If anyone questions karma I encourage them to read this post. Most of my close friends are familiar with this little story but I feel it is important to share with more so I may somehow save them from themselves. First lesson is try not to use the term "retard." It should be used in verbage for like, "I will retard my comment for later," not "Nice Air Supply shirt, you look like a retard." The second is to never do an impression, no matter how great in likeness to someone with a disability. I had a really good one. It was a tasteful blend from the movie What's Eating Gilbert Grape and There's Something About Mary. The third is to never laugh at  those who live with a mental disorder no matter what they do. I had to learn these lessons the hard way and I am about to tell how, so pay attention. This could happen to you.

  I spent six years in the infantry and I will tell you it wasn't the breeding ground of morality and sensitivity. I felt a sensation of invincibility and truly believed that all the parachuting, bar fights, helicopter jumps and trips to foreign lands would lead to nothing more than another day, another LES.(leave earning statement...pay stub) Even though this sounds like the life of excitement it had times of sheer boredom. One could only find the joy of a cigarette and companions for entertainment during long night watches in the distant forests of Bosnia. I believe that these idle times lead to the greatest and deepest conversations and also some of the most humorous impressions. That is probably where my down syndrome impression was forged. It brought such joy to a bunch of war pigs. These were special people because it takes a certain personality to talk so lovingly about one's family while holding belt-fed weapon. So, it takes a similar sick sense of humour to yield a laugh.

   Ah but fate, how you rear your freakish head. After I left the service I was changed by my deployments. I saw the worst of mankind and vowed to live a life of meaning. The feelings I had of  invincibility shifted quite hard to the acceptance that this life has an end and what you do now is payed for at some point.  My first payment  was to a debt I accumulated by my perfect Corky impression. The way I payed it is funny to most but to me it is as if God himself signed the bill.

  After I graduated I ran a personal training studio in Alpharetta, GA. It was a real upscale club and life was really going my way. I had great friends, popularity in the community and six figures at 24. You know what happened next? I was so on top of the world I needed share with my fortune with others. So on a Sunday afternoon a middle aged woman walked into the gym with her son. His name was Chris and he stood 5' 5'' and about 210 lbs of just girth. He had down syndrome and his mother was looking for a safe place for his power lifting training. He was a Special Olympian. After an hour of talking they both became members and I became Chris's trainer and coach. What a treat, money in the gym and reprieve of my soul. Life was good.

    The months leading to the Special Olympics with Chris were tumultuous at best. His mother was single and also had a teenage daughter so there were little if any barriers and Chris knew how to get away with anything. I can't tell you how many times we would finish a dead lift set and I would find myself in a head lock. No matter how you look at it, trying to wrestle your head from a sweaty man child is hard to do and maintain dignity. It probably looked like Chuck Norris sparring with the Kung Fu chimp. In case you were wondering I would be Mr. Norris.

   I never looked forward to the day of the Special Olympic competition. I guess it never seemed that it would arrive. Our training wasn't showing any results and there was no information for the Olympic regulations. The finality of the event did come, though. The day before the competition Chris's mother came in with a Kroger bag and left it on my desk. She gave me the details on the event with directions and words of encouragement but it was her final statement that shook me to the core.

  "Oh yeah, your matching singlet is in the bag. You guys are going to look so cute! Let's go for GOLD!"

   Did she say "singlet?" Fuck yes she did. This is when my good deed rapidly turned to a debt to be paid. And man did I pay. I paid for every limp, every drool, every "Have you stheen my....wiener?" and every exaggerated finger extension. The day to live as a "touched" person has come but before it began my good friend Joe took me out drinking so I would not wallow alone in self loathing. After all, it was just the Special Olympics and I was only a coach. Right?

   The next day I woke up with a cranking hangover and thirty minutes late. I skipped the shower and shave, put on the sweats and jumped in the car. On the way to the college (hosted the Olympics) I looked in the rear view and noticed I had mad bed head with blood shot eyes. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day. I soon arrived to find Chris and his mom sitting in the bleachers of the coliseum. There was a stage with two benches, two squat racks and two dead lift racks with a series of colored lights behind a judges booth. The white lights were for a good lift and the red were for a failed attempt. Now that the visual aid is set I will fill in the for my feelings of dread.

  "You made it Billy! Are you wearing the uniform? Let's put  it on because your group is next up."

  I went to the bathroom and put on the singlet and wouldn't you know it. TO SMALL! It was so tight my junk formed the letter "S" and I dared not even look at my behind. So let me paint this picture as well. I was in a singlet that was too small, I was hungover with bed head, not shaved and red eyes with running shoes. I fit the part.

   When I was all suited up I walked back to the coliseum and something else caught my eye. It was a huge slide show with all the competitors bio's. They gave pictures with where they are from, what they enjoy doing and what they like to eat. I found it mildly entertaining while waiting to coach Chris through his event but then the entertertainment became a clue to the reality I was about to face. One of the slides was my own bio. Now keep in mind I didn't write this so I can only assume Chris's mom did. It read something like this:

    Billy Webster

    C Group     From Alpharetta, Ga

     " He likes to lift weights and  listen to music like Pearl Jam. He is cool and has lots of friends who lift weights too. He loves pizza and healthy food.He competes for FX gym, Centennial High, and his partner is Chris."

    When you first read this it sounds like I would be competing rather than coaching. Well, you know what? No matter how many times you read it, it reads the same. She pulled a 180 on me and I was entered as a competitor/ coach. Apparently you can combine the scores per regulation. I was panic stricken.  But it was too late. Before I could raise my concerns I was rushed off behind the stage to a line of about fifty "athletes" all waiting their turn to bench press. I found myself looking for comfort in a familiar face and the only face I found was Chris. In line I found myself assimilated with all sorts of "special" people having all sorts of "special" conversations. I remained silent trying to understand how I went from a coach to this and how can I get out of the situation. But it was too late. .....more tomorrow. I have to actually get back to my work for the airlines. I'm a pilot now. I was in the Special Olympics and now I fly passenger planes. Scared?

Sorry about the time delay. Where was I? Ah yes, standing in line with 60 Special Olympians waiting to surprise power lift with my "partner" Chris. I must admit that I was less enthused to be an actual participant since I wasn't retarded to begin with but like a good sport I shrugged it off and focused on the job at hand. That job was preparing Chris to lift his registered weight with perfect form. But there was a snag. As my back was turned Chris felt it was necessary to punch the kid in the face that was standing in front us. I will not say that it added to the insanity of my current state but it definitely detracted from my singlet wedgie. All I could do is pull Chris a side to chastise is action and give him positive encouragement with the promise of a coke if he apologized to the poor kid that he socked in the face.

   Meanwhile we had moved close to the starting position of the bench press. Game faces were on and there was medals to be won. Watching the athletes before us I felt we were in a good position to win something. Not to be too competitive but some guys were barley benching what looked to be 30 lbs. Come on. I looked at Chris's lift cards and we started at 45lbs so right there we were winners. But looking at the card there was no weight filled in for me. I'll show 'em. I'm going to start out modest and lift 100 lbs and on the third round max it to 200. Oh yeah, that should clinch it.

  Now we were third in line to lift and I had to give our card to the judges table but this was a little confusing standing behind the curtain of the stage. I asked one of the passing coaches and she pointed to the table with the Georgia State Triple Delta sorority girls. OH MY GOD...I have to hand my card to a sorority that is doing their community service in a singlet. Did I deserve this too? I actually did this ladies and gentlemen. I walked up to the table and turned my card in under the assumption that I too was "special." There was none the wiser at the table but when walking away I actually hear a consolidated "awwwww". I wanted to die.

  Zero hour was finally here and Chris was on the bench. All he had to do was lift the assigned weight like we had done hundreds of times before. But the poor guy was too nervous and he started his lift before he judges gave us the sign. Sadly Chris was exempt from this portion of the lift due to lack of timing apparently. Some coach I was. But there was hope.                         

   While consoling my team mate there were a couple of guys changing out the weights for my lift. I noticed that instead of the moderate blue weights that every other lifter used, these guys were stacking the big bastard orange ones. I thought, "were these Special Olympians too?" There had to be a mistake because this was serious weight. And then it hit me. The Olympics were always in Kilograms not pounds. What I thought was a modest wieght of 100 lbs was now an insaine weight of 220 lbs. Oh shit.

   What a conundrum. Making a stupid mistake like this was bad enough but now I can't tell the sorority judges because I pretended I was retarded. Oh fuck, I'm about to fail at the Special Olympics in the first round. I laid down on the bench and stared at the ceiling waiting for the judges to say "up!" and prayed. In the audience I heard Chris's mom yell, "GO BILLY!" with what sounded like a consolidated groan from the crowd. With all the adrenaline I could muster I lifted the 220 lbs and completed it. Whew!

   I will not lie to you. I had never lifted that much weight before. It felt good that it was over but then came more great news. In order to maintain gold standing I had to increase the following lift by 20%. I didn't even try it. I lifted the 220 two more times but that was it.

   About half way through the competition I needed a break so I headed outside to make a few calls and have a better conversation than the one's I had in line to lift. One of those conversations was a pretty insightful political opinion about what he would do if he found Saddam Hussein. I think it went like this:

  "If I found Saddam I would shoot a grenade at him and a say this one is for you, Saddam! Then I would kill him."

   I had to agree. All I could do was smile and repeat, "sounds good."

   Anyway, I went outside ad called my pal Joe but there was no answer. Sitting on the curb in my singlet I reflected on my situation and believe it or not I was smiling. Then I was spotted. Apparently a chaperon saw me as an escaped competitor and came outside to lure me back in. She snuck behind me and began to rub my back and asked in a loving way, "Who are you with sweetheart?" This was enough to send me over the edge. With a disdainful look I stared up at her and said, "I'm not retarded."

    She stumbled back startled. "I am so sorry, why are you...I mean....are you a competitor?" I explained my situation and she couldn't help but laugh. Her daughter had down syndrome so it was ok for her to see the comedy of my predicament. All she could say was how nice I was but she felt for me. I kind of did too.

   The rest of the day went better than how it started but I can be honest with you, I was happy to go home. I have a whole new respect for the committee of the Special Olympics, the parents who raise them and the volunteers who help them. I know that it is not good to have fun at other people's expense and to thank God that my life can be free of the Special Olympics if I choose.

   The following Monday Chris's mom came into the gym with pictures to share and my medals. I got silver.

            I got silver at the Special Olympics. Let's think about that.

 

                                        The End

I t's funny to recall how kids in middle school determined what was "cool." I can only attribute this to the kids with older siblings because as an only child these trends seemed to appear out of no where. From rolling the pants of  jeans to buying Chicago Bull apparel (even though we living in Phoenix), I could never connect a reason but rather just conformed to the absurdity. I guess it didn't help to have two parents (love them very much) who had no idea what the concept of cool was. My mom never ventured into the realm and my dad was a nuclear engineer so you connect the dots. I was doomed. My first day of the sixth grade after I moved to a new school, I was sporting a sweater with an Indian in a canoe embroidered on the front. I should have worn a Mr. Goodbody bodysuit instead
because it would have had the same effect.
   Thinking of strange "rules to be cool", I can't help but remember the ways these standards could not be faked. I can get away with most anything today but then it was about what you wear, physical abilities and what your current growth rate was. I happened to be a smaller kid with a shoe size of about 5....in women's. Try finding Bo Jackson Rebox. They didn't make them in that size so it was all about the Keds. Turns out they were great for running from bullies and I believe they had that in mind when they designed them. I guess this is comparable to girls with their bra sizes. Us late bloomers always have a bond.

     Basketball was the sport of choice in middle school. That was perfect because I was as good at this sport as I was with econometrics at age five. I learned that your ability is directly correlated to the order you get picked for a team. It is a humbling situation when the team captains have to argue who they end up with; you or the kid in the wheelchair. I can't blame them. I mean, it's pretty bad when someone passes the ball to you and you immediately take the shot, no matter what side of the court, for fear of a dribbling mishap. There's nothing like watching an 80 pound kid try to chuck the ball from half court. It probably looked as if someone turned up the gravity as soon as it left my hands. Those kids would have had a better shot if they passed to Steven Hawking.

  Strangely enough I was always invited to birthday parties. If I want to be a pessimist I guess I can see it from their angle. I was a no talent ass clown of a kid but I was white and nerdy so that meant upper class. If I was in the upper class category this meant better b-day presents. The joke was on them though, because my mom is the worst gift giver in the history of time. I remember a specific present that Brian DeAngelo received from me. It was a Marvel comic toothbrush set with matching rinse cup and soap dish. He gave me the same look as if I re-gifted his own dog.

