I’ve been told listening to music while resting in a coffin is one of the finer experiences in life. Like many normal and well-adjusted people, Barnabas Collins is a hero of mine. The Jonathan Frid version, I should say. Apparently “they” are trying to pawn off a reissue as the genuine article. Or something. I’ve been told I appear to be very confused. Nonsense.

It’s all an act. I assure you. I am a cutthroat at heart and I will destroy to the best of my ability anything I am a part of. Anyway, there are some things you can never forget, given the proper context. For instance, there is a scene from the made-for-TV movie “Salem’s Lot” – again, the original cheap, green, interzone version – where a little vampire boy floats outside a window at night. I don’t think I have ever looked at a window since and not thought, “I can practically smell the damned thing.” Then I mutter to myself and eventually forget about it entirely.

Music is, of course, an age old technique for dispelling the unwarranted appearance of duppies. Perhaps my favorite technique comes from the Zulu nation; when a couple are walking, and they believe they are in the presence of a Chitauri, they must strip naked immediately and begin fucking. Or else they will die. Which makes you wonder if all this spooky talk isn’t just a rouse concocted by schizophrenics somewhere to get some tail.

And are YOU so white and pure to judge them for it? I know I’m not. In fact, I applaud them and I’m sure Barnabas would be right there with me. In Hell.