Once upon a time, I read Stephen King novels and dwelled with the beasts of the night. At least, those on the printed page. I guzzled goosebumps and chased those creepers down in the cellar. Then I found Faulkner.
Maybe it wasn’t classic literature that broke the cycle. Could have been a cheesy mystery. The point being – some book came along and ended my nearly-exclusive diet of scary. Pretty much cold turkey.
Fear became an almost forgotten emotion for me. Well – I’m not claiming fearlessness. I’m closer to a First Reader than First Responder. I just don’t find myself in situations that are scary. No bungee jumping. Sky-diving?
Are you kidding?
I always agreed with my buddy Michael, who questioned the fundamental idea of leaping out of a perfectly good airplane. Some of you snow ski. Me? Never. Snow is to me as water is to the Wicked Witch. (I’m MELTING! Yeah, yeah… Give me melting over snow and ice any time.)
There was a balmy morning that I jumped off the back of a boat and immediately spotted several reef sharks in close proximity. That made me uncomfortable. I was breathing pretty quickly. (Forty minutes worth of Scuba-tank-air gone in about twelve.) Still, I wouldn’t describe the dive as scary. For me, at least, the scary feeling comes when things are out of my own control. Like sitting in the passenger seat when the driver is under seventeen and shooting for a learner’s permit. THAT can be scary.
Even swimming with sharks I knew what I was supposed to do and kept the plan front and center in my thoughts. Tense? Sure. Anxious? You’re darn-tootin’. Scared? Not really. Lack of fear does not mean brave. (I admit to feeling pretty stupid later for jumping into shark-infested water, just to experience it – After all, the boat wasn’t sinking…)
At some point, it becomes tougher to find things outside our collection of experiences. With time, we all develop a mental catalog of those things that jump-start the adrenaline, like things that go bump in the night. Or go bump in the next room. Or behind you when you’re standing alone in the kitchen.
What was that?
Ice cubes melting loudly in the sink. That’s all. Refrigerator compressor kicking on. Or last night’s tacos come back to haunt… more ghastly than ghostly.
There was a sort of adrenaline-feel for me, I think, associated with scary movies – a spine-tingly sensation without the risks associated with activities like lion-taming and human-cannon-balling.
As to frightening films – I can’t name a recent one I’ve seen. Some ads look interesting, I’ll admit, in a PBS-anthropological sort of way. As in, what made me watch something like that, back then?
Which brings us to Grimm. Some of you will have seen the show. It has had several seasons of which I have been completely oblivious.
Premise?
Good vs. Evil – at its most basic level. Big scare is mixed in there between commercials (In this case, in between the Netflix gaps where the TV ads would have been inserted) where the Grimm-guy sees the monsters that are knocking off regular folks left and right. No one else can see them. Until it’s too late.
I was caught off-guard by the show, I will admit. A lot of years without that particular tension. Scary-osity. Unlike most of Stephen King’s works, though, Grimm manages a humorous release valve that was lacking in those old scary novels I used to read.
A grin keeps the Grimm at bay. Keeps the heart beating in between frights. Allows necessary respiration.
No peeing the pantalones.
Maybe I’ll give Episode 2 a chance.
Don’t be scared! Come visit!
McHuston
Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main Street, BA OK!