  The parties where bittersweet. On one hand I was invited so that was good. On the other hand it was usually at Sparkles. Sparkles was the local roller rink and it was a place that combined all three cool levels; fashion, growth and coordination. If you want to suck whatever remained of my coolness put wheels on my feet. It's humbling enough to cling to the wall of the rink but having a catastrophic fall from just standing still is too much for my peers to ignore. I wish I did not fight it but rather accept gravity. Flailing and tap dancing only adds to the hilarity. The growth part was asking for a size five roller skate out loud. Of course I asked for a size eight but I  underestimated the skill of the 16 year old behind the skate counter who could judge a shoe size by height and was called out. I hope he's still working there. I would usually just stick to the video games because I could hold on to the joystick and remain out of sight.

   This blog probably sounds pathetic but as high school came I qualified for my "cool card." I learned how to fight, cuss, catch a football and fell in love with baseball. The point of all this is really to remember how kids are. When I have kids I want them to be happy. I was happy even though I was not cool so I know it's possible to do so. But what I want to be as a parent is cool. I want to have an idea what the kids are into and have a clue what my kid faces from day to day. Failing to do so can only lead to themed sweaters and toothbrush birthday presents.

   I know this is full of spelling errors. I suck.

                          I'm going to start this day with a reflection on RadioShack. I hate RadioShack with a hatered that is rarely witnessed by many who know me. If someone was to udder words like crap, shit, stink pile, poo, junk, dump, pwetrid, funk or sounds like blap, ploop, or shlllapsspspsp, the first image in my head would be the RadioShack sign. Why I feel this way is primarely because of a Christmas present I recieved in 1985. It was a silver Ferarri remote controlled car and it was the most spectacular thing I had ever seen. You can tell by weight and size of a wrapped gift that it has to be cool. Rectangular packages leave out the possibility of clothes or books so it was kept for last to unwrap and to a seven year old it was not a disapointment.
     I could hardly wait to pull that thing from the box, put in the 6 D baterries and tear up the driveway with the Italian dream machine. But little did I know it was bought from the one store that sells only electronic dog shit. When the car was prepped and charged and I was dressed for the inclimate, damp day outside, it was time to test drive. 
    I remember approximatly ten full minutes of remote control fun and then it came to rest, rolling out of control against the garage door. With a mechanical inclination of a seven year old I feverishly banged the remote. There had to be a simple answer to why the car is not responding! So with mouth agape, arms limp and a slouching stride I walked to the disabled car and examined the undercarriage. I can't remember what I was looking for but I had a gut feeling it was bad. I needed to take to Mr. Fix-it. You know, Dad.
    With careful inspection my father was too perplexed with why the car decided to shit the bed so soon. He expected it to last at least a week. He turned to the one avenue I would never and that is the instruction sheet. This led to my worst fears and that was the long list of what the car could not drive on and if you own it then the joke was on you. Turns out the car could not operate on pavement, lanolium, carpet, grass, dirt or anything else besides a wooden track. Dad looked at me with sympathy and we decided to bring it back to RadioShit on the most dreaded boxing day to see if there was a way to return the car. This is the beginning of my hatered towards RadioShack. But I was cool for now. I had other toys to break.
   So we got up early and took off to Perimeter mall. My memory is fuzzy because I probably blocked out most of that day but I'm sure it was a mad house. With the car back in the original box my Dad and I walked into the RadioShack store to stand in line behind other equally pissed off customers. He thought this was a great platform for me, as a seven year old, to gain some real adult expirience and ask for a Ferarri exchange by myself. Now that I think about it he probably was banking on a cuteness factor to make the exchange less painful. Either way, cuteness or life lesson, it backfired and the bitch clerk took one look at me and decided to make me an example.
    Now to this day I truely believe that all RadioShack employees have a hidden training handbook full of Nazi propaganda. They take great joy in selling little kids shit for Christmas presents, have them go through the pains of the present breaking and forcing them to come back to the store to recieve an ass chewing. Why I believe this? It only makes sense to me because it fucking happened to me. The snot, chick employee assessed the situation before her and in a loud voice said, "Let me guess, you didn't read the instuctions and now you want a new one?"
    I remember my ears turning hot and humiliation set in. With a scornful look she snatched the box out of my arms and went to the "employee only" section. I looked for my Dad but he was standing by the cassette players lost in geek world. Before iIcould go to him for protection the "employee only" door kicked open and the female Gerbles waddeled her way to the counter. She wasn't done with her power talk. Not by a long shot.
   "I am going to let you exchange this but I had better not see you back here whining about how it is broken." I hope she felt good having a power trip on a seven year old. Maybe it was the fact she had to work on the holidays or I was customer number 3,000 with an exchange but I feel she saw me as an outlet for her shitty RadioShack customer service skill. 
    Walking out the store my Dad peeled away from HiFi extacy and saw that mission was accomplished. I was still in shock from having my ass handed to me. We made it to about the parking lot before I broke down in tears. I was a protected kid growing up. My folks never yelled at me and my elementary school was something from Nickelodeon so getting chewed out by a stranger really shook me up. It must have because I am writing about it 22 years later. Dad didn't really think that much about it. We got into the car and went to Ihop for "feel better pancakes." 
   By the time we got home the feelings of shame and embarasment subsided and the excitement of a new remote ferarri took center stage. But when I took the box from the bag the bitch from the store had salt for me wounds. Istead of a shiny ass kicking ass kicker sports car I got a remote controled pickup truck. That's all I'm going to say about that.
    I have not been to a RadioShack since. I refuse to shop there and I even tell others to boycott the company. My visceral hatered towards RadioShack will never be squelched and everytime a new store opens a puppy dies. So fuck you RadioShack. Fuck you.        

