A Day at the Carnival

September 18th, 2010. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon here in beautiful Rocky Top. And, just when you thought the summer heat had resigned itself for the year, a warm front had decided to, rather rudely, intrude itself upon the burgeoning autumn weather. The heat had returned with a vengeance, putting all those 24-hour protection claims on deodorant sticks to the test. Mine had worn off long ago, much to my chagrin, but that was only the beginning of my troubles on that fateful September afternoon.

A rumor was circulating on the streets that there was a carnival in town. And not just any carnival. The grandmother of all carnivals. That's right, the Tennessee Valley Fair was here, and once again, was the talk of the town. The old fair, the pinnacle of Appalachian pride. The Tilt-a-whirl. The Pirate Ship. The Ferris Wheel. The World's Smallest Lady. The World's Largest Mustache. Various deep fried items on a stick for sale. Yes, sir, it's all there at the ol' Tennessee Valley Fair! This is an event whose origins date back to at least 1916 AD, according to Myrtle next door, who has faithfully attended every year since its inception. She told me the whole history in meticulous detail - how its success and popularity over the years came with the advent of stilts, where it reached its roaring peak in the early-1920's. But, an unfortunate mishap had caused it to plateau shortly thereafter. She explained how everything changed in the year 1924. You see, up to that point, stilts were all crafted by the skillful hands of carpenters, but with the allure of mass production and industrialization, stilts were soon being mass produced by labor unions in large factories. The fatcats of the stilt manufacturing business were in the process of cutting back on costs, trying to offset the increasing demands of the labor union. Luckily for them, a traveling salesman by the name of "Dapper" Dan Dewey was in town. And, with the help of some fancy high-flutin' charts, Dapper Dan dazzled them all with a novel idea - using pressboard instead of real wood. These chairmen, Myrtle explained further, all agreed that this move could really boost their profit margins and motioned to implement the plan. The first shipment was sent to Knoxville, to be tested in the Tennessee Valley Fair. The whole town was abuzz with the news, so much excitement in the air. The evening radio broadcasts sang the praises of pressboard and how it would revolutionize the whole fair. At least that's what the "Dapper" Dan the traveling salesman had said. The fatcats were all high-fiving each other when suddenly the telegraph started going crazy with the terrible news about Betsy, Myrtle's dairy cow. It was the grand opening day of the fair that year, and the new stilts had been left outside in the rain, causing all the pressboard to grow soggy, weaken and snap under the weight of the stiltwalkers. One of those stiltwalkers had fallen right onto poor Betsy - the fair's pride and joy, the "finest bovine from Knox county lines" they called her. Betsy was alright, but was so traumatized by the event that she could never produce another drop of milk again, which disqualified her from future competitions. It was a tragic day in Rocky Top history.

(I'll give you a few moments to gather yourselves.)

And, here I was, almost 90 years later. Oddly enough, nothing had really changed. The Ferris wheel was most likely the very same one that Myrtle rode that fateful day in 1924. The footlong corndogs were most likely fried in the very same fryer that her's was fried in. The trick basketball hoops that were bent in such a way that it was nearly impossible make a shot were, well, in all probability, the same hoops. It was like, ever since that fateful day with Betsy, time had just stopped dead in its tracks. The very same ticket booth was still run by Walter, who was nearing 120 yrs of age by now. You had two options at Walter's ticketing booth: either buy tickets individually for 5 bucks a pop, or elect to go for the fabled $22 wristband so that one could indulge oneself in unlimited rides. This seemed to be the popular choice.

Can one assume that you chose the wristband over the individual tickets, dear Mr. Johnson?

Heavens, no! As they say, "wide and broad is the path that leadeth unto destruction, and many enter through it!" There was no way in Hades that I was about to bear "the mark". Not even the sagacious Myrtle could convince me.

You are perceptive as you are wise, my son. But, what about all the rides? The Tilt-a-whirl? The Defibrillator? The Eviscerator?

Well, it's funny you ask that. I was talking to Myrtle about this earlier. I explained to her that, while I looooove the Eviscerator, I also value my life, my appendages, and my hopes of one day reproducing. I think she understood where I was coming from. I also explained to Myrtle my concerns about sanitization in general. "Isn't it funny how", I said, "when you're a kid, you don't mind that Susie Q had just lost her lunch all over that seat about an hour ago? You don't remember that Little Jimmy next door lost a pinky finger to this very ride a year ago. You don't realize that you could contract some vile disease from touching that scary man. You don't realize that these 'rides' are just rusty old contraptions that just barely passed their minimum safety inspections last month, and can be easily be the cause of your portrait being in the obituary next week. These things don't even cross the mind of a 10 year old." Myrtle seemed to understand. She responded, "Well, that seems to be the beauty of childhood - being completely oblivious to all the danger and infectious diseases around you, and just enjoying the ride." There was some truth in what she said.

So, Myrtle, in all her wisdom and expertise, decided to help me out. She wrote down the names of a few of her favorites attractions. "Here", she said, "these are my favorite attractions. They're safe, and generally sanitary." So, there I was. With her list in hand, I knew all the hot spots:

"Make sure you look at the World's Smallest Horse! It's sooo small!", she said.


"And, don't forget to say hello to the World's Smallest Lady! Her name is Thelma", she said.


"And, oh yeah, you've GOT to see the Hypnotist and his Hypno Dog! What a hoot!", she said.


"While you're there, make sure you watch the Knox county arm-wrestling contest! Those guys sure are impressive, tell ya what!", she said.

"And, try out that cow-milking exhibit in the petting zoo! The plastic utter feels remarkably authentic!", she said.


"And, PLEASE pay your respects to #957, the reigning dairy cow champion! Let her know how beautiful she is, and how much Myrtle misses her!", she said.


And, so I did. The World's Smallest Horse, which, thanks to my height, I was able to get glