me to hesitate and operate out of survival mode for a split seciond. And a split second is all it takes for one of those pale-skinned biters to find you and clamp down the teeth of doom.

What bothers me is that she has angrily refused to put me down in the case that I am infected.  Thus, I have enlisted the services of my friend Brian and my brother to do so, and they have assured me (a little too eagerly) that they will fulfill my wishes when the time comes. And yes, in case you’re wondering if my wife turns, she’s gotta go.  When I told her that, she was none too pleased, to say the least. 

Remember: you can’t say zombies don’t exist just because you never saw one…

Basement Steps

I don’t know about you, but I grew up in two houses that had dank, creepy, dark basements.  Each had narrow wooden steps that creaked as I walked them.  Even with the staircase light on, anything beyond the bottom of the steps was draped in haunting blackness and uncertainty.  Something waited.

Go away, creepy basement monster.  I hate you.

What was in the darkness, waiting?  Some giant fucking monster with shit-inducing fangs and surgical-sharp claws that wants to gut me and eat my insides as I slowly die and bleed out, moaning for a quicker death.  I don’t know.  It could be some ancient beast awoken from beneath my house’s foundation because of some stupid song I played backwards or an alien infestation that chose to gestate in the cool dampness below my living quarters, waiting to feed on some unsuspecting human and then take over the world once it got its strength up.  Maybe some squid monster came up from the laundry drain by accident, irradiated by the waters of Indian Point and satiated only by the taste of human blood.  All I know is this: something is fucking down there.

Whenever I had to go down into the basement, I would secretly take a knife or a blunt object of sorts, hoping to even the odds with whatever devilish creature thirstily awaited my arrival. Every time I had to ascend these (and I do mean every time), I would leap up, taking on 4-5 steps at a time.  I couldn’t make a lay-up or hit a jump-shot to save my life, but if basement stair-leaping was an Olympic sport, I would be on a Wheaties box, sporting a Nike endorsement, a spiked bat and 12 gold medals. 

Maybe the dormant caveman in me is still infected with the fear of the unknown and that which I cannot see.  Maybe the countless horror films I have watched have laid the seed for my imagination to run wild with the possibility of a monster aiming whose sole purpose is to kill me for its pleasure.

Shit, I lived in Hunt’s Point, across from the projects filled with feral dogs and children that would probably eat you alive if you fell down in the street, without a fear in the world.  But if you put me on a set of creepy basement stairs, I get the shivers, sweaty palms, and an urge to arm myself with the arsenal of a well-trained, Viet-cong guerilla assassin.

I was relieved when I asked my life-long friend, Neale, if he ever ran up and leapt the basement steps, knowing he, too, had steps similar to mine.  He mawkishly replied, “Yeah, so the monsters don’t get me.”  At least I wasn’t alone with this freakish terror that still bothers me.  Hell, even the Ramones understand me...

Seriously, who the hell designed these staircases and basements? Who thought that creating a wall of darkness was a good idea?  I’d like to find the guys who planned the houses I grew up in and smash them in the testicles with crowbar.

Walking past mirrors late at night

Many of us played “Bloody Mary” or tried the “Candyman” dare, testing the supernatural waters and waiting to see if a ghost, a beheaded Virgin Mary, or Tony Todd would pop out and kill us.  Let’s get beyond that.  Mirrors are generally eerie (especially if you’re accidentally tripping on shrooms and staring into one), but they are more so at night.

If I have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, I must walk past a full-length mirror and the medicine chest mirror.  Comfortable as I am walking in the dark (unless it is the pre-established, imminently deadly basement darkness), I make every effort to avert my eyes from any reflection.  I try to act as if the mirror isn’t there, averting my eyes and head from their locations.  Sometimes, in my sleepy haze, I see something out of the corner of my eye in the mirror I desperately avoid, and my mind tells me, “Yo, that shit you just saw is not you and it probably wants to harvest your soul, bro.” And I believe it, for whatever reason or logic I have (or lack).  I am not a strong proponent of the existence of ghosts, nor do I subscribe to the supernatural in any tangible way. But, to me, mirrors are some whole other shit completely. 

