Don't Stop Believin'

“We’ve been up here for twenty minutes!”
“Most kids would love to be up there for that long. Don’t be such a wimp”, Cloyd replied with a smile.
“But you’re the carnie!” replied Matt, who was turning purple.
“Well shit, if you’re going to start using names then I guess you two can just get off.”
The Ferris wheel rotated slowly until Matt and Marty could get to the ground. They left promptly, stomping Cloyd’s feet as they passed through the gate. Cloyd winced at the pain and hopped around on his other foot. Children passing by laughed at him, men and women snickered. He groaned, lit another cigarette, and checked his watch; finally it was time for his break.
His striking features were given to him by his addiction. Dark, tanned skin, his thin frame, and his deep coarse voice were accessories to his passion for tobacco. Sad, almost jaded brown eyes looked out from underneath his yellowed Dale Jarrett cap.
“Didn’t used to be like this,” he thought, “I didn’t get stomped this much.” Things were different earlier in his career. Fresh on the job, Cloyd worked for the smiles and the laughter sometimes even letting people onto rides without enough tickets. His enthusiasm and pride got more people onto the rides and moved the lines more efficiently than any other carnie. He could go whole nights without someone vomiting. He knew how to time increases in speed depending on who was going to be on that round, and gave winks to girls when making sure they were buckled in. He had been a man made for his job.
As he wandered along on his break, Cloyd wiggled his sore toes inside of his Lugz and took a slow swig of his Tab. “Probably had it coming. Oh well.” he thought. Things were getting as low for him as they had at this job. He had tried dating the weight guesser, but she was too critical. The pony handlers tried to cheer him up with free rides ever so often, but he felt pitiful by them trying to help. He thought the freaks were looking at him funny but it might have been part of their bone structure, he wasn’t sure. The world wasn’t on his side anymore. He felt all alone at the carnival now.
There were four minutes left before he had to be back. He looked up, hoping one or two stars might be visible over the funnel cake signs. Not tonight.

Matt and Marty found their way along the midway, past the games and concessions to the where the other rides were. Matt was chubby and covered in freckles, and Marty wore a red buzz cut on a head that was too big for his skinny frame. At nine and ten years old respectively, the brothers were already thrill seekers who knew their territory and where to find excitement. It was the Crazy Dance they were after, no exceptions.
Running the Crazy Dance, Pauly stood with a glazed look on his face. He stood kids next to the height-meter and kicked out those who didn’t meet the requirement. He took tickets without a word, and glanced at everyone with the dull stare of a dairy cow. At the women, he gazed a little more intently. He gave everybody the creeps, even the other people running the ride. He was an overbearing person in every way, from his array of body art to his greasy long black hair, he was just too much for anyone to handle. Once he was done letting people through, he walked over to his booth and got on the microphone.
“OK guys, I know you’re here to party so let’s go ahead and kick it up a notch.”
The ride started with Rock You like a Hurricane playing at an absurd volume.
“Yeah. Alright, if you’re ready we’re gonna take it up even higher.”
A low whine began as the seats on the ride whipped around each other in a pattern that was all too similar to churning digestive muscles. Lights flashed quicker, wind blew from the ride, bolts squeaked, and braces rattled. It was a beautiful cacophony of American indulgence.
“Alright crew, now I’m not sure if you can handle the Crazy Dance! Do you wanna go faster? If you wanna go faster, I wanna hear you scream!”
Of course, they screamed. There wasn’t much mystery to any of it.
Matt and Marty basked in the glory of the ride as they looked on from the midway. Their cotton candy covered jaws hung open as they stood in the long line. Matt clung to their tickets tightly, hypnotized by the lights. Marty looked around periodically to make sure his parents weren’t around. They weren’t allowed to get on the Crazy Dance, thus the decoy of the Ferris wheel while the folks were near. For a little while they were free to roam.
As they ride ended and people got off, it was time for Matt and Marty to get on. When they got to Pauly, he stopped them. They weren’t tall enough, he said as the boys’ faces fell. They had to think quickly.
They slipped in as Pauly stepped into the booth. They got belted in with an elderly couple who remarked at how handsome they were and the ride started. It was everything they dreamed it could be.
As they got off, Pauly spotted them. He started onto the ride but slipped in vomit, making a loud sound as he fell onto the platform. The spectacle made people laugh, but it made Matt and Marty start to run. They disappeared into the crowd as Pauly cursed at them and all the people who laughed. It was humiliating.
Word around the proverbial campfire spread quickly, and soon the whole staff knew about Pauly’s incident. The midway was closed and the booths and rides were dark now. Staff picked up garbage and moved trash bags they turned in money.
Tobacco went down easiest next to the generator behind the freak tent. All the carnies knew this, so you could find one or two there at any hour taking breaks, momentarily escaping the tedium of the hot summer night. The white noise from the generator combined its shadow provided the best shelter from the gaudy midway. Cloyd stood alone without a word, smoking and looking at the dewy grass. Pauly and his cronies approached and joined him. They lit cigarettes, and mumbled about their day.
Cloyd continued to stare into nothing and didn’t consider the nearby conversation until something caught his ear. Pauly had been complaining about the prior incident.
“Yeah one of them was real fat and had freckles and the other had a red buzz cut. They snuck onto the fucking ride behind me. Hell, little bastards were too short to begin with. Then they made me fall in somebody’s puke. I think it used to be a snow-cone because it’s blue. Goddamn this shit doesn’t wash out easy.”
“What were they wearing?” asked Cloyd.
“Blue shirt and yellow shirt. You didn’t see them did you?”
“I think so, they were on the Ferris wheel earlier.”
“Well if they come back you let me know, got it?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And that’s not all. I saw them spray painting on the back of the trailers. But I told the boss about it, and if they come back I told him what they look like.”
The rest of the men reacted with mutters and draws on the cigarettes, but Cloyd was curious. Cloyd and Pauly didn’t like each other. Their personalities had conflicted ever since Pauly tried to blame Cloyd for losing the key to the Himalaya last year. Since then, Pauly had been overbearing towards Cloyd to the point where Cloyd had become passive and submissive towards Pauly’s demanding personality. There was always some tension between the two men, and it had worsened as Pauly’s buddies joined in with helping to poke fun or make life a little harder for Cloyd.
Once the other men had left to finish cleaning things for the night, Cloyd went to the trailers to have a look at the vandalism. “FREEBIRD”, “BIG TITTIES”, and “69” were poorly sprayed across the walls of the trailer in hot pink. Cloyd groaned and shook his head.

