UNK: After an exhausting day of playing croquet with Mr. Canacorn and Roz "Pinky Tuscadero" Kelly, Aunt John and I decided to hit the hay (we actually do sleep on a pile of hay). Suddenly we heard a loud banging on the Kindertrauma Castle door (My bad, I left the drawbridge down again!). I can't tell you how surprised we were to find none other than THE Tenebrous Kate of the seriously spectacular blog LOVE TRAIN FOR THE TENEBROUS EMPIRE standing before us looking as smashing as usual. She informed us that her COFFIN DRAGSTER had run out of gas right outside of Kindertrauma territory and she wondered if we would be so kind as to supply her with a refill.

I was too star struck to respond but Aunt John, always the haggler, was quick on his feet belting out a Rankin & Bass inspired ditty that was mostly nonsense, but whose chorus contained the following proposal, "If you want some gas today…a TRAUMAFESSION a tank is the price you pay!" Kate was unmoved by the actual song, but visibly impressed by the plethora of clay-mation woodland creatures who sang back up and agreed to this fair exchange of goods. Plopping herself down on the best beanbag chair in the conservatory, she began to spin the tale of a young, pre-Tenebrous Kate who unhappily discovered that toddlers and eighteen wheelers don't mix…

TENEBROUS KATE:

No one seems to believe me when I tell them that I was an incredibly fragile child. Perhaps this story will serve as proof positive that it was only time and harsh experience that built up the thick skin that now protects me from various and sundry cinematic grenades…

Picture, if you will, Wee Tenebrous Kate at her gal pal's Halloween party in Seventh Grade (I was dressed as Alice Cooper–narrow gender definitions be DAMNED; I wanted to wear a top hat and greasepaint). The decision was made by the other party-going kids (all of whom were doubtless composed of far sterner stuff than I) that the film de la nuit would be "Pet Sematary." To underscore: STEPHEN KING's PET SEMATARY. I was quaking in my tiny-yet-undoubtedly-fabulous boots, let me tell you—STEPHEN KING books were only to be approached by daring souls, inured to the ordeal of blood and guts. I'd been exposed to the Universal horror films since I was a tot (Tenebrous Dad does a most impressive on e-man impersonation of the Van Helsing-Dracula confrontation from the Tod Browning film) and I looked forward to "Disney's Halloween Treat" on teevee every year, but I had a notoriously delicate constitution with regards to all matters gory. I steeled myself as the lights dimmed and the VHS was popped into the player…

Needless to say, when that semi comes barreling down and smooshes li'l Gage right on through to the other side, it was more than I could take. I started sobbing and ran out of the room—I was placed in a separate room with the one other girl whose parents didn't allow her to watch R-rated movies (at least SHE had the excuse of having lame parents). To this day, the very mention of PET SEMATARY brings tear-flavored memories of my pre-teen shame. One might make a compelling argument that the reason I'm willing to hurl myself repeatedly at über-gruesome movies is to fully banish the laughter of my classmates from my mind.

My pain–it makes for good comedy sometimes!

UNK: After T.K.'s tale concluded, we made good on our end of the bargain. With her tank full of petrol, our Kate sped away with promises of returning again. I thought it ironic that somebody whose TRAUMAFESSION concerns vehicular disaster should drive so recklessly across Aunt John's prize winning Venus Flytrap patch and straight through a recently mended fence at approximately 200 miles an hour, but that's our Kate, and we wouldn't have her any other way! We don't even mind that we found most of the Baklava Aunt John served her politely hidden in one of our best napkins only partially chewed, we just want her to visit again and soon! Trust me, after spending a day with the P.D.A. twins, Mr. Canacorn and Roz "Pinky Tuscadero" Kelly, that Kate was quite a burst of fresh air!

