Growing up in Kansas City, I watched "Whizzo the Clown" at every opportunity. The Midwest's answer to Bozo the Clown (he of the frightening four-foot wide perf), Whizzo amused my childish sensibilities with his outlandish antics and silly slapstick. Viewing him through an adult's eyes, it's a more terrifying experience, somewhat akin to watching a manic man suffering an on-air mental breakdown, complete with floppy feet-shoes, a pizza-large hat, a bag of tricks, and non-stop gibberish.
First things first, I've never really liked clowns. Not that I'm scared of them (even though they are creepy). No, I just never found them funny. In fact, more often than not, I felt sorry for them. My first visit to the circus, a clown lost his pants. I was mortified for him. My fellow classmates were busting a gut, while I, sensitive soul that I am, felt extreme empathy for his pantsless humiliation. (Been there, done that...story for another time).
So... It wasn't until my family took me to the same circus, when the clown AGAIN lost his pants, that I forced out guffaws. I finally understood. Clowns were supposed to be funny. Even though they're not.
That's when I embraced Whizzo. I didn't consider him overly hilarious, but wanted to be his best friend. Take him out for a soda and pizza. Maybe tell him to tone it down a little bit, because he was always shouting, stuttering, flabbergasted, and running around at a Three Stooges-on-speed pace.
I begged my mom to take me to Whizzo's show. Instead I got stuck with being on "Torey Time," an insipid show about an adult in a pork-pie hat and his hand puppet pal, "Ol' Gus." Only thing good about it was "Gus" and he didn't even show up for the show. They told us he'd be put in later. RIP-OFF!
Anyway, after that traumatic event, I had to settle for being a member of the cheap-jack "Whizzo's Birthday Club." Basically, this amounted to a paper membership card supposedly signed by Whizzo himself. No cake, no gifts, nothing. RIP-OFF NUMBER TWO!
At this time in my childhood, I'd pretty much decided to leave my relationship with Whizzo behind. Besides I started noticing girls ("Gosh, she sure has a nice smile."). And so it went for many, many years, until suddenly, through fate's sense of whimsy and irony...Whizzo entered my life again.
One of my first post-college jobs was at a small public relations firms (RIP-OFF TO ALL OF OUR CLIENTS!). My boss told me that tomorrow I'd be driving around a celebrity to several publicity interviews.
"Who's the celebrity?" I asked.
"Whizzo the Clown," she said.
Huh.
"Whizzo can't drive because of his huge feet," my boss explained further, like this was not uncommon.
So, absolutely not knowing what to expect, I fired up my Celica, and picked up Whizzo. A small car, we had a hard time leveraging Whizzo into the passenger seat. Damn floppy feet almost didn't make it, let alone that pizza hat, frilly collar, and baggy pants. And his big bag of props. (Then again, I suspected all clowns were contortionists, having been trained properly with clown cars).
Good Gawd, I thought, is he gonna be honking his horn and whacking me with his "Hissy the Goose" prop the entire day?
But instead of belting out his voice-hoarsening non-stoop shtick, he was a relatively reserved and lovely man. He introduced himself, we shook hands (no joy buzzer), and he maintained an indoors voice.
Real name Frank Wiziarde, he'd grown up performing different acts in his family's small traveling circus, until he developed the Whizzo character in the '50's. I had no idea he still had an active television show.
We talked a bit more, then Whizzo cracked the window and reached into his suitcase of tricks. Instead of a rubber chicked, he pulled out a package of cigarettes.
"Mind if I smoke, Stuart?" he asked.
Actually, I did, but that's not what I told him. "No, go right ahead."
He did, man, did he ever. A chimney, he'd stop only to hack and hawk loogies out the window. Once, while idling at a stoplight in downtown, a couple of teenagers crossed in front of us. They pulled a clown-worthy double-take at Whizzo riding shot-gun in my dirt and rust-covered Celica. Quickly, Whizzo lowered his cigarette, jabbed it into the ashtray. Then he smiled and waved frantically at the lookie-loos who waved back, their smiles nearly as big.
When the light turned green, he fired up another cigarette. He turned to me and said, "Can't have fans seeing Whizzo smoke." He grinned, chuckled, and coughed.
At the first radio station, I escorted Whizzo inside where quiet (TOO quiet) introductions were made. Once the lights struck and the "quiet" sign lit, Whizzo was on! His voice amped up several decibels, he shouted and spat his way through nonstop nonsense that was exhausting to listen to. Yet as I watched him, I grinned just like everyone else in the studio.
I forgot what he was promoting (some charity, I believe), but Whizzo was a true showman in every sense and restored my lost childhood faith in him. Sadly, he died several years later, but I'm sure he's madly racing around that big three-ring circus in the sky.
Meeting him--finally--was definitely NOT A RIP-OFF!
Speaking of clown make-up, check out the frightening make-up on the cover of the just rereleased final book in my Secret Society trilogy, Killer King. Maybe this will tip those straddling the line of Coulrophobia over into an unhealthy fear of clowns!
Demons are everywhere, it's a known fact.
During a recent weekend, my daughter and I desperately needed caffeine.
"Let's go to Casey's," I said. "It's closest."
"No! We can't go there, Dad! We can't! Don't make me!" My daughter looked horrified, wringing her hands in ghastly anticipation.
"Why not?"
"Because, Chelsea will be working there! Ugh! She's the worst!"
I started thinking about it. Just how bad can a convenience store employee be? What, pray tell, could she have possibly done to my daughter to make her react in such a violent manner? Did they get in a tussle over by the mocha machine?
"Whatever, Sarah," I said. "She can't be that bad."
"Noooo! She is! UGH! She's...she's a soul-sucking demon who'll try and start a long and boring conversation with you and keep you there forever! Every time I go in there, she just feeds off my energy and drains me! Chelsea's the worst! UGH!"
Laughing my arse off, I really, really had to go see what a convenience store, soul-sucking, energy-devouring demon looked like. Sadly, Chelsea wasn't working. But my demon-hunting days aren't over until I finally track down the satanic Chelsea. And my daughter still refuses to set foot into the shop even though it could save her a five minute drive to the next caffeine depot.
Demons are everywhere, it seems, even in comedy clubs. Don't believe me? Check out Demon with a Comb-Over (and no, I'm not talking about Donald Trump, although, actually I do kinda wonder if he's a demon, too).
Not a hoax! Not an imaginary story! The tale I'm about to recount is the God's honest truth.
My mother's been besieged by giant, mutant bug monsters.
Okay, let me back up a bit... Maybe my mom's not the best eyewitness to such claims of truth, for you see she's 88 years old, has Macular Degeneration, and is legally blind. She can't see a thing (or as she puts it, "I can't see beans!"). So she's probably not the most credible person to put on the stand, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.
Anyway, my brother texts me, "Have you heard about Mom's giant bugs?"
I wrote back, "No, but tell me about it!"
He just responds with, "ask her to describe them." Well, for once I'm almost excited to call her.
"Mom," I say, "I understand you've been attacked by giant bugs?"
Silence. Finally she answers, "You've been talking to your brother, I guess."
"Yeah, he might've mentioned something about them. What's going on?"
"Well," she says, "this giant bug swooped into my apartment when I opened the door. Scared the tar outta me. He looked like a green bean with a three inch stem and a fan-tail and an awful tiny face. There's a big one and a little one and I can't catch them. They keep going for my hands and my face. But the big one lost his fan-tail since he got in. They're still in here somewhere, though."
Mr. Sensitivity that I am, I laughed long and hard.
"I don't think it's so funny, Stuart," she said. "Wait 'till you get one of these bugs, then you and your brother won't think it's so funny."
"Mom, I'm sorry. But you admit you can't see 'beans.' But your description of the flying green bean monster bug is pretty detailed. I guess that's one bean you can really see." I couldn't help myself, continued sniggering.
"I don't think it's so funny. Wait 'till you get one, then we'll see if you think it's funny."
"Mom," I said, "I'd love to see a flying, giant mutant green bean bug monster."
It's true. I would love to. But everyone knows green beans with three inch stems and fan-tails don't exist.... Or do they?
What's that buzzing sound? Is that...is that a...flying green bean?
Speaking of weird beasties, you'll find a plethora of them--a zoo's worth--in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley.
The other night I went to a party. By the end of it, I was covered in soot, ash, and barbecue sauce. Oh, and one of my legs was torn off above the knee.
Okay, you got me, it was a dream. As soon as I woke up, I tortured my wife with the abbreviated version of my nightmare (because I've found that no matter how much someone loves you, listening to a long rendition of a dream is about as exciting as someone giving you a blow-by-blow account of a TV show you have no intention of ever viewing).
