For a short while in Northeast Ohio there was no one cooler than Ghoulardi. He was Holden Caulfield with a beard, Alfred E. Neuman with an m80, and if his television show did not broadcast from a Cleveland area insane asylum, surely it emanated from the extreme south side of Mount Purgatory.
From January 1963 till December 1966 Ernie Anderson (aka Ghoulardi) hosted a local late night television show that featured a grade Z horror flick punctuated by skits, side comments and the occasional explosion. The host wore a white jacket, a fright wig, an obviously phony mustache and an equally fake van dyke beard, along with glasses that were missing a lens. He was supposed to be a hip mad scientist, but to us, the kids in the WJW viewing area, he was our cooler, hipper, older brother we wished we had.
My real older brother (by two years) resembled one of those creepy alien kids in The Village of the Damned minus the glowing eyes. Allen was serious without being studious, disciplined without being focused and he wore his blond hair in an incredibly well lacquered flat top. There were times when just looking at him gave me the willies.
When Allen turned ten my parents, in a baffling show of parental disconnect, presented Allen with a chemistry set, the theory being that when one sees a fire one should immediately douse it with gas just to see what the hell happens. Allen’s eyes glowed as he opened the set, his fingers slowly touching each of the bottles and vials contained within. Chemistry and Allen: it was love at first sight.
Allen immediately assumed the role of child scientist. I was drafted into the position of assistant. Our younger brother, Lowell, being disinterested in anything outside of a Tonka toy, became the most important member of our team- the unwitting test subject.
Allen quickly threw away the pamphlet of suggested experiments. They were far too tame for what he had in mind. We embarked on the well-trodden path of ad hoc kid experimentation. Over the weeks that followed we created invisible ink (backfire), stink bombs (horrible backfire) and itching powder (our one undeniable success- actually sending Lowell into the emergency room for a cootie check. High five!)
Having exhausted the more obvious paths of scientific investigation we began forays into a more esoteric branch of discovery: off the shelf alchemy. Using various household products such as Vanish, Sani-Flush and Windex we attempted to create a here-to-fore unknown compound. The results of these experiments were depressingly similar: a gelatinous goo that smelled of sulfur and Lysol which was flushed down the toilet with little or no fanfare. These experiments came to an abrupt end when our mom, after an attempt to unclog the basement commode resulted in a bowlful of a greenish brown foul smelling muck, started insisting we eat our vegetables.
After that, Allen began to work on his next project. He became secretive, working long hours on the basement workbench. I kept my distance. It didn’t pay to get too inquisitive when Allen was in one of his moods.
Then, one Saturday, while mom and dad were grocery shopping at Krogers, Allen revealed to me the nature of his project. “I’ve created an explosive device.” Not a bomb. Not a firecracker. But an explosive device.
This was big.
The device was the size of a matchbox. It may originally have been a matchbox, but Allen had wrapped it in aluminum foil so I couldn’t tell. He had packed the container with gunpowder extracted from around 1,000 caps. And he had purchased a fuse from Wattley, a perpetual ninth grader and neighborhood screwhead. (Why did Wattley have fuses? Who knew? He was also a reliable source for CO2 cartridges as well as pipe tobacco and the occasional girlie magazine.)
We setup the necessary experimental framework in the basement. Allen donned his lab coat while I adjusted my goggles. These were not true laboratory rated goggles, but swimming goggles. I figured they were better than nothing. After a final check to ensure our parents had not unexpectedly returned, Allen ceremoniously lit the fuse.
The fuse flared and moved across the floor ten times faster than we expected. Allen shouted, “RUN,” and I scrambled up the basement steps three at time bursting through the screen door into the sunlight and safety. Allen, however, had tragically tripped on the way out and was still in the basement when the explosion occurred.
The noise was beyond description. I am certain it rivaled other explosions throughout history: Krakatoa, Hiroshima, perhaps even greater than Roseanne Barr's cannonball into the pool at the Sacramento LaQuinta.
Finally Allen stumbled out of the house, his glasses rimmed with soot, his flat top smoldering, his eyebrows… my God, his eyebrows were gone! He looked at me with a wild expression on his face, paused a moment and then cried, “ I’M DEEF!”
But Allen wasn’t deef. His ears were just ringing as they would ring for the next twenty-seven months. I suppose that’s to be expected from an explosive force of that magnitude. Yet Lowell, who we had tied up to the chaise lounge directly next to the explosive device suffered no ill effects what so ever. Such are the vicissitudes of scientific inquiry.
That evening I watched WJW’s Shock Theater. The movie was the classic Attack of the 50 FT Woman- a more frightening concept has yet to be devised by man. As the show concluded, Ghoulardi detonated a firecracker destroying a small model car. Considering that I had a brother who had practically spontaneously combusted in front of me, this seemed like incredibly small potatoes.
While Allen did not give up experimentation, he shied away from the anything approaching the detonation of explosives. He moved on to other pursuits: the hairspray flamethrower and the uncovering of the mysteries inside a golf ball come to mind.
Adults are always trying to provide a stable environment for children. I know that's important. But as every kid understands, the joys of the kidhood experience are not found in day-to-day sameness of things, but in the chaos of life. The exuberant chaos of living.
Next:
Masonic Boys Camp and the Appeal of Fascism (1962)
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