Was it called Channel 100?
I had been living far away from my ancestral three-bedroom ranch for several years but flew home to bathe in the sunshine and marvel at my Father’s new 21 inch color television console. But the real magic was a small set-top box that offered access to a select few near-first-run movies. Soon I was staying up late relaxing in Dad’s Barcalounger watching R-rated movies they just didn’t show on broadcast TV in New Jersey.
One I remember was a frightening flick with a Zackerle style crypt keeper and a spinning metal ball flying around with its fangs akimbo. It was satisfactory gore but when I rewatched the movie years later, it was just silly. I probably watched at least six movies, but the one I remember best was a little horror-fest called Black Christmas.
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We all do it. There’s a rotten, putrid smell of something on your finger and you just can’t stop sniffing it; you’ve got a loose tooth and you can’t stop wiggling it with your tongue even though it hurts; there’s a fiery car accident on the 405 and you can’t stop looking at the mangled bodies; your next-door neighbor is skinny dipping in her pool and even though your binoculars are shaking, you can’t take your eyes off her tan lines. I remember the entire typing pool at work went to see Deep Throat on their lunch hour: were they porno fiends or was it just a cultural stink they couldn’t resist? Stop and think back; I’m sure you too have your own personal examples of such behavior.
A Celebration of Reading 