Yeah, keep smiling, you little nitwit...

Maybe it’s because when I was a kid, I’d stare at my plump face in the mirror, trying to figure out if that’s what I really looked like, and if so, maybe the mirror was a gate to another dimension, one where beautiful girls liked pudgy guys and wanted to party with them 24-7.  I know it doesn’t make sense, but I was a fat kid growing up in the 80’s and watched a lot of John Hughes movies that fucked up my perception of reality and probability.  Couple that with my strange imagination, and that’s why I did that, so fuck you.

Anyway, perhaps this thought of an alternate plane (fostered through countless urban myths, films and literature) is still at work in my mind.  Maybe a demon or a monster or my doppelganger is waiting to emerge and take my life or sodomize me.  So many stupid things run through my mind, even when I tell myself to suck it up and be a man, that there isn’t any such thing waiting for me.  I don’t know.  If you’re with me up to this point, then you already know that I should be medicated…

Talking to people on the phone

Generally, I am at ease with an audience, strangers or otherwise.  I make my living at it.  I also play in a rock band.  Face to face, I consider myself a rather personable fellow with a twisted sense of humor and good amount of empathy and manners. Yet when it comes to making phone calls to people I don’t know, I panic for some ungodly reason.

This is one of those fears where I have no frickin’ idea where or how it started.  It was probably around the age of 25 when I became extremely uncomfortable ordering food or talking to my insurance agent.  I would rather trudge through a blizzard to get order my General Tso’s Chicken rather than talk to the pleasant Chinese guy on the phone and have it conveniently delivered.  For years, I told my friends that I was too cheap to give a monetary tip for something I could do myself that I shouldn’t be so lazy to have someone bring my food to me.  Sorry, people, but I lied right in your big, caveman faces.



And please don't make pee-pee in my Coke or come for my soul...

My poor wife is in charge of ordering food, talking with the health insurance people, clearing financial issues, and anything involves me talking to strangers.  Sure, she makes me do it sometimes, just to watch me squirm as I feign calmness and good spirits with whomever I speak with.  But I hate it.  Sometimes I think that the food people are laughing at me, thinking of me as a fat, lazy bastard who deserves to have some bodily fluids added to the secret recipe.  Maybe the health insurance operator is really a serial killer and is taking down my personal info so they can steal my identity, stalk me, and then wear my skin once the “transformation” is complete.  Maybe the Snuggies sales rep is a Knight Templar from the Unholy Order of Satan’s Secret Soul Sodomy Ponzi Scheme and I’m there next victim who just happened to call.  Whatever it is or could be, I don’t like it. And my wife suffers for it. 

Phone calls with strangers? Screw that.  We live in the digital age, so send me an email. 

Roaches

These grungy little bastards freak me out to no end.  I’m no fan of pests, but roaches are the worst. They’re fucked up looking and carry disease. They also look like something that crawled out of a demons STD-infested anus. These guys are everywhere, especially if you’ve lived in NYC and any of its illustrious boroughs for any period of time.

I must admit, whenever I see one, I immediately jump like a school-girl pinched on the ass by a greasy, corpulent, slothy guy in a white van.  If I don’t immediately spray it with something until it suffocates in the liquid (usually Lysol, but I have used spray-on deodorant on occasion), I proceed to smash it into oblivion with a boot (or whatever footwear is readily available), repeatedly until it is a mere smear where it once recently crawled.

You skeevey, dirty, little bastards.
 I'll send you back to hell from whence you came!

Now here’s where it gets weird.  Once I have killed it, I must (it really is a must) wrap it in a paper towel or tissue paper, folding it tightly over itself several times in order to prevent any escape.  Then I throw it in the toilet and flush the bowl at least 5 or 6 times to make sure that it is safely deposited into the city’s sewer system, thus removing any possibility of a further threat.