She said, "And this was a party?"
"Yeah," I said. "The weirdest thing was, after I lost my leg, I continued to party."
She patted me on the shoulder, solemnly said, "Honey, I think you need to make better choices."
It got me thinking ("No, Stuart," I hear you all yelling, "don't do that!"). I actually have been to some deadly parties outside the realm of my vivid dream-life.
Sure, most of them are from my wilder youth, but it astounds me how close to death's door I knocked.
For instance, there was the time a couple of my pals decided it'd be a good idea to tip a long coffee table onto its belly, rub Vaseline on the top, and ride it down the wooden staircase like a toboggan. We rode it, of course, two people per ride. Fun on a budget! It's absolutely amazing no one ended up in the ER. (The party did end, though, when some guy--who none of us knew--came down the stairs at four in the morning in his underwear and his face made up like a clown.)
Interesting side-note: this was my friend's house in Kansas City, Missouri. While we were partying like rock-stars, little did we realize that one block directly behind us, notorious Kansas City serial killer Bob Berdella was pouring Drano down an unwitting victim's throat.
Back on point, how can I not mention the party thrown by a girl I'd dated off an on? When we showed up, she was parading around her new boy-toy, a large, surly Latino guy. One of my friends got on his wrong side. Sensibly (it's Kansas!), he started waving a gun around, threatening us. Time to leave! Mercifully, no one was shot (except for my crushed, male ego).
And lest I forget, there was the party we were invited to in Ottawa, Kansas. Road trip! The hullaballo started out well enough: no guns, good crowd, nice vibe as we all piled out onto the second floor deck surrounding the big trash can full of spiked punch. Not too long after we arrived, though, I heard ice cracking. The bottom went out beneath us as the pillars supporting the deck cracked. Sixty people avalanched down, ending in a Twister game gone horribly awry. Icing on the cake: the vat of punch was the last to fall, coloring us all in a red dye. Bloody, splintered, red-hued, my gang of pals did the good common sense thing: we sought out the only bar in town located in a bowling alley.
Our clothes and skin red from punch, we entered the domain of redneckery. As soon as we sat down, the waitress came over with a tray full of milk.
"What's this?" I asked.
The waitress pointed to a bunch of chuckling cowboys. "They bought you a round."
"Cool!" I downed mine in a second. It didn't end there, though. A couple of the tougher (and dumber) friends of mine wanted to engage in fisticuffs because they felt insulted. Get that car warmed up!
There were many more such occasions, usually ending in our being physically tossed out of a party.
A year ago or so I got together with one of these guys. Nostalgically, we realized how on many different occasions, we'd partied on the edge of danger and were just too dumb and young and naive and care-free to realize it (while our wives looked on aghast at our heretofore untold, legendary tales of youthful stupidity).
Speaking of heretofore untold true tales of terror, check out my horror and humor collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley (just like the name of this here blog!). Every word in the book is true (a lie!), all the stories are autobiographical (a bigger lie!), and they're guaranteed to keep you up at night shivering (not so much a lie as full-on ballyhoo)!
My cat's been long gone for many years.
Yet the other night, I had a dream. He and I were back at my parent's house in my bedroom. A tough "teddy" gang of Latino cats started hooting from the street. I whipped up the blinds, saw all kinds of bling and attitude. Cats weren't just frontin'. Truth up, yo.
"C'mon, Tiger, come out and play-ay-ay!" the cats said, evoking that annoying guy from the movie, The Warriors. "Run with us!"
My cat, Tiger, turned to me, said, "Stuart, can I go out with them?"
In astonishment, I replied, "I didn't know you could talk!"
"You never asked me."
You know, some of my dreams just shouldn't be turned into books. Unlike the upcoming Chili Run, a true Freudian nightmare.
But more on that soon...
Mortality's something I don't like to think about, something I keep back-burning like cleaning out the gutters.
"Ah," I figure, "the gutters will wait for a while."
Problem is, mortality doesn't like to wait.
Last week, my daughter hits me up with a text: "Hey. My mom had a heart attack. Can you watch my dog?"
Whaaa?
First: Bad way of communicating, daughter, bad!
My heart pounded, not a good sign. I naively thought, well, clearly my daughter meant her grandmother had a heart attack. But that didn't track; one's out-of-town, the other grandmother (my mom) would let me know about it louder than a three-alarm fire-bell.
I re-read the text.
Yup, clear as day, my daughter's mother had a heart attack.
In full-on, near heart-attack mode myself, I'm texting (damn, it takes a long time on ancient flip-phones: tap, tap, tap, wait, tap, tap...), calling ("Sarah, answer your phone, what the hell you mean your mother had a heart attack? Good Gawd, tell me...BEEEP.), you know, generally having a melt-down. Which helps no one.
"Okay, okay," I tell myself, "my daughter's not freaking out, so why should I?"
GAH! Tap, tap, tap, wait, tap, tap... "Talk to me, dammit, why's the world spinning out of control?"
No answer. My daughter had an hour drive into town. Good on her for not texting while driving. Bad on her for not utilizing a more immediate, stone-age form of communication : telephone! Hello, psychedelic freak-out!
Later, I find out my ex-wife did have the Big One. The "widow-maker," as the jokers in science refer to it.
I called my ex while she was still in the hospital.
She says, "Hey, we better take better care of ourselves, now that we're getting up there in age."
What?
Fifty-five is the new beginning of middle-age, as I constantly remind my wife. My wife laughs.
Sure, I have a tendency to ignore my squelchy knees, my sore back, hair where it shouldn't be and hair that's fallen from where it's supposed to stay put. In many ways, I'm reverting back to my baby stage.
But I can remember being young. Gotta' count for something, right?
Shameful, but I had to pull up a calculator to figure out my age. No lie. Guess it's something I've been trying hard not to think about. But, c'mon! Some dude from Game of Thrones just died at the age of 93! I'm only 49 (alright, alright, 54)!
Whatever.
New health regimen. Exercise 'til I vomit. Nothing but food that's good for me (and tastes like crap, because those two requirements go hand in hand; yum, kale!). Less alcohol. Regular sleep hygiene. Don't stress out over my family.
Starting in 2017, of course. After I clean out those damn gutters, once the weather turns friendly. Gotta' fortify myself first.
Rome wasn't built in a day, as they say. (And trying not to think about the short period it took for the Roman empire to fall).
Last weekend, I was doing yard work. Just finished mowing the yard, sweating and panting like a gorilla, and I thought why finish there? How about trimming (a chore I tend to only do twice a year; yeah, I'm one of those kinda neighbors)?
Proud of my chutzpah, I trimmed around the garden in front. Suddenly, my thigh was on fire. Huh, I thought, that's odd. I scratched like mad, tamped my thigh many times just in case somehow a spark from the trimmer had crawled up my shorts. That's when I noticed the ground cover hazy like heat off hot tarmac. I'd stumbled into a horror movie's worth of bees swarming around me.
I shrieked (a manly shriek, mind you) more out of panic than terror. Then a bee landed on my wrist. Couldn't shake it off, blow it off, thwack it off.
Okay, I've never been stung before. And at age 54, I truly thought I was gonna live the rest of my life without suffering through this heinous rite of passage. Whatever.
Be that as it may, I'd like to clear up some untrue myths about bee stings. Pay attention class...
First, it's not the sharp bite you hear about. Rather it's a burning sensation, acid eating your skin. And it won't go away. Think I'd rather have the instant BLAMMO and be done with it.
Second, whoever said that if you don't show fear in front of a bee, it won't sting you. What a load of crap! I didn't even know they were in my vicinity until they started burning my skin off. The fear came later. (But it seems I'm now on the bee's radar; lately when I've walked the dog, they chase me. I suppose the sight of a big man and large dog running from a bee may look amusing to some people, but it's no laughing matter when you're running for your life).
Third, once a bee stings you, it dies. Not these buggers! They kept attacking like the Energizer Bunny, stinging me time and again. My hand swelled up into a bowling ball. My thigh contains a map of the world in bruises. I didn't even get to take satisfaction that my enemies would die afterward.
Fourth, to become immune to bee stings, eat five worker bees. Yeah, be my guest. I understand the Golden Poison Arrow Frog tastes great over a grill, too.
Fifth, if you dig the stinger out with a knife and quickly suck the venom out, you won't suffer any consequences. Except for going to the ER with a carved up hand and poison in your belly.
Perhaps I need to invest in a full-on hazard suit for future yard work. Or pay the neighborhood kid to take his chances.
For more sheer terror, check out Secret Society (the book formerly known as {just like Prince!} The Secret Society of Like-Minded Individuals) from Books We Love Publishing: Extremely friendly purchase linky.
