Some Detroiters remember those crazy days when you actually chose to stay home just to see what that pierogi-wielding nut would do next. And the rest of you missed so much. Late-night sci-fi flicks with segments in between by a guy wearing fur on his head, a pasted-on Vandyke like a beatnik Groucho Marx, a white lab coat covered with buttons (from the Fonz to Bela Lugosi) and sunglasses with the left lens missing, just in case you weren’t sure there was a human being under ova dey. He was the self-proclaimed emperor of lunacy, with a toilet for his throne and a collage of cornball absurdity for his domain. He wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself or the films he was doomed to show, “improving” them with sound effects and inserted dialogue. When he had the camera to himself, he’d construct ludicrous skits with a conglomeration of rock ’n’ roll, slapstick, social commentary, explosions, polka music, little rubber frogs, and all things unhinged, demented and deranged. He used his own language and worked on a set full of posters, plastic models and whatever else his fans decided to send in.
If you thought the Ghoul was cursed to lie for eternity in a moldy, nostalgic grave watching Return of the Fly over and over again in Cleveland, think again. You got the Cleveland part right. At 51, the Ghoul is once again turning blue, scratching glass and terrorizing late-night television in his native land, continuing to horror-host those unbearable B-movies. Believe it or not, this year Ron Sweed, the man behind the lab coat, celebrates his 30th anniversary as the Ghoul. Having survived a checkered TV history and a long underground, off-the-air stint, not to mention endless sci-fi and horror conventions, he’s kicking and exploding things again on Cleveland’s TV and radio airwaves. And he’s anxious to light the fuse ova dey in Detroit. (Hey, cool it with the boom-booms.)