Dark Shadows

     True to my word (no, seriously), the following is what I hope is a lighthearted post with, really, no redeeming social values.  If you’re more inclined to topics of a much more sober (as opposed to drunk) nature, by all means visit Nobody Asked Me But... https://seriousal.blogspot.com.  Not that you’ll find any redeeming social values there, you understand.  It’s just a little more serious than this nonsense.

Thank you for your attention in this matter.

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    I realize most of you in the audience are younger than I am.  In fact, since I've reached my own personal "sell-by" date, I can't imagine there's many of you who are older.  So, you may not remember the topic of this post. 

    I’ve recently taken to watching reruns of a television show on Tubi, which is a channel on my Smart TV that I found while surfing for porn cat videos.  That show is Dark Shadows (you may have guessed it, you clever boots) and, despite its horrible acting, laughable special effects, and numerous gaffes, I was entranced by it when I was eight years old.

    I first starting watching this first-of-its-kind Gothic soap opera upon the recommendation of my mother.

    Personal Observation:  Interesting that my mom was only twenty-seven years old at the time.  She obviously seemed like an old lady to me, but, oh to be only 27 now! (Remember that “sell-by” crack?  Yeah).

    Anyway, I thought this show was the coolest thing on TV (apart from Batman) and was mesmerized by its cast of supernatural creatures from ghosts to vampires to werewolves.  

And whatever TF this weird shit was. 

    I rushed home immediately from school, stopped in at the Thompson Food Market, bought myself a bag of pretzel nuggets and a Coke, and plopped in front of our console TV to watch the goings-on in Collinsport, Maine.

You'd think I would have spent more time chasing girls. 
Clearly, I was a hottie.

 Yet Another Personal Observation:  The fact that it was set in Maine seemed super-exotic to me, too.  Little did I know that the Navy would eventually transfer me there.  Yeah, not so exotic.  Lotta moose, though.

"Outta my way.  Gotta catch Dark Shadows."

    Broadcast on ABC from 1966-1971, Dark Shadows became a cult classic, especially for the younger crowd.  Sex symbols such as Jonathan Frid and David Selby as Barnabus and Quentin Collins titillated young girls.  And probably my mom.

Hee...hee...hee...I said 'titillated.'

    Or Boys.  I won’t judge.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

    Oh, don’t worry.  We boys, or girls (once again, I won’t judge) had Kathryn Leigh Scott and Lara Parker as Maggie and Angelique.

I mean, even with the dental work, hubba hubba

    I was most distraught when it was cancelled and held its replacement, Password, personally responsible.

Effin' Allen Ludden

    Oh sure, there were movies in 1970, House of Dark Shadows, and 1971, the dreadful Night of Dark Shadows, but they were...meh.

    I remember how excited I was when the series came back in 1991 as a remake, starring Ben Cross as Barnabus Collins.  But, it was criminally short-lived.  It was entertaining, but it really wasn’t the same.

Ironically, I was living in Maine when this came out. 
Still a lotta moose.

Ben Cross would go on to play another out-of-this-world character as the Vulcan, Sarek. 
And then he died. 
Coincidence?

    And don’t get me started on that Johnny Depp adaptation of Dark Shadows.

    So, when I rediscovered the original Dark Shadows in all its cheesy glory, I felt like I was transported back to my childhood.  Except I was no longer a chubby eight-year old munching on pretzels and swilling soda.

    I was a chubby sixty-seven year old.    

Where Were You?

Okay, this is a repost of a repost of a...let's put it this way:  I've reprinted this a LOT since that terrible day.  But, I feel compelled to do so lest we forget that nearly 3,000 people were murdered on a beautiful September day.  

 

     The following, tragically, is a true story...      

            It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon on September 11th (a sad commentary: we don’t even need to identify the year anymore) when my maintenance supervisor stuck his head into my room to wake me.

            “Sir, someone just flew a plane into the World Trade Center.”

            Minutes later, I watched, horrified, as a second plane struck the South tower.  And then, as both of the monstrously huge structures tumbled to the ground as if kicked by a petulant child.

            My unit and I were participating in a multi-nation exercise at the Naval Air Station in Keflavik, Iceland (this explains why it was the afternoon).  A round-the-clock operation, the Keflavik Tactical Exchange gave us a unique chance to evaluate each other’s capabilities should we ever needed to flex our respective militaries.  Little did we know that we were preparing for a type of war which belonged to the past.

            Because the 21st Century came roaring into each of our lives on that late summer day.

            Naturally, the exercise was immediately cancelled.  Foreign aircrews (funny that I call them “foreign’” since we were actually foreigners, too) beat hasty returns to their home bases.  We were told that American airspace was closed indefinitely.

            Station security forces went into their highest readiness posture.  Watch teams at the main gate beefed up, rings of barbed wire cordoned off perceived sensitive areas, and armed patrols roamed the perimeter.

            My watch teams and I, on the other hand, remained at our billeting.  Only in Iceland for the exercise, we were considered non-essential personnel who’d only get in the way.

            And so we spent the next few days.

            I received a worried phone call from my wife during this time.  She fretted over my safety.  I assured her that I was fine but omitted the fact that I was more concerned for her and the kids.

            You see, my family lived only a couple hours from New York and only a few from Washington.

            The ensuing days involved frantic searches for whatever updates we could glean from the news and how in the world we’d get ourselves and thousands of pounds of equipment back home.

            Most importantly, we desperately wanted to know how we could get into the fight.  Whatever the fight was.

            Four days later, U.S. airspace was opened to military traffic.  As I glanced through the window of the Navy patrol plane which took us home, I was struck at how empty the sky was-with the exception of the one plane which approached us as we crossed into the United States.  It came no closer than a few miles before it disappeared.

            I think it was a fighter aircraft.

            What’s more, the radio circuits, normally full of the cacophony of countless air traffic controllers, were eerily silent.  The only ones “on the air” were the handful which guided us home.  All else were hushed into silence.

            Our route of flight took us just south of Manhattan, well out of sight of land.  At that distance, even at the altitude at which we were flying, it was impossible to see any of the city skyline.

            But, we did see a huge pall of gray-brown smoke lingering in the air like the death shroud that it was.

            As we touched ground at the Willow Grove naval air station, there was nobody to greet us.  There really wasn't much of anything by way of an acknowledgment that we were back.  Somehow, it seemed fitting.

            After all, we all had something much more important to do.

            Go home to our families.

 

In memory of:

Commander Bill Donovan, USN

AW2 (NAC/AW) Joseph Pycior, USN

and the thousands whose only crime was going to work that day. 

 

Just a Little Bit O' Silly

 

Brush With Death

Planted some Autumn Bulbs

Elizabeth Warren Holds a Town Hall With Her Peeps