"That boy ain't right." I've heard that phrase a lot in my lifetime. It is my theory that our little idiosyncrasies are what make us unique individuals. In my case, there are enough of these to make at least two unique individuals. I am Sybil's brother. Eve has nothing on me.

It is my supposition that being the youngest of six children, I felt the need to compete for the spotlight. Being the baby and spoiled rotten is not enough for me. I demand the main ring; the center stage; I will not be ignored. I've demanded top billing more times than Joan Crawford. Due to this fact, I often push the edge of the envelope in the familial variety show that is Cirque de Boucher. "Wow, I can't believe he said that," will be etched on my tombstone. Anyone who tells a joke with the punch line,"A good goat will do that!" at a family reunion definitely has issues.

I believe these issues are rooted deeply in my childhood. Some readers of my schlock (love the Yiddish) with lots of time on their hands and questionable taste, may have read my bio and are aware of the fact that the Dracula movie starring Jack Palance, circa 1970ish, really wigged me out. It was the habit of my sister Carla and me to retreat as the late movies got scarier. It's a little blurry at this point, but I believe it must have been Friday nights when we watched these movies. I can't see mom letting us stay up to watch lethal necking on a school night. I believe these were on CBS. There were heavy rotations of Elvis and Martin and Lewis movies, to our delight. What can I say? Jerry Lewis is a demigod to us frogs. Invariably, however, the aforementioned Mr. Palance's rendition of Dracula seemed to pop up about every two months.

It started on the floor about six feet in front of the television. Yes. I wear glasses. Get off my back already. You see, in a family of six, the pecking order dictates that any one older than you, or able to give you wet willies and wedgies at will (assuming the absence of a parent) has dibs on the furniture. Carla and I would take our places with our pillows handy. The pillows were, of course, for shielding our eyes when the action started getting too intense. When scary movies really gave us the heebie jeebies, we would slowly inch farther and farther away from the television. It was not uncommon for us, somewhere around the middle of the movie, to have moved fifteen feet back, around the corner, and into the hallway, with only our heads and pillows visible to the patrons still ensconced in the living room. At this point, the advice was generally,"Go to bed already!" Easy for you to say.

Bedtime after stimulus like this was an arduous ritual. I was somewhat afraid of the dark as a child. My bed entering theory was "the faster, the better". I would start by folding back the covers in a crisp diagonal across the bed, with the open side towards me. This allowed for maximum ease of insertion, followed by quick cover up. Once the bed was ready, I would do a last minute vampire check in the closet and under the bed before turning out the light. It's a good thing kids don't think too many steps ahead. I never did really have a plan much beyond yelling "mom!!" would I have ever found one. The next step was turning out the light. I would spread my legs, bend my knees, tense up my thigh and calf muscles, and put the very tip of my right middle fingertip on the light switch. It looked not unlike a baseball player taking a tentative lead off of first base. In one fluid motion, I would flip the switch off, spring into bed, roll to my back, and pull the covers up to my chin with my right hand. Covers to the chin were very important. It was my theory if only my head was exposed instead of my neck as well, the vampire would naturally assume I was a disembodied head and go on his merry way. Feed on my siblings, you pointy-toothed sap. I told you there'd be payback for the "stop hitting yourself" Marty.

As much as I hate to admit it, my night terror continued into my teens. I would still do the pre-snooze bed and closet check. Once assured I was indeed alone, I assumed control of my hibernation space with enough confidence to forego the spring-loaded bed entry. At this stage, my main concern was protecting myself. With acquisition of an old pick-axe handle I found walking by the train tracks on the way home from school, I was ready to take on all comers. I personalized my primitive weapon. I sawed off the broken end, screwed a plant hanger into the end, and tied a leather shoelace in a loop to the hanger, making it look like the Barry Bonds of night sticks. I believe I even carved some pithy name like, "Equalizer" into the business end of my bludgeon. Goodness knows there must have been all kinds of deviants in Plainville, Kansas (population 3000) that just couldn't wait to get their mitts on some thirteen year old boys stuff, either material or otherwise. "Yes, officer. He's the second one on the left with the word "Equalizer" imbedded in his forehead."

Even more alarming, this erratic behavior has followed me to adulthood. Sometimes when walking to my car alone at night, in an unfamiliar place, I will get the feeling someone may be waiting to jump me (in the assault and battery sense as opposed to the carnal sense). My plan in this scenario is to hold my assortment of keys in such a way that the individual keys protrude from the spaces between my fingers like so many miniscule daggers. These will then be utilized, with a well-aimed punch, to poke said assailants little eyes out. I also have contingency plans for Judy and me in the event that any of the jumping, yapping mutts that border our favorite walking route actually make it over their respective fences.

My latest peccadillo involves the movie "The Exorcism of Emily Rose". According to the movie, the time of 3:33 a.m. is the time that demon squatters like to get jiggy. Correspondingly, if I wake up anytime between 3:00 and 3:59, I must go down to the couch to be lulled to sleep by the idiot box. Ironic. Were it not for the television, I would never have viewed this torment in the first place. It is, at once, my demon and my salvation. Waking up before 2:59 or after 4:00 is no problem. I'm right back to sleep like Liza Minelli.

I have every confidence I can beat this phobia, though. I have a new therapy plan. Judy and I just bought extra large pillows for the couch, and we took the clock out of my bedroom. Yup. That boy ain't right.