   I like to work out. I'm no gym rat but I consider myself in relatively good shape. I have a membership to the local health club and run at least two to three miles everyday. You know, not an olympian but I don't pass out from climbing stairs. But lately I have become a little complacent with my workouts and real felt the need  to change it up. This is a little embaressing to admit because I was a Muscle Physiology major and a personal trainer for many years. I certainly couldn't turn to some meat-headed trainer that can't even touch his own ears and was certified with the help of Speak and Spell. No, I need to change to something that will shock the system and have people asking, "Bill, what's your program, man? You're ripped!"  What could it be.....
 Joan Lunden to the rescue! This is definitly where no man should go but desperate times calls for 1980's morning anchor measures. But before I can hit muscle failure, pray to the Gods of Physical Fitness for mercy and lose my lunch to the comforting voice of Good Morning America, I need to prepare by getting in the mind set to work out with Joan herself. But really before all that I need a beer. After all, I need to carbo load!

    After firing up the VCR and inserting Workout America I am graced by a quick one on one with the queen herself! Joan gets personal with just me about the trials and tribulations of childbirth, stress at work, and the fact that it has been an uphill battle shedding 40 pounds. Even though she has been off the air for years, it's strange to see her out of the suit and into a lee-a-tard. It's like seeing your high school teacher in a swimsuit and there is something just creepy about that. But all apparell aside, Joan Lunden was only a focus in my life when there was a chance that school would be cancelled because of snow. My mom always had Good Morning America on before I left for the bus stop but I only paid attention to the scrolling list at the bottom of the screen, looking desperatley for Mt. Bethel on the closed list. If it was, Joan Lunden was the recipiant of kisses and TV hugs. If it was not , she was promptly cursed. It's not even like shooting the messenger. She just took the blame. Sorry Joan.

    It's go time! The work out starts with the old "walk in place" while Joan, three fit chicks and one fitness expert, Barbara Brandt, start the motivational chat. Barbara reminds me of the typical super mom/ PTA leader/ aerobics instructor/ trophy wife. The type to send your mom a Christmas card, bragging about herself and family while subliminally calling her fat. A real bitch. But at least she is good at what she does; making you walk in place, clapping, and being totally oblivious to the fact you that look like a fuckstick. But if clapping and walking will stop the monotony of my workouts then bring in on! I wonder what else she has up her sleeve?

   Joan and Barbara have oldie but a goodie up their sleeve. That's right folks! I'm doing The Charelston with the blinds closed. Hrm....the beer is kicking in so maybe I will open them. I can't believe it but the pain session is just old dance moves combined with signature pelvic thrusts. It is akward to hear Barbara call the thrusts, " female muscle thrusts" but it is even more disturbing to hear Joan back her up with a "We know what those are for!" 
  