When I was around four or five years old I watched a movie called MAGIC starring ANTHONY HOPKINS. The plot, as I remember it, involves HOPKINS giving in to the will of his evil ventriloquist dummy after which murder and mayhem ensue. The visuals alone are enough to, even now, make me panic. The dark seventies era cinematography coupled with the hideously creepy dummy have warped me for life. I have nightmares of a dummy, dressed in his little tuxedo, walking around the house of his own volition ready to overpower me. Sometimes he is armed with a knife. Even while typing this letter, my heart rate has increased. Of course, once my older brothers discovered my irrational fear, they used it against me as much as they could. I can remember my older brother holding a ventriloquist dummy while chasing me around the house as I screamed and cried. Recently, when the movie DEAD SILENCE (about a woman and her creepy dolls) was released, I had to change the channel every time the commercial appeared on T.V. My psyche will never be the same.

UNK SEZ: Emily you are not alone in your distaste for ventriloquist dummies, many folks seem to share your point of view. For a quick overview of the cinematic history of these little wooden terrors, I suggest you check out the wonderfully named blog THE UNHEIMLICH. On the surface these tales seem akin to the killer doll sub-genre, but they actually have a consistent psychological subtext all their own. Often the ventriloquist dummy is used to represent the dark side of their master's nature, a shadow identity bent on gaining absolute control. Coincidentally, I recently came across just such a tale in the unlikeliest of places, in an episode of FANTASY ISLAND! The one and only ANNETTE FUNICELLO played the ventriloquist "Maryanne" whose meek personality begins to get overtaken by that of her brassy MAE WEST-talking, moxie-filled puppet named "Valerie" (I swear to God, I'm NOT making this up!). Bizarrely, Mr. Roarke's solution is to turn the doll into a real person and let the two cat-fight it out. After some crazy strobe light effects that include ANNETTE shooting lasers out of her eyes, the dummy turns into none other than the most beautiful woman in the galaxy, BATTLESTAR GALACTICA's MAREN JENSON, strangely clad in top hat and pantless tuxedo. Now alive, Val point blank informs Roarke that she means to kill Maryanne the first chance she gets. On evil Val's actual to-do-list, murdering Maryanne comes AFTER screwing Maryanne's boyfriend and humiliating her in front of a room full of swirling, laughing phantom faces like the kind found at the beginning of NIGHT GALLERY. Luckily, sweet Maryanne gets the upper-hand before "De plane!, de plane!" comes back to pick her up. I can't say the show was all that scary, but last night I made a vow to myself that Mr. Roarke must be honored as an Official Traumatizer in the near future. That guy is nuts!!!!!! Plus you all DO realize he's got some serious magical powers, right?

Cool dummy pix swiped from HERE

It's 1979, and THE AMITYVILLE HORROR has just hit the theaters.  Being nine year olds, none of us are allowed to see it, but that doesn't keep us from endlessly discussing Satan-possessed houses.  One of my classmates is reading the paperback (strange parental logic---you can't see the movie, but you can read the book?).  The cover has the house all in red in one corner, the H points down into a devil's tail, and the kicker is "A TRUE STORY."  We're all sure our houses were possessed, and one of my friends insists that the eyes of Bo and Luke Duke on the DUKES OF HAZZARD poster in her room GLOW AT NIGHT!!

THE CURE!

The cover of the VHS for the movie FRIGHT NIGHT still sticks in my brain to this day as one of the scariest things ever to have existed ever. I've always been a horror movie fan, even as a little kid, and whenever we went to go rent movies, that aisle was always my first destination. But for some reason, the cover of FRIGHT NIGHT would stick out like this unwatchable terror: that swirling, foreboding cloud forming into a demonic face above a suburban house. I grew up in Phoenix, AZ, where we had like 5 storms a year, and the storms we did have were usually intense. So every time the sky would get dark and clouds would gather, the image of that ethereal monster face forming over my house was literally enough to send me running home in abject panic, no matter where I was or what I was doing. Needless to say, when I finally watched the movie as an adult, I was disappointed.

