John Boston is a renowned local resident who was a columnist at The Signal for years. Many are gems-many don’t deserve the light of day again, but we’re doing it any way. Visit each week on Wednesday as we bring back one of his priceless columns. John’s latest venture is currently being editor of FooFMagazine.com. Enjoy.

• John Boston’s Mr. Santa Clarita Valley column •  from July 2, 1998

Ladies Undies, Thumbs & That Which Blows Up

“I propose getting rid of conventional armaments and replacing them with reasonably priced hydrogen bombs that would be distributed equally throughout the world.”

— Idi Amin

I suppose in the big cosmic picture, you could file this under: “Too pure to behold iniquity.” Of course, in the There & Then, I can’t help but feel it was just plain stupid.

Even 100 years ago, America was nonetheless starved for big ticket entertainment and several thousand people paid to watch two steam engines, each going about 75 mph, crash head-on into one another.

There’s nothing wrong with that. If I were living in the 19th century and sporting a cowlick and country rube grin, I’d probably pay a buck I supposedly didn’t have to watch a staged train wreck.

What I’d hope is I wouldn’t be dumb enough to sit on a chair a scant 100 feet away as one-ton train parts — wheels, axles, 2,000-degree boilers — started raining from the sky and into the skulls of the audience. I can’t put my finger on that man-made disaster as I’m flying from memory here, but it seems something like 300 people were seriously injured and another 15 died when the law of gravity was terribly realized.

I mean, we have the luxury of a century between us, so it’s easy to bend over the long-dead corpses, raise your eyebrows and ask: “What in the Metrolink-watching hell were you thinking sitting so close to a double train wreck?”

What got me thinking of that little episode was one of those gee-whiz little stories about the Fourth of July. Specifically, it was about fireworks.

The American Pyrotechnics Association, an industry association based in Chestertown, Md., issued a flier with all manner of Independence Day barbecue party trivia. For instance, about 120 million pounds of fireworks are sold in this country every year. It’s a half-billion-dollar industry.

The temperature of an ignited firework can reach 2,000 degrees. I mention this because I have seen alleged grown-ups hand a lighted firecracker to a toddler to hold. Actually, this is the part of the National Rifle Association I’m in favor of because I’d likewise pay to see Charlton Heston walk up to the parent who gives an 18-month-old baby a lit firecracker, followed by his craggy question: “Are you the idiot who belongs to this baby?” followed by Charlton blowing him or her to smithereens with a Lee Harvey Oswald mail order Italian carbine.

Last year, there were a reported — and the key word here is reported — 8,300 injuries from fireworks. Most of those injuries are loss of eyes, general eye damage and foot and/or hand injury.

We all have been plagued by accidents, plain dumb luck of scraping a knuckle or slipping on ice. But lighting a recreational version of TNT and playing Sylvester the Cat with angel’s wings is beyond me.

Fire certainly has its fascination with us, explosions even more. We each tempt the fates in our own way. I’ve certainly been guilty of turning on the gas for a wee too long while trying to build a fire in the fireplace. The aggravating thing is fire is such an impersonal entity and doesn’t care if you break its law.

We had a chamber of commerce president take a tour of the Bermite Powder Company during World War II. His tour guides looked up in abject horror to see him light up a cigarette in one of their dynamite rooms. They screamed at him to put it out. He did. He tossed it into a pile of TNT sweepings on the floor. Miraculously, they were able to stomp it out and not lose a foot.

Old Bermite was so volatile, you couldn’t wear any type of clothing that would cause even a static spark from your underwear. There are stories of vigilante women who would literally lift up recalcitrant fashion plates, turn them upside down for inspection and strip outlaw nylons or undies.

I had a pal in junior high who blew his thumb and index finger clean off. He took a shotgun shell, placed it in a vise and hit it with a ball-peen hammer.

There is certainly compassion, but also wonder.

You just shake your head and ask the question we’ve been asking for thousands of years after explosions gone wrong. “What the hell were you thinking?”

With more than 100 major awards, SCV resident, local historian and KHTS radio personality John Boston is noted as one of America’s top writers. Do visit Earth’s Funniest Website — FooFMagazine.com.