I know a great After Hours joint

(or...Wherein we re-enter the Valley)

Last Monday, I posted, in the midst of Movie Mania, a discussion on mannequins.  Apparently I was so scarred as a child that I never even finished my horrible remeniscense in that post, just trailed off mid-sentence-fragment. 

I don't care for mannequins.  At all.  On a scale of 1 to 10 they're just creepy and undeserving of a number less than a kerjillion. 

When I was a kid, my own vivid imagination was my worst enemy.  Watching the 'After Hours' episode of The Twilight Zone was enough to creep me out.  Add 'Westworld' to that, where Yul Brynner's face explodes.  Going to Gimbel's with my mother afterward was even worse.  I was convinced all the mannequins were just waiting to come to life and eat me if I got locked in the store overnight. 

Worse was when I worked up the courage to touch one, and her hand fell off.  Off.  In my hand.

Because several large retailers left Milwaukee during my childhood, there was also no end of dismembered mannequin bits lying around abandoned storefront displays. 

How you doin'?

Yes, I know they look little or nothing like real people.  Tell that to seven-year-old Me.  Add to that also my shyness about nudity, and not knowing where to look when the mannequin was naked, and there was no way I could have a mature, reasoned approach to the existence of mannequins. 

Damn, now that I re-read this, it's amazing I made it to adulthood as sanely as I did.  That said, I'll save the discussion of how I couldn't touch the pages in my National Geographic 'How Animals Hide' book because of the insects on them.

It might just be amazing that I made it to adulthood, period.