Hey, kids! It's Snack Night!

After college, a lot of my graduate friends from the University of Kansas settled in the same Kansas City area, and we shamefully continued to act like college kids for many more years. On Friday and Saturday nights, we could always be found down in the Westport area (lots and lots of bars within walking distance, the trendy area at the time), closing down the place every weekend.

But along with old traditions, several new traditions were forged. There was the tradition of going to Don Chilito's for Sunday hangover lunch. Don Chilito's (which long-time blog readers may remember my writing about before) was a particularly terrible Tex-Mex restaurant with awful food, but we found it perfect for ourselves, immensely enjoying the camaraderie and comedy. (I know...it doesn't make sense to me now, either.)

However, the new tradition that I enjoyed the most was "Snack Night." It began small. When my brother and I lived together in a rented house, every Sunday we'd go to the grocery store and just stack our respective grocery carts full of ludicrous snacks. The worse it was for you, the better. 

I remember the check-out clerk always looking at us funny, when one of us would unload the cart onto the conveyor belt. There was ice cream and syrup, potato chips, french onion dip, crackers, cookies, Lil' Debbie's artificial sugary nothing-cakes, corn chips, salsa, drumsticks (not the chicken variety, mind you, but the dipped in chocolate and peanut ice cream cones), hot fudge, cheese dip, jalapenos, hot sauce, candy bars, you name it, it went onto the conveyor belt. And not a vegetable to be found, thank you very much, no siree Bob!

Then the other West brother would follow, emptying his cart onto the belt while the clerk just kinda gawped at us. It wasn't unusual for us to rack up fifty to sixty bucks in crap each week. (With inflation, it'd be about three times that much now).

But that was just the first step in snack night. While we'd gorge ourselves silly at home, we'd make a point of watching the worst possible film available.

That was my job. I'd study, read reviews, scan the latest video releases, and pull a winner (i.e., loser). (Side note: Hey, Millennials! You whippersnappers ever head of videotapes? You kids today and your instant streaming don't know how lucky you have it! Why, back in my day...)

Some of the highlights of our movie viewing included Cool As Ice, the ludicrously, unintentionally hilarious film starring nominal white rapper, Vanilla Ice, as a bad-ass, nominally rapping (natch), romantic lead. His slow romantic ballad and the ensuing slo-mo montage has to be seen to be believed.  

 Road House was another favorite, one of the dumbest, yet most inexplicably popular films we'd ever seen, where a bar bouncer in "Kansas (complete with mountains in the background!)" has a national reputation as the best bouncer in the world! My favorite scene is where the lisping hero (Patrick Swayzee) takes the bad guy's (perpetually sneering and grinning Ben Gazarra) girlfriend home with him to his house. While they're "making love," Ben Gazarra steps out on his veranda and watches them...RIGHT NEXT DOOR! And then there was Over the Top, of course, the heartwarming and pulse-pounding tale of a down-on-his-luck, yet lovable lug (Sylvester Stallone) who attempts to win back the love of his snot-nosed, annoying son (played by some snot-nosed, annoying kid) by dragging him to the utmost of importance arm wrestling championships.

I think you kinda get the drift of the entertainment we desired...no, craved. Perfect match for the quality of "food" we consumed. (Too bad there wasn't ever a film about a hot dog eating championship; that would've perfectly met our Snack Night requirements).

Snack Night grew in membership. First one college pal joined, then another, and another, until word on the street turned it into a mini-phenomenon (not really, but I'm a writer). Soon, we had about a dozen to fifteen guys crammed into our small and modestly furnished living room, crowded around a small TV with a beat-up Korean VCR on top of it.

Snack food wrappers littered the floor. The microwave was kept busy, constantly dinging. Nachos were burnt, eaten anyway, and spilled. Ice cream melted and was eaten with a straw. Chips crunched beneath our feet. The refrigerator was always packed, the food spilling out onto the kitchen countertops. It truly looked like a battlefield and as they say, War is Hell.

Or Heaven, eye of the beholder and all.

Now, there was an unspoken rule about Snack Night. It wasn't ever truly defined, but we had a no girlfriend policy. (Usually.) It's not like we were Spanky and Alfalfa's He Man Woman Haters Club. No, it wasn't like that at all. I kinda think that any woman we knew at the time considered our barbaric ritual as too utterly grotesque for them. I'm pretty sure they were right, too.

No matter, it was a place and time where we could hang out and do whatever. Given our youth and good health at the time, no weight was gained or diseases contracted. Shocking, I know.

I'm not sure when and how Snack Night disbanded, but I'm pretty sure marriages were involved.

Hmmm. I wonder if my wife would object to my bringing back Snack Night to our house... Yeah! I'll keep it simple and only invite ten guys the first time and...and...

Nah. My health couldn't handle it now. Maybe some traditions are better off buried. (And there's no way my wife would go for it. I'm sorry, Spanky and Alfalfa!)

While I'm waxing nostalgic, I'd be remiss if I didn't plug my book, Peculiar County. If spooky nostalgia's your bag, boy, have I got a book for you. Taking place in the '60's (right before the turbulence began), Peculiar County tells the tale of a tom-boy living in a small farming town in Kansas, who stumbles onto a murder mystery. Did I mention that there are also ghosts, witches, a haunted hanging tree, something that flies the night skies, and much, much more? A book for all ages (but don't let that throw you!), it also happens to be my favorite out of my 21 titles. Come visit scenic Peculiar County here!