Category Archives: ghosts

On the haunted house

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Let's just get a couple of things clear, I don't believe in ghosts or haunted houses, although I've had experiences with both. As an objective empiricist, I reject outright most supernatural phenomenon, especially clairvoyance, fortune-telling, and extra-sensory perception. Since nobody can successfully pick six numbers in a lottery, ever, I rest assured that all of that is unmitigated hooey and nonsense. Haunted houses are, however, another matter entirely. I live in a new house, currently, that is completely antiseptic and clean, no creepy anything going on anywhere in the place. Older houses, however, are another matter entirely. The theme of the haunted house is ubiquitous in Hollywood and popular literature—King, Straub, Lovecraft, Poe, which has even taken this motif to the extremes of haunted spaceships, haunted cars, and haunted planets. A motif which is so powerful and emotional can only be so if it coincides in some real way with the experience of the movie going public. I'm dead sure that most people would publicly say that they have no experience with spirits or at least they wouldn't admit to having experience with spirits or ghosts. I have no doubt that most "ghost" shows on reality television are fraudulent and melodramatic and have no relationship with any kind of reality or naturally occurring phenomenon. I myself will often dismiss the claims by those who swear that they had experiences with ghosts or other-worldly apparitions. We all get creeped out by dark, empty houses that are filled with strange shadows, creaky structures, odd drafts, dark corners, lonely spaces, dusty attics, and creepy basements. We let our imaginations run wild, the skin on the back of our necks gets goose bumps, and we start to imagine all sorts of things that are not there, were never there, that only exist as figments of our imagination. We are nervous, emotional creatures, fearful of our own shadows, afraid of being alone, perhaps unaccustomed to being alone. Our imaginations run wild. I say all of that to say this: are there experiences that go beyond our earthly senses, that exist as real physical phenomena, that as of now, given our science such as it is, we do not understand. Maybe words such as ghosts and spirits and apparitions and poltergeists are not exactly appropriate for describing actual physical that as yet we do not understand. If someone from the Classical period were to experience our contemporary civilization of computers, cell phones, planes, television, wi-fi and all the rest, I'm sure they would think it all supernatural, when, in reality, it is all only too real, based on our science and technology. How foolish and undeveloped our civilization will appear to anthropologists of the fortieth century. My own anecdotes are irrelevant and inconsequential, but I have experienced things that go beyond irrational fears and an overactive imagination. I suspect that someday we will find an explanation for all these odd experiences which we would characterize as hauntings. In the meantime, however, it might be a good idea to keep an open-mind, to listen when others speak, to open up our feelings to a larger world that may not be solely confined to the physical, tangible mundane world of our day-to-day routine. I also don't think that it hurts to remain skeptical and cynical when someone’s claims to have had a "haunting" experience because I am sure that most of those "experiences" are really nothing more than emotion tied into an over-active imagination, excessive adrenaline, sleep deprivation, too much spicy food, an overdose of slasher movies, and the need to feel loved and needed. All I can say is that I've been in houses where something is going on, and I also work in such a place (built 1886), but I really haven't the slightest idea of what might be really going on. Sleep tight and take this little "note" with a grain of salt.

On the haunted house

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Let's just get a couple of things clear, I don't believe in ghosts or haunted houses, although I've had experiences with both. As an objective empiricist, I reject outright most supernatural phenomenon, especially clairvoyance, fortune-telling, and extra-sensory perception. Since nobody can successfully pick six numbers in a lottery, ever, I rest assured that all of that is unmitigated hooey and nonsense. Haunted houses are, however, another matter entirely. I live in a new house, currently, that is completely antiseptic and clean, no creepy anything going on anywhere in the place. Older houses, however, are another matter entirely. The theme of the haunted house is ubiquitous in Hollywood and popular literature—King, Straub, Lovecraft, Poe, which has even taken this motif to the extremes of haunted spaceships, haunted cars, and haunted planets. A motif which is so powerful and emotional can only be so if it coincides in some real way with the experience of the movie going public. I'm dead sure that most people would publicly say that they have no experience with spirits or at least they wouldn't admit to having experience with spirits or ghosts. I have no doubt that most "ghost" shows on reality television are fraudulent and melodramatic and have no relationship with any kind of reality or naturally occurring phenomenon. I myself will often dismiss the claims by those who swear that they had experiences with ghosts or other-worldly apparitions. We all get creeped out by dark, empty houses that are filled with strange shadows, creaky structures, odd drafts, dark corners, lonely spaces, dusty attics, and creepy basements. We let our imaginations run wild, the skin on the back of our necks gets goose bumps, and we start to imagine all sorts of things that are not there, were never there, that only exist as figments of our imagination. We are nervous, emotional creatures, fearful of our own shadows, afraid of being alone, perhaps unaccustomed to being alone. Our imaginations run wild. I say all of that to say this: are there experiences that go beyond our earthly senses, that exist as real physical phenomena, that as of now, given our science such as it is, we do not understand. Maybe words such as ghosts and spirits and apparitions and poltergeists are not exactly appropriate for describing actual physical that as yet we do not understand. If someone from the Classical period were to experience our contemporary civilization of computers, cell phones, planes, television, wi-fi and all the rest, I'm sure they would think it all supernatural, when, in reality, it is all only too real, based on our science and technology. How foolish and undeveloped our civilization will appear to anthropologists of the fortieth century. My own anecdotes are irrelevant and inconsequential, but I have experienced things that go beyond irrational fears and an overactive imagination. I suspect that someday we will find an explanation for all these odd experiences which we would characterize as hauntings. In the meantime, however, it might be a good idea to keep an open-mind, to listen when others speak, to open up our feelings to a larger world that may not be solely confined to the physical, tangible mundane world of our day-to-day routine. I also don't think that it hurts to remain skeptical and cynical when someone’s claims to have had a "haunting" experience because I am sure that most of those "experiences" are really nothing more than emotion tied into an over-active imagination, excessive adrenaline, sleep deprivation, too much spicy food, an overdose of slasher movies, and the need to feel loved and needed. All I can say is that I've been in houses where something is going on, and I also work in such a place (built 1886), but I really haven't the slightest idea of what might be really going on. Sleep tight and take this little "note" with a grain of salt.

On cemeteries and graveyards

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What could I possibly say about cemeteries that has not already been said? Seriously creepy, still, morbid, sad, pastoral, cold, lonely, desolate, the destination from which no one returns but the gravedigger and the clergy. You can call the local bone pile anything you want, but it never stops be exactly that: a bone pile, a pile of bones. That which is left when we die, the mortal combination of bone and flesh, unmoving, unfeeling, unseeing, is not but the leftovers of a life that burned brightly for a short amount of time before the soul took its leave, leaving only ash and emptiness behind. I am not convinced that there is any point in burying bodies in the ground. There are health issues for doing it, but the mortal remains of any person are only what remains after death. In spite of what Dr. Frankenstein might have alleged at some point in the past, bodies cannot be regenerated or reanimated once the end has come. There is a limit to what modern medicine and empirical sciences can do with the spark of life, but then again cemeteries are monuments to defeat and the inevitability of death, an inevitability that gives us all energy and passion, knowing that all mortal things are finite. Cemeteries are clearly about memory, creating memory, creating a monument, mourning, loss, the past, and leaving it behind. We build cemeteries because we fear death and need to put it inside an official area where we normally don't go. Yes, we go to cemeteries to leave flowers, mourn for the dead, and to leave the newly dead, but otherwise our legends and mythologies are designed to scare away the curious and the foolish. The living know only too well that death is only always too close, but that by isolating death in a special place, death is far away and removed. The tombstones are iconic of both death and memory, and although they carry the names of the dead, the stones are a reassurance to the living that they are, indeed, alive because no stone yet carries their particular name. The cemetery is then both attractive and repellant to the living, a normal by-product of a healthy society which cannot conceive or understand the true nature of life's final mystery. All will go to the cemetery in their time, and so in our sadness and loss, we erect monuments and stones to the memory of the departed. The stones do nothing to alleviate the sadness of loss, but the simulacrum of funerals, burial, and departure are traditions and rituals which distract us from the business at hand, saying goodbye to a loved one. For outsiders, the cemetery is a completely different kind of place: an inscribed history of a place, the people who lived there, and the people who still live there. Cemeteries, when cared for, are pleasant, quiet, pastoral scenes which are good for thinking and relaxing. What is sad, however, are the forgotten cemeteries which herald changing times and displaced civilizations, forgotten families, the abandoned dead. Perhaps cemeteries exist because the living fear being forgotten at all. Yet the brutal reality of time and memory is the cruel truth that at some point in the future, we will all be forgotten. The physical never endures. Poetry endures, words endure, stories endure. The details may fade, but the essence of art, poetry, words, will endure even when the faces are forgotten. So we dig the graves and plant the headstones.