What threat would it pose?  Why, revenge, of course.  Roaches are evil, in case you didn’t know.  Being evil, revenge is none too far from its disgusting, little mind.  More likely, it may come back and lay eggs in my belly, making me into a host for millions of its offspring, emerging from every orifice possible and bursting wherever they see fit (just like that last scene in Creepshow; up yours, George Romero and Stephen King).  Thus, I entomb the little terror in the tightly wound napkin, like an environmentally friendly sarcophagus.  And if I don’t flush several times, it may come back up through the pipes and get me as I sit unsuspectingly on the throne reading my new issue of GQ. 

Roaches are the devil’s poop…with legs and antenna.

Creepy bust of Jesus

Unbeknownst to me or anyone I asked, some Catholics feel that having a statue bust of Jesus, dripping with blood and draped with the face of pure agony is a form of respect and reverence. If you’re Catholic, your Grandmother had one of these.  If you’re not, ask one of your Catholic friends and they’ll tell you.

Personally, as a God fearing man (on the verge of blasphemy), I am completely put at ill-ease by this “homage to the Savior”.  The crucifix is bad enough, having an emaciated Jesus dangle by nails, oozing blood from his wounds and crown of thorns.  But somewhere, some sculptor (probably an Italian named Giuseppe) decided that his pain and suffering was not magnified enough to convey the true nature to his worshippers, and therefore they need to be struck with fear by making it expressed so explicitly.

I don't care if you did pray for a good night's sleep.

These busts vary in their minor details, yet they share some fantastically horrible similarities that would most likely scare children off into a life of demon-worshipping hedonism.  Jesus is shown with bloody forehead (and sometimes bloody eyes), mouth agape, uttering his suffering and last words, looking to heaven in agony.  Perhaps these pieces belong in a church to make the Lord’s sacrifice clearer to us.  But they do not belong on the nightstand in the bedroom.

Why would some of my relatives do that to me while growing up?  How can a 10-year-old sleep with Jesus agonizing over his head, so life like that he may come and admonish me in the middle of the night by coming to life?  Countless grandparents are guilty of inflicting this horror that has given me nightmares.  And every time I see one of these things, I just wait for Jesus to look over at me and announce one of my more shameful sins and damn me to hell for it. 

Is it any surprise that my brother acquired one of these and left it in my apartment?

Walking around naked

Warning: this section is a little more out there than the other ones.  If you’re easily offended or made uncomfortable with the concept of nudity, especially with that of the author’s, I suggest you move along to the next section immediately.

Let’s be truthful: one off the greatest freedoms of living on your own (no roommates or parents) is the freedom to walk around without clothes, whether you enjoy that type of thing (you freak) or you forgot to bring clothes and a towel with you into the bathroom when you showered.  Perhaps you have a George Costanza fantasy of sitting on a couch naked, eating a hunk of cheese.  Whatever it is, I am sure you have found yourself in the buff, parading around your digs and, at least, mildly enjoying it.

But I’m scared to walk around my house naked.  It’s not because I think someone will see me and I will instantly be overcome with a tsunami embarrassment, shame and/or modesty.  I am not worried if some peculiar peeping-tom spies upon my Adonis-like build and natural endowments. Not at all.

I’m scared my nut-sack will get caught on some random rusty nail I have never seen before or some other sharped edge (broken glass, splintered wood, displaced sword tip, wall hook, etc.) that will tear my scrotum wide open, spilling the jewels out on the floor and leaving me to the androgynous life of a eunuch.

Oh God, who would leave the cheese-grater right THERE?!

Don’t worry.  I don’t walk around the house, swabbing my testicles across the walls or furniture, but I am scared that, somehow, some way, they will get painfully snagged on a sharp edge, just like your favorite sweater always gets caught on something and pulls the fabric.  Likely? No.  But the mere possibility causes me to fret the instant I find myself as God created me. I guess this is more of a guy thing, considering the outdoor plumbing we’re equipped with. 