       <------ The F'n Charelston!             
                                                                            .....and the jerk off --------->
         
     It's hard to believe that I am starting to sweat the beer I am drinking but hell, I think this is working! I feel pretty funny dancing like a flapper girl and slapping my thighs but whatever. I like who I am and if Joan Lunden is making me sweat than that is great. I'm going to a wedding in a few weeks and you better believe that these dance moves are in the bag for later. Except for the jerk. I can see me trying to explain that.

   "No, no...it's not gay! I learned it from a Joan Lunden workout tape!"


   
 
       Well ladies and gentlemen, we're not used to getting our news from this end. Actually this is a side rarely seen on Good morning America. But I guess it is a testament to the effectiveness of Barbara's ancient dancing and clap-happy moves.                             
                BEAT YOUR FACE LUNDEN! I'M GOING TO TEAR OFF YOUR EARS, PUT THEM IN YOUR BACK POCKETS AND KICK YOU ASS IN SUROUND SOUND! yOUR SOUL BELONGS TO JESUS BUT YOU ASS BELONGS TO ME!
      
     
                                                                          The push up! I can't believe it but I am doing push ups with Joan to the music of a sony keyboard demo button! What kind of a world am I living in?  I really think I am starting to push my luck now that I find myself being coached to squeeze my pelvic muscles while preforming push ups. I hope we move to abs soon. No one likes to feel like a weinie and I am starting to feel like a stay at home mom.

   Well, I finished all the excercises like a true champ. I even had to stretch for the final minutes while listening to the  ladies go on and on about how great it is to release the stress from their bodies. I must say that I feel much better. Maybe it is the six pack of Sam Adams talking, but I feel fit and firm.
                                                                                         
     But what the Fuck? This isn't what I wanted! I can't have these! Barbara and Joan gave me child bearing hips!
 You see what happens when you break out of the norm and try to be creative? You get chick hips. That's worse than man boobs, cankles and pooch combined!  Thanks a lot Joan Lunden. I thought you were ok until this happened. 

      

                      Well that concludes it. I am going to stick to what works. The same old boring thing. I can't rely on old icons of the eighties to give a new perspective on life. But I did find out one thing. You should never throw out the "fat pants."                                                                            
                                                                                                         

   
  
     

  I think I am going to change the face of this journal. I origionally thought that this would be a guige for work outs and borings junk that, knowing myself, I would never keep up with. I mean look at it. I haven't updated it on over a month. That sucks. So i am going to change this journal to the world of the strange and unusual. I think I have cruised through life with a much different aspect than most. Why I think this you ay ask? Well, people constantly remark about how funny my outlook is on life. They said it. So I think it will be beniftial to me if I put my thoughts and images online and see if others see life the same. I hope so.

  First order of business is to do what I always wanted to do and jabber about my favorite movies. Today's pick is a movie that made me fear spoons, closets, clowns, trees and empty swimmming pools.  This movie is responsible for a hike in the electric bill from leaving the hall light on and sleepless nights counting the seconds between the lightning and thunder. By now most can guess what movie I am talking about but if not, I believe it is one of the best horror classics Steven Spielberg and Tobe Hooper could have accomplished. It's Poltergiest.

     Yep, this movie really didn't convince people they were possessed or caused miscarriages like The Exorcist did but damn did it pop in the head around 10:00 at night.  Set in the early eighties in a perfect suburban neighborhood, (just like the one in E.T) the Freelings were the envy of any family striving for the American dream;  three kids, hot wife, huge house and a wood-panel station wagon.  The only strange thing is their three year old daughter talks to the TV when it is tuned to UPN. Oh yeah, and the dog barks at the wall, the silverware bends, glasses break, funiture stacks by itself on the kitchen table and there is a 6.5 rickter scale earthquake that only effects their bedroom. Besides that everything is ship-shape. All I have to say is if I saw bent forks and spoons and my child was playing 20 questions with TV static I would move. No shit. I would move. Well they didn't and of course things went from whimsical to pure evil. 
 That's right! While Diane and Steven Freeling were smoking pot and practicing the three meter board jumps from the bed, Robby is eaten by a tree, Carolann is eaten by the closet and the oldest, Kristiane is eating.....and screaming. Actually she eats and screams through out the whole movie. When Steven and Diane's mellows were harshed they sprung into action to wrestle Robby from the mouth of the evil tree and tornado. I know...tornado.
    Can you imagine reading this screen play? Earthquake in the bedroom, tornado in the backyard, trees swallowing kids! I think if this movie was in production today it would be doomed to be a TNT original. But thanks to Speilbergs touch and Tobe Hooper's macabre twist it's a winner. 
    Were was I? Oh yeah, so they are coming to grips that they have a paranormal something or other happening in their house and they need to get help because their youngest daughter, Carolann has been sucked into the closet and is now only audible on TV.  Try explaining that to Bill O'Rielly. So Steven goes to the local University, looking pretty rough, and invites paranormal investigators to help out. I enjoyed this part the best. Their professional demeanor was so cocky until they saw the kid's bedroom. I would imagine most egos of that profession would deflate when you see he-man riding a horse, the bed flipping and a flying record being played by a protractor. You can almost hear the old lady shit herself. Great scene. 
   With out telling the whole movie word for word, the situation proves to be too much for this team to handle after the the nerdy white guy, Andrew gets bit by something after the dumbass trys to go into the the kids room, they find out there is a port hole to the next demention, 10,000 ghosts walk downstairs and through the den and poor Andrew gets fucked with again after a great cheet-os advertismentand, halucinates eating maggots and tearing his face off. Long sentence. By the way.....why would you tear your own face off? 
   
  So in final desperation they bring out the big guns and hire a medium-pshycic-cleanser-dwarf to bring Carolann back from the clutches of dead people and clean the house. I must say that who ever cast this lady did a bang up job. Steven Freeling is sceptical of her abilities but she soon proves her talent by putting him in his place. I wonder if she is someones grandmother? That would fuck you up. "All children...come in for supper...alllll are welcome." sheesh...
    So now it is time for battle and armed with tennis balls, rope and a bath tub full of water they go to the closet of "by location" to grab Carol Anne from the clutches of the pissed off dead. With coaching from the midget/cleanser Dianne and Steven "rock, paper scissors" to see who would eneter the closet and Stevens rock smashes Diane's scissors, so in she goes. While supported by rope held by her husband the midget pulls a 180 and starts to chant for all to enter the light. With out suprise, Steve-o flips out thinking the phycic is fucking up and starts to pull too early. And he reeled in a paper-matche head. I guess it was a skullish demon, but to me it was art class circa 1987. It was ok because Diane made a winning grab and with Carol Ann in arms, fell out of the portal covred in pink after-birth. For a moment there is tention because because the two were unresponsive and worst yet not breathing. So into the tub and wouldn't you know it? That was the trick! With a gasp of air the family was reunited and the midget cleanser had to declare, "this house is clean."

 You remember when President Bush declared victory in Iraq a few years ago? Yeah, same thing here. The house was far from clean. Like all great horror movies, the Freelings seem to be back to normal. No need for intense psycho therapy. In fact they deside to spend one more night in the house that less then a few days ago tried to kill them.  It seems like the normal thing to do but Ebaz the dog knew, don't take a bath or sleep without the closet light on in a house that has a history of haunting.  And for God sake, don't have a freaking clown doll that everyone knows will come to life.  Well, the shit hit the fan and the ghosts really gave it their all. Diane was strapped to the cieling, the closet became a suck hole again, the toy clown tried to eat Robby, caskets jumped from the ground and Steven is at the bar telling his "no shit, there i was" stories while the bar tender cut him off. Steve comes home to shit twice and scream while kicking his boss repetedly in the balls yelling, "you moved the head stones but you didn't move the bodies!" 

   Well, they escape. Sorry to ruin the movie but they drive away just as the house crumbles into an erie sustained light while all the gossiping neighbors come out to watch. The Freelings find shelter at the local Holiday Inn. Without possessions they retire to the room only to end the last scene with Steve pushing out the TV and shutting the door. t

      I'm not saying that this is the best movie in the world but when I first saw it I was seven and it stuck with me since. Actually I saw it during a church retreat. Only the Catholics can host a weekend full of churchy stuff then flush it all away on "scary movie night." It was this or Gondi. I got more out of "Poltergeist." 
     I'm tired. That's all I have to say about this. I think i am going to jabber about Chevy Chase's "Vacation" but for tonight I am done. I will leave you with me drinking tea.

                    

GOOD NIGHT!