At home, Matt and Marty were elated. The last night of the carnival was the next day, after that it was leaving town. The climax of the entire fair was that night, including fireworks, music, and the ultimate: the Monster’s Ball. This was a show featuring the “most disgusting freaks in God’s America”. According to the advertisements, they were going to “shriek in horror, then cry in disgust of the monstrous deformities before their eyes.” What could possibly be better than that? They’d already met their previous goal of riding the Crazy Dance, so this was all that was left to do that summer. After that, they could die happy.
Their parents didn’t find out about the Crazy Dance, so there wasn’t a reason not to drop them off for the last night. They arrived early as the sun was just beginning to set. Very few people were there besides families with small children and old people. The fryers were still warming up. The carnies running the games were optimistic and aggressive. It was going to be a magical night.

Cloyd was working the Gravitron that night, the scourge of all rides. Not only did it produce the most vomit, it was the closest to breaking at any moment. Since the SuperLoop disaster in 1999, Cloyd knew that they were due for another any year. He just hoped it didn’t happen on his watch. The crowds began to increase in size and the time began to pass more slowly as people kept coming off looking sick. Then he noticed the two boys.
They were killing time, waiting for the show to start and occupying themselves with fried god-knows-what. He signaled them to come over, but Marty just stuck his tongue out and Matt scowled. After a moment, they came over.
“What do you want?” asked Marty.
“We’re not getting on anything that you’re running. You’re just going to try to make me sick again.” Matt said.
“It’s not like that this time. Listen, did you two spray paint on anything last night?” said Cloyd in a tone that the boys weren’t expecting.
Marty was confused. “What are you talking about? Is this about the Crazy Dance thing? We can explain-“
“Don’t tell my mom, please, please, please-“
“Look, shut up. Did you guys do it or not?”
Matt and Marty looked at each other. “We didn’t spray paint anything.”
“Do you know what ‘69’ means?” asked Cloyd.
The boys stood with a blank and perplexed stare.
“OK, nevermind. Look, I gotta go. It’s my break, I think.” Cloyd lit a cigarette and walked off.
“Wait, what does 69 mean?” yelled Matt. Cloyd turned around.
“Um, just… Um. This … thing. Not interesting at all, don’t worry about it. Ride the Gravitron now.”