I suppose if I was a chick, I’d worry in the same manner about my breasts.  I am a hopelessly neurotic basket case because, even though I don't have breasts, I'm still worried. 

People from Virginia

Fuck this backwards-ass state and it’s endless, year-round daily traffic.  I hate it.  Maybe when the North won the Civil War, we should have left them out to wallow in their incestual, un-evolved, slack-jawed, Ozark malarkey. I like country and western music, John deer, and Cracker Barrel.  But I am no fan of this state and its “people”.



Every time I drive through or visit this hellhole, I find myself in some element of danger caused by one of its cursed, wretched residents.  Sure, most of these occurrences happened while I was en route to and from Florida on the I-95 corridor.  But that’s no excuse.  One of these backwoods hillbillies once tried to run me and my buddy Tom off the road because I passed him on the highway from the right lane.  As I swerved to the shoulder, he continued to ram his rusty pick-up truck, freshly soiled from the latest tryst with his sister/mother.  I had to screech to a near-halt to save us from a collision.  He smiled with all 3 of his teeth, nodding his head and giving us the finger.



"Hey, Zeke, I betcha that there Northern boy would make a real pretty gal, almost as purty as my sister."

On a later occurrence, I found myself in a gas-station restroom surrounded by 3 plaid-shirt wearing Bubbas, asking “Is you one of them New Yawrk Porta Rickins?”  They had sodomy and lynching on their minds, I just knew it. On another occasion, I found myself face-to-face with rows of blackface, pickaninny dolls, a sight NEVER seen in the north (at least not openly).  The woman at the counter asked, “You got a problem with them dolls, boy?” Lastly, I once said, “Happy Holidays” (more out of an old PC habit I guess I was infected with at the time) to a cashier after paying her for the gas I just purchased.  Her response was, “We ain’t them Jews in New York.  Down here, we say, ‘Merry Christmas’. Now git!” Other than that, any of the inhabitants I have encountered  look like they were spawned from radiation lab experimenting with the effects of inbreeding and plutonium, all with them missing teeth and shoes while looking for some waffles, a banjo, and a carpet-bagger to lynch . They all want to kill me or see me die slowly in some backwoods pig-ranch as they harvest my violated body for smoked sausages. I just know it.

I wish the above instances were untrue, but they’re not.  I am also positive that many of you will disagree and say I am just making prejudicial assumptions based on the handful of experiences I have had the pleasure to be a part of.  To that, I say, “I don’t care.” I will, until the day I die, gas up before and after that state, trying to get through the 180 mile stretch of cars that slam the highway at 3 mph.  Although my loathing has emerged into a visible uneasiness and fear at the most minute thought of visiting that state or dealing with its “people”.  At least I am not alone in my loathing for Virginia.

Virginia is for lovers?  Nah, more like bucktoothed rednecks that want to kill you, eat you and rape your face…in that order.

Nightmares for life?

Ok, so I am positive that many of you may defriend me after this expository look into my fears and their stunning irrationality.  I don’t necessarily blame you if you do.  Maybe some of you are taking notes and planning my inevitable downfall/assassination (of which my paranoia assures me is most likely the case).

But are your fears so different?  Some of you have subconsciously nodded in approval or agreement with some of my dark and (up till now) well-guarded secrets. You know there are things you can’t explain and they freak you out or make you piss your pants and think of Mickey Mouse in the hopes that the anxiety will pass.  Maybe there are some trails or weird houses with unexplained shadows that want to devour your essence and torment you in the last moments of your life.  Perhaps there is some creature you fear will penetrate you body, chew on it and lay some eggs in your brain that will explode your face when they finally hatch.  Who knows?  Only you do.

So, whether you’ve completely understood, had a laugh and/or made a mockery of my inner workings, I want to ask you this: are your fears so goddamn normal?