On civil disobedience

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It is rather intimidating to write on a topic that has already been covered by the of Henry David Thoreau, Mahatma Ghandi, and Martin Luther King Jr., yet the relationship between the governed and the government, however that relational metaphor works itself out, is intrinsic to most human relations at both the micro and macro levels, where few or maybe millions may be involved. Governments are most necessary so that disorganized groups of people may live in relative harmony, observe laws that uphold basic rights to life and liberty, avoid chaos and anarchy. Harmony, laws, and order are in and of themselves good things, but you cannot avoid, then, impinging on the rights of some who do not feel that laws and rules apply to them. Government makes policies, tries to implement them, screws things up, blames the wrong people, and resolves nothing in the long run. In the meantime, most citizens forgive their government for wrong-headed thinking, short-sited policies, poor social and economic plans, and a host of other mistakes which usually includes wars at some point or another. Where governments really fail miserably is when they try to legislate reproduction, the consumption of controlled substances, and marriage (on any level). Civil disobedience rears its ugly head when a large number of people, or maybe just one, decides that a government and its policies are wrong, immoral, unethical, wrong-headed, repressive, cynical, or illegal. Civil disobedience comes in many forms, shapes, sizes, levels and incarnations. Mr. King had to change the thinking of an entire country that was enjoying and constantly rebuilding an institutional form of apartheid that had split a country in two, creating an entire underclass of citizens that were suffering in unfair and unjust conditions just because of their skin color. Mr. King's civil disobedience was to disregard both a series of social practices and the laws that upheld those practices. I would not agree with Mr. Thoreau's thesis that the government that governs least, governs best, but he wasn't too far from the truth. We all need some form of government, some rules that tame our anarchic ways and boundaries that keep our boundless self-interest from destroying us. When the rules are unjust and unfair, when tyrants seem to get away with things, when the people making the rules are not following them, civil disobedience may be called for. I'm not talking about a revolution or hard core violence, but protesting that which is unjust cannot be called a mistake. Mahatma Ghandi had to throw out the entire British Empire, and although he suffered mightily at the hands of the British, he never raised his hand in anger. He understood that blind obedience to his oppressors was not a solution for his nation or his people, but that a violent revolution would also cost countless lives and still risk being unsuccessful. The "civil" in civil disobedience is a double entendre referring both to society at large and to the "reasonable" application of that disobedience within the context of a larger social context. These men and their ideas about change and revolution within the practice of civil disobedience walked a fine line between social anarchy and blind collaboration, and their efforts to improve their worlds often bordered on illegality and criminal action. Yet, as Thoreau says, “I believe--"That government is best which governs not at all"; and when men are prepared for it, that will be the kind of government which they will have.” So even Thoreau knew that living without government would be a disaster, but civil disobedience was a check, nay, a balance, against unjust or unfair laws and practices.

On civil disobedience

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It is rather intimidating to write on a topic that has already been covered by the of Henry David Thoreau, Mahatma Ghandi, and Martin Luther King Jr., yet the relationship between the governed and the government, however that relational metaphor works itself out, is intrinsic to most human relations at both the micro and macro levels, where few or maybe millions may be involved. Governments are most necessary so that disorganized groups of people may live in relative harmony, observe laws that uphold basic rights to life and liberty, avoid chaos and anarchy. Harmony, laws, and order are in and of themselves good things, but you cannot avoid, then, impinging on the rights of some who do not feel that laws and rules apply to them. Government makes policies, tries to implement them, screws things up, blames the wrong people, and resolves nothing in the long run. In the meantime, most citizens forgive their government for wrong-headed thinking, short-sited policies, poor social and economic plans, and a host of other mistakes which usually includes wars at some point or another. Where governments really fail miserably is when they try to legislate reproduction, the consumption of controlled substances, and marriage (on any level). Civil disobedience rears its ugly head when a large number of people, or maybe just one, decides that a government and its policies are wrong, immoral, unethical, wrong-headed, repressive, cynical, or illegal. Civil disobedience comes in many forms, shapes, sizes, levels and incarnations. Mr. King had to change the thinking of an entire country that was enjoying and constantly rebuilding an institutional form of apartheid that had split a country in two, creating an entire underclass of citizens that were suffering in unfair and unjust conditions just because of their skin color. Mr. King's civil disobedience was to disregard both a series of social practices and the laws that upheld those practices. I would not agree with Mr. Thoreau's thesis that the government that governs least, governs best, but he wasn't too far from the truth. We all need some form of government, some rules that tame our anarchic ways and boundaries that keep our boundless self-interest from destroying us. When the rules are unjust and unfair, when tyrants seem to get away with things, when the people making the rules are not following them, civil disobedience may be called for. I'm not talking about a revolution or hard core violence, but protesting that which is unjust cannot be called a mistake. Mahatma Ghandi had to throw out the entire British Empire, and although he suffered mightily at the hands of the British, he never raised his hand in anger. He understood that blind obedience to his oppressors was not a solution for his nation or his people, but that a violent revolution would also cost countless lives and still risk being unsuccessful. The "civil" in civil disobedience is a double entendre referring both to society at large and to the "reasonable" application of that disobedience within the context of a larger social context. These men and their ideas about change and revolution within the practice of civil disobedience walked a fine line between social anarchy and blind collaboration, and their efforts to improve their worlds often bordered on illegality and criminal action. Yet, as Thoreau says, “I believe--"That government is best which governs not at all"; and when men are prepared for it, that will be the kind of government which they will have.” So even Thoreau knew that living without government would be a disaster, but civil disobedience was a check, nay, a balance, against unjust or unfair laws and practices.

On horror stories

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Human beings are fascinated by horror stories--obsessed, one might say. From our earliest times we have created narratives filled with monsters, ghouls, trolls, ghosts, and creatures whose only purpose seems to be threatening or killing people in out of the way places, dark houses, empty castles, lonely highways, cold mountain passes, haunted spaceships, lonely planets, and creepy little towns. The very space created within the horror narrative is menacing, ghastly, deserted, dusty, filled with cobwebs, forgotten spaces. Both attics and basements are particularly hazardous spaces, but empty jungles, strange swamps, and wind-swept mountains can also be problematic, especially if you are a scientist in an out of the way place such as Antarctica, a space ship on its way to Mars, an old freighter navigating a long way from its home port, at the bottom of the sea. All of these spaces are a long distance from a safe port and speak to the inherent danger of far away places, places that are unknown and unsafe. Strange beings--half man, half reptile--inhabit these places waiting for their next meal to come along. Most of these narratives begin innocently enough with calm seas and smooth sailing, blue skies and light winds, before things start to go wrong. A crisis ensues, a problem arises, a computer goes haywire, a storm blows up, somebody ignores a warning, and the bottom falls out--a ship sinks, a monster gets loose, communications break down, an earthquake occurs, a volcano erupts, a typhoon strikes, and the characters start to die in horrible and miserable ways. In the middle of these narratives, a hero arises who must fight to overcome the obstacles, monsters, and spaces that lie between him/her and safety. We consume these stories as if there were no tomorrow. They seem to reflect some of our darkest fears of abandonment, of the unknown, of the dark, of technology, of power, of the future, of change. We fear that we are poisoning our world, that technology is moving ahead too fast, that space is a dangerous place, that there are unexplainable supernatural things that are not dreamt of in our philosophy. The archetypal ghost stories seems to be a paradigm inherent in any serious discussion of the genre--a strange place, a vengeful ghost, isolation, mayhem. Perhaps horror stories haunt our collective psyche because the raise existential questions of the highest order: who are we, what is our purpose in life, what does all of this (life) mean? So we let the vampires, werewolves, and mummies run through our nightmares, hoping against hope that they will stay there.

On horror stories

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Human beings are fascinated by horror stories--obsessed, one might say. From our earliest times we have created narratives filled with monsters, ghouls, trolls, ghosts, and creatures whose only purpose seems to be threatening or killing people in out of the way places, dark houses, empty castles, lonely highways, cold mountain passes, haunted spaceships, lonely planets, and creepy little towns. The very space created within the horror narrative is menacing, ghastly, deserted, dusty, filled with cobwebs, forgotten spaces. Both attics and basements are particularly hazardous spaces, but empty jungles, strange swamps, and wind-swept mountains can also be problematic, especially if you are a scientist in an out of the way place such as Antarctica, a space ship on its way to Mars, an old freighter navigating a long way from its home port, at the bottom of the sea. All of these spaces are a long distance from a safe port and speak to the inherent danger of far away places, places that are unknown and unsafe. Strange beings--half man, half reptile--inhabit these places waiting for their next meal to come along. Most of these narratives begin innocently enough with calm seas and smooth sailing, blue skies and light winds, before things start to go wrong. A crisis ensues, a problem arises, a computer goes haywire, a storm blows up, somebody ignores a warning, and the bottom falls out--a ship sinks, a monster gets loose, communications break down, an earthquake occurs, a volcano erupts, a typhoon strikes, and the characters start to die in horrible and miserable ways. In the middle of these narratives, a hero arises who must fight to overcome the obstacles, monsters, and spaces that lie between him/her and safety. We consume these stories as if there were no tomorrow. They seem to reflect some of our darkest fears of abandonment, of the unknown, of the dark, of technology, of power, of the future, of change. We fear that we are poisoning our world, that technology is moving ahead too fast, that space is a dangerous place, that there are unexplainable supernatural things that are not dreamt of in our philosophy. The archetypal ghost stories seems to be a paradigm inherent in any serious discussion of the genre--a strange place, a vengeful ghost, isolation, mayhem. Perhaps horror stories haunt our collective psyche because the raise existential questions of the highest order: who are we, what is our purpose in life, what does all of this (life) mean? So we let the vampires, werewolves, and mummies run through our nightmares, hoping against hope that they will stay there.