NOTE: Besides being an excellent trauma-confesser (remember Maneater?) Nat is a veritable renaissance man. If you would like to hire, stalk or oggle him in his natural habitat he can be located HERE.

I'm not officially a "Trekker" but I grew up with and enjoyed the original STAR TREK series and have been a science fiction fan since I've known how to read.  So, when I was in junior high and STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE came I was definitely hot to see it – it was right on the crest of the wave of spectacular sci-fi movies spawned by STAR WARS and promised to be a much needed updating of the franchise to give it the visual grandeur the characters and stories always deserved.

So, I plop myself down in the theater and the first few minutes are as promised: the visuals are great, the Enterprise has received a refit making it arguably the most beautiful starship in cinema history, and all the characters are back looking great and ready for action.  However, no sooner does Kirk arrive on board the Enterprise, a console blows up in the transporter room and two new crew members die during transport.  Now, anyone who's watched the show knows that death is nothing new to STAR TREK; Red Shirts go down like handfuls of popcorn throughout the series and in some episodes, whole planets get snuffed. But usually the on-screen deaths are quick and easy – "Ensign So-and-So" goes out in a flare of pretty green phaser light or "Yeoman Bazzfazz" gets poison plant darts in the chest or steps on an exploding rock.

Not so in STAR TREK: THE MOTION PICTURE.

The unfortunate crew are turned into living Georges Braque paintings and they are apparently conscious the whole time because while Kirk and others are trying to save them they are *writhing* around in the transporter beam and SCREECHING LIKE BANSHEES WITH THEIR SACKS CAUGHT IN A THREE-PHASE SOCKET!! Grape-flavored Christ on a stick!  It's a good thing the rest of the movie moved along in such a sedate fashion because it took almost two hours for my heart rate to get back to normal after that.  Then it took a couple days to be able to get through the day without imagining what it would be like to have my eye socket displaced by my anus.  Sweet merciful Buddha, what a way to kick off a return to the world of STAR TREK!

One might ask himself or herself how a simple song could be traumatizing. Well picture this, you are eleven-years-old just beginning your 6th grade year of junior high, intimidated being in a new environment, and the next thing you know your "old battle ax" of a gym teacher queues up "Sexual Healing" by MARVIN GAYE as you exercise. At this time the gym class was segregated girls and boys did not mix (The only exception was when they taught square dancing. Yes, you read that correctly, square dancing). However, we were all in the same building. I was embarrassed beyond belief to be doing the daily calisthenics with lyrics such as "Baby I'm hot just like an oven. I need some loving" playing in the background. I could just feel the eyes of creepy 8th grade guys watching me. You know the guys that have flunked so many times they are old enough to drive to junior high. This was not an isolated incident. This song was played during our calisthenics many times that year. To this very day, if I hear the beginning lyrics, "Get up get up get up get up. Wake up wake up wake up wake up," I scream and change the station if I am in the car. If I happen to be in a store when the song starts playing, I stifle my scream and leave immediately.  I suppose it is irrational after all these years to fear listening to this song, but I can't help myself.

P.S.: That year was tough music wise for me because "Mickey" by TONI BASIL was a hit, and that was a whole other can of worms. People to this day think it is funny to refer to that song when I tell them my name.

UNK SEZ: Oh, Mickster you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind…sorry I could not resist. Seriously, Mickster you opened the trauma gates with the mere mention of gym class alone. Obviously physical torture is not enough for some gym teachers. There are many who feel the the need to utilize Abu Ghraib-style psychological break down methods as well. As Mr. Gaye himself sang "What's going on?" Honestly, I can't blame you for grudging on that nearly X-rated musical demand for immediate gratification. It's like, simmer down, Mr. Gaye, wear green on Thursday much? Sheez. To be fair, poor Marvin's tragic fate of being shot and killed by his brain tumur suffering father meant he never lived long enough to be introduced to the Divinyl's take charge, DIY solution "I touch myself" Very sad, very sad indeed.