The two boys instead rode the Dragon twice, until it was time for them to head to the show. They went into the tent early, even while people were still outside watching fireworks. Soon they’d be face to face with the ugliest, most foul beings known to exist. They’d watch everyone in the audience throw up at the sight of it all. Old people would faint, babies would cry, the freaks would moan with rehearsed anger, and it was going to be bliss.

Pauly, who was assigned to the Whack A Mole, stood smoking and persuading people to come and give his game a try, because it was “better than all the rest” and it was their chance to win, “for real this time.” No one cared about the game to begin with, but Pauly’s “Hell-Raiser” tattoo and lack of enthusiasm probably didn’t help to enthrall the masses either. With no one playing the game, he asked one of his buddies to cover him while he went to the restroom.
The man in charge of the Monster’s Ball told Matt and Marty to wait outside the tent since things weren’t ready to begin for another hour. He had to physically remove the boys, and when he did they wound up outside the tent right in front of Pauly. As he left the fairground men’s room, he stopped. As they shared a brief moment of alarm, the first fireworks exploded before he chased them along the midway. They passed around and through the still crowds of onlookers, among the smells of sweat, sugar, pizza, vomit, hot dogs, disinfectant and cigarette smoke. The carousel spun as parents waved at their children on board. More Human than Human blasted from the Crazy Dance while the line grew. All of the carnival lights were a blur with the strobe of fireworks glowing from above. But tonight was not about sensory over stimulation; it was about seeing those damn freaks.
Matt and Marty had the clear advantage over Pauly of not being chain smokers. After gaining a considerable lead on him, they got into the Haunted House. Sitting in their car, they unlatched themselves halfway through and stood in the dark among the decaying, repetitive props.
“Marty, where are we?” asked Matt.
“I’m next to Dracula, you’re next to the Crypt Keeper.”
“I want to stand next to Dracula, I don’t like the Crypt Keeper.”
“Fine, you big baby.”
The boys switched places and shortly other people passed through. Many were couples making out, others were sarcastic teenagers. No one noticed the boys, though a couple of times they tried to jump out at people. Dracula and the Crypt Keeper were just too good at drawing attention.
“Do you think it’s safe?” Matt eventually asked.
“Probably, it’s been a little while” Marty replied.
They came out of the haunted house in an empty cart passing by. As they exited, Pauly was waiting for them at the end. Another friend of his ran the Haunted House and had tipped him off as he was panting and coughing by. As Pauly grabbed the two boys by the collar, a voice made him turn around.
“Pauly, what are you doing?” It was Charles, the fairgrounds manager, who had been patrolling the midway. As the man approached, Pauly released the boys and nudged them towards him.
“These are the two I was talking about, Charlie. Them’s the two that ran onto the ride and vandalized the trailers.”
“We didn’t vandalize anything” said Marty.
Charles looked at them with a suspicious glare.
“So you saw them do this then?”
“Yep, right before we closed last night they were out back there.”
As Pauly began the story, the kids got scared. Cloyd, walking and smoking with purpose, spotted the scene outside of the Haunted House. He made eye contact with the boys who were nervous. As he approached, Charles noticed him. “Oh, hi Cloyd. Looks like we found those kids who spray painted the trailers.”
“Oh you did, did you?” he replied, blowing a grey cloud of smoke.
“Yep,” said Pauly, leaning closer to the boys, “and they aren’t getting away with it. Not after humiliating me like that, you little assholes.” Matt and Marty coiled back as they smelled Pauly’s odor of lawnmower exhaust, the one that only an experienced and accomplished smoker can attain.
“Well we can’t put up with that, kids. You’re going to have to leave now. I’ll go call your parents”
The boys were shocked and terrified. They were going to miss the Monster’s Ball; their summer would be nothing without it. Plus they probably wouldn’t be allowed back next year. This just couldn’t be happening.
“But we-“
“Can it” blurted Pauly.
They looked at Cloyd, who was nervous himself. Pauly was staring at him, shaking his head. Cloyd hung his head, looking at his feet. It didn’t matter, he thought. These kids were just going to go home, no big deal. So what if they had their summer ruined and missed out on the best freak show spectacular of their lives? So what if they walked away from the fair that summer sad and disappointed? He knew they didn’t vandalize the trailers, but they’d get over the loss, wouldn’t they? Besides, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble to say anything. Pauly and his friends would give him shit every day for the rest of the season.
But perhaps it was that Matt was starting to cry or that Marty was losing hope, or maybe it was Don’t Stop Believin’ playing on the Crazy Dance that inspired Cloyd to finally butt into the conversation.
“Pauly, you’re full of shit. You spray painted the trailer. The cans are sitting next to your car right now.”
“What are you talking about? They did it” Pauly said.
“There’s paint on your hands right now, shithead.”
He was right, there was paint on his finger and thumb.
“Dammit Pauly, what were you thinking?” said Charles who was just wanting to get on with the night.
“Uh, they did it. I saw them.”
“Get out of here, Pauly. I’ll call you and let you know when you can come back.” Charles said.
“You fucking narc,” Pauly replied to Cloyd, “you did it again didn’t you? I thought we were supposed be friends now but I can see you’ve still decided to be an asshole to me. Well I can be an asshole too, just you wait.”
Pauly made tried to flick his cigarette onto the boys and missed. He purposefully bumped into Cloyd on his way off, after which he tripped gloriously over a bucket and into the bumper car floor. A group of cars manned by smaller children spotted him from the other side and immediately came over, roughing up Pauly, bump by bump. The operator didn’t notice for several minutes, unfortunately for Pauly.
Charles thanked Cloyd for the heads-up on the whole incident and left to go patrol the rest of the fair. The two boys were ecstatic, though, thanking Cloyd, forgiving the Ferris wheel incident and any other transgressions. They desperately needed to leave to still see the Monster’s Ball, but they gave the rest of their tickets to Cloyd. They gave recommendations on rides, shook his hand, and scurried down the midway.
Cloyd, meanwhile, was due back at the Gravitron a long time ago. He didn’t go back immediately, though, the night was going too well to just go right back to that crap. He strolled for a few more minutes enjoying the sights and sensations.
He rode the Juggernaut and the Tilt a Whirl, just for old time’s sake. They weren’t as fun as they used to be, but hell, they were still fun in their own rite. Cloyd felt comfortable on them, like they were old friends that he was meeting for the first time in a while. More than anything, he was happy that he could make someone happy at the carnival. The boys’ smiles nestled into his memory. He was beaming as he got off the rides. He got back to the Gravitron, where his relief guy was perturbed. He gave him some money for a Coke and thanked him genuinely. He then went to the gate and faced the line.
Smiling, he got people on and off the ride, winking at the girls, timing to prevent vomit. People got off dizzy but still coherent, the goal of any good carnie. The line got longer and busier and time passed quickly for Cloyd. It was what Cloyd had been trying to find again.
This called for a cigarette.

guarantee yourself as a badass

The greatest television programming I've ever seen was about the worst rodeo accidents of the pro tour. It was even better than it sounds; guys got hurled through the air and stomped into the ground like they were chew toys. The guys on this video made part of me feel shameful for not having tried bullriding or rodeo, but another part of me that 1.) I've already ridden some horses, and most of the times I did that it wasn't very much fun because I was doing my best to keep the horses from killing children and 2.) I would have to lose a lot of self-respect before making physical contact with those bulls. Playing the role of Drunk Guy at Rodeo Wearing a Cowboy Hat was a role much more suited for a chap like me. Yow!

Amazingly, the show kept mentioning a certain bull over and over again.

Meet Bodacious. Tell me this fucking thing doesn't look a character from Doom (or Dante's Inferno for that matter).



How many animals have DVD's made about how evil they are? Cujo, Moby Dick, maybe a couple more, but they weren't even real. Pshh.

something nice to make you smile

Well, not really. Actually this is completely disgusting, to the point where people around you will ask what you're looking at (consider that a warning). Scroll down to see the sickest mouse I've seen so far. This is apparently what the Mib gene is good at preventing, because this mouse had hers chopped out. This thing was literally a fuzzy ball when I found it, couldn't do anything. I'm amazed that all of this had fit inside of her interior. The orange part is coming out of the liver and spread into the intestines, producing blockage and all kinds of metabolic madness.

Hey guys, I changed the comments bar. If there was anything really profound or terrific on there that you would like remembered and archived forever, please accept my apology.

unaware

Here is a portrait of a guy I know, an uncomfortable girl, and a friend who wishes it were all over.

Gross (note the capital G)

I was under the impression that certain kinds of mating patterns were more common to, say, possums, than human beings. But when you're so fucking crazy that the words "labial reconstruction" no longer have meaning, you can shoot out as many fucking humans as you darn well please!

Take, for example, Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar.

(Hey, I wonder if they do requests. If so, I want to hear "Living Dead Girl", "Flies on my Dick", or maybe "They're Coming to Take me Away, Ha Ha".)
They and the small army they are constructing for themselves are living happily in Arkansas. Michelle is a walking uterus. Her vagina is the shape of a baby, just plopping them out onto a conveyer belt; further down the line they'll recieve their suit, tie, bible, a harmonica (or whatever instrument God tells them to play), and a sandwich for the road. And they're gonna like it.

In case you hadn't noticed, all of their names start with the letter J. That means that sooner or later, on kid 115 or so, they're going to completely run out of J names and start resorting to Jrichard or Jstephanie. Better yet, start numbering them, you damn loons. Those kids, especially the older ones, are getting really, REALLY tired of hearing their parents having sex like rabbits all the time. How do they sleep?

Also, I can't imagine having this many mouths to feed. They must line them up in a trough or keep them in kennels. Are they going to start a colony somewhere? Are these children going to be raised to start an elite squad of ninjas, or just an annoying band of solicitors? Is this some kind of welfare plot to take my money? Who knows? More importantly, who knows how to stop them before they're out of control?

clearchannel killed the radio star

In K-town, we're pretty much down to two radio stations that are independently owned, as far as I'm concerned anyway. If they were the only two stations in town at all, I would be completely fine with that. WDVX and WKVL, I salute thee. The title of best ever, though, belongs to 89.3 the Current in Minneapolis. It is the best. Ever.

There's nothing quite like a good contractual obligation record.

wild and crazy kids

When I was a camp counselor we had to chaperone the dances for all the little girls and boys. To avoid the risk of the kids becoming uncool, we, the counselors, chose the music for the dances. Once, though, we decided to let the oldest campers (who were like 16 and 17) choose the music. They fucked it up so bad; they were unprepared and what music they did have was terrible. They even chose the shitty theme that was "Funky Movie TV".

Their fucking up reached its pinnacle when they slipped a song onto the playlist that completely shouldn't have been there. I don't mean "Magic Stick" or shitty rap or heavy metal with a ton of cuss words. I mean a song that dance etiquette hasn't even considered. They started playing "Mad World" by Gary Jules. It is one of the more sad, suicidal songs I can possibly think of.

So we had this giant room full of 8 year olds slow dancing to "Mad World" with a scared and confused look on their face. That song is not for people under 15, and these little kids (just now dipping their toes into the social agenda of life) were just thinking this was part of going to dances, was slow dancing with your best girl to really creepy suicide rhapsodies. Some of the more socially concerned ones had a look like, "Yeah, no big deal. I dance to suicide rock all the time, losers. Whatever."

"...the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had..."

Music, in general, would be better if every person sang like the guy from the B52's or the guy that sang "The Monster Mash".

oy

This summer, when I lived in Minneapolis with my bro, my room was next to an alley in which trash bins were stored. Once a week, the trash truck would show up at about 6:00 in the morning, and make the biggest damn racket you can imagine. It was laughable. Really, the only way you could cope with it was laughter because these guys sounded like they were trying to wake you up by banging shit together and keeping their truck in that alleyway as long as they could.

Now I live in a relatively quiet part of Knoxville, but one that is also pretty close to the interstate. Not too close though, as there is a big hill between me and it so traffic is unheard. However, there is contruction on a hill across the street from my window. There are the characteristic sounds of heavy equipment that the alleyway trash guys made me accustomed to, especially the "BOOP BOOP BOOP BOOP" of the truck backing up. Only difference is, the men start constructing at roughly 5:30 or 6:00 every day now. That BOOPing sound drives me insane in the membrane, thanks partially to my insomnia as it is.

It's gotten to the point where I want to walk outside in lay down in the mud in front of the bulldozer in my bathrobe and demand to talk to someone from the city. Then one of the foremen will come out and we'll argue before the Earth is destroyed for a hyperspace bypass.