On Avatar (the movie and 1,000 blog entry)

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What can one really say about this strange movie about conquest, conquistadors, and a native population that fights back? James Cameron's 2009 film is about intertextuality and dialogues directly with the ghosts of Christopher Columbus, Hernán Cortés, Francisco Pizarro, and Ferdinand Magellan as they conquer and subdue the native population of the New World. The premise of the film is simple: the Earth is dying from mistreatment and overpopulation and the Earthlings are on the war path to find a rare element "unobtanium" (get it?) which they might then use to refuel their own burned out planet. They know that this element is on a moon called Pandora (another dialogue). The problem is that people are living on top of this element, and unless you move the people, you can't get to the element. The conflict of the film the mirrors all stories of conquest and diaspora which are economically driven, giving rise to military invasions and crusades that litter human history with death, destruction, chaos, mayhem, and tragedy. Whether it was the Christian conquest of Jerusalem during the crusades, the Spanish expulsion of the Jews in 1492, or the conquest of the Americas, military might has been employed to displace the weak, eliminate less developed cultures, and persecute religious minorities. Watching a couple of the battle scenes I thought the movie was eerily reminiscent of the jungles of Vietnam in which American troops labored in vain to fight off the Communist threat in Southeast Asia. The problem that the American/Earth forces face in Avatar is that they not only don't understand who the enemy is, they underestimate the complexity of their opponent's strength by imagining that the “other” is inferior because they live in harmony with nature and not at odds with it. The "natives" live outdoors with few or no structures, they wear almost no clothing, and their society is not mechanized at all. The invaders imagine, then, that the natives are barbarians who will be easy to defeat. Guns and bullets have always solved everything, so why shouldn't that be the case this time as well. The movie strongly criticizes the military option as barbaric, inhuman, ruthless, and stupid. Again, the movie dialogues with all wars, invasions, police actions and military occupations as it criticizes the use of brute force to displace an already settled population, creating an intertextuality with the displacement of native Americans in both North and South America. Military action is justified against these people because the invaders ironically place themselves in the role of the culturally superior, rationalizing the death and violence they will use to subjugate another group of humans. The invaders have no idea, in the end, that the people they are killing enjoy a rich, complex life which is only different, essentially, in one way--window dressing. In this fable, the natives drive off and defeat the invaders, which is a fairy tale ending, but it is also highly satisfying. The subplot of the paraplegic marine who gets to experience life as the "other" is a quirky anti-war commentary about the soldier who is "humanized" and meets the enemy. Here he gets the chance to be the enemy, to experience the world first hand as they would experience the world--a curious tip-of-the-hat to Borges' short story, "The Ethnographer." In the end, the cannibals are not natives living in the trees, but instead are the gun-toting goons that have been sent to rid the planet of a humanoid infestation. A final note: Sigourney Weaver of Alien fame plays a misplaced scientist in charge of the Avatar project, which in turn dialogues with the entire Alien series, a cautionary tale about messing with things you don't know about and can't understand. You can't always reach out and take just anything you want. Ethnocentrism can be a very bad thing. As an epilogue, I am sure that the damage done by the invading forces is irreversible and that permanent damage has been done--the locals, as it were, have been thrust from Eden never to return, and this is the great tragedy of Avatar.

On sadness

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Perhaps it is because we are all pursuing happiness with such great abandon and fervor that we often don't stop for those around us who are feeling sad. Or perhaps we are sad ourselves and no one has noticed or stopped by to ask. It has been a tough spring in central Texas for colleagues and friends who are facing transitions because change has been forced on them by the inevitability of death or the capriciousness of life. We would always want things to stay the same: same job, same family, same friends, same house, same stuff, same car, same pets. Yet, we know that the only thing that does not change is change itself. Even death and taxes change--they may be inevitable, but they do change. So a grandparent dies, or a church member, or people take a new job and move, a business closes and you're out of job, a car accident suddenly ends the life of a young one. I should be more callous and just call it "life." After fifty-three years you would think I would be a little less emotional, more unfeeling, harder, cynical, and in many ways I am: I understand the serendipitous nature of chance, the independence of the event, and the unpredictability of real life. We live under the illusion that life is one huge continuous thread of events, that continuity exists, and that we can live that single, unbroken thread of verisimilitude which is our mundane existence. Life is more like a mirror that has fallen out of its frame and shattered into a million little discontinuous fragments, which, as we stare into them, reflect back just a tiny piece of our image. Life is not linear; it is discontinuous, fragmented, broken, and unfinished. The result of this existential angst is often times a profound sadness about the changing world, over which we have no control. Perhaps that is our greatest failing as humans: we think that we control our destinies, have a perfect life, perfect family, perfect house, perfect car, perfect children, never suffer a loss. Yet, nowhere is it written that real life has anything to do with the pursuit of happiness, that we can control anything, that there is meaning where there really is none, that we can shield ourselves against loss. Perhaps only the nihilists say such nonsense, but I would postulate that most unhappiness is the direct result of the dark surprises that life is constantly throwing at the players in this drama-tragedy-absurd-satire-parody of life. We are unhappy because of change, because our expectations for our lives are not being met, because our needs are not being met. At some point I should use the word "fair," but it wouldn't be appropriate in this context. Life is always what you make of it--sad, happy, or indifferent, but we are never in control.

On Dark Shadows star Jonathan Frid/Barnabas Collins

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Jonathan Frid, the Canadian actor who played the melancholy vampire of the ultimately campy and strange soap opera, Dark Shadows, died Friday in Hamilton, Ontario. He was 87. The production values were low, the dialogues were melodramatic, and the special effects were horrific, but not because the show was scary. For an eight-year-old, the show was incredibly spooky, frightening, and creepy. I guess the production values for a daily soap opera lent themselves to a campy, gothic, soap opera about witches, werewolves, vampires, ghosts, curses, the undead, and general supernatural salad that probably invented a few new ghouls and goblins. The best part of this outrageous production was watching all the actors play their roles straight as if they believed every word. One often did not know whether to scream in terror or laugh because it was so funny. The show was a parody, a complicated riff as it were, on the whole idea of soap operas: people fall in love, they fall out of love, they are greedy, they fall in love with the wrong person, violence ensues, people disappear, they reappear, somebody gets their arm cut off, there is a fire, a monster lurks somewhere in this dark old house, at least one character turns into a werewolf, somebody lets the vampire out of his coffin, someone gets pregnant, another fire ensues, and so on. Soap operas are played with no specific end in mind. They are continuous, which is particularly interesting if you are a 175 year-old vampire who is looking for a lost love who has been reincarnated, conveniently, in the ravishing 21 year-old daughter of the creaky (creepy) mansion's patriarch, the great-great-great grandnephew of said vampire. So now we can add incest to the list of creepy behaviors crawling through this soap. Frid fell into this role and became an instant pop icon of the period. In an era before video-taping, people would stay home to watch the soap, which was filmed and shot in a very tantalizing way: never show the monsters or the blood, unless it's the Friday episode and you want to leave people hanging. The show would be immersed in the most inane dialogues about ghosts and witches and such and the thing would never really progress. Show me the monster! Yet it would progress just enough to keep it interesting, a kind of soap opera striptease. Frid played the role of the melancholy, misunderstood, but blood-thirsty vampire probably better than he ever wanted to. Fangs, cane, strange bangs, ruddy cheeks, he oozed vampire from every pore, and of course, the women watching from home could only guess what those fangs might feel like on their own throats. The show was a campy romp through repressed Victorian sexuality that played quite well on television, and Frid starred in more than six hundred episodes before it finally burned itself out, which is the only logical end for a soap opera this strange. Tip-of-the-hat to a great actor who turned into a pop icon vampire, and only ever flashed a smile when he knew lunch was about to be served. He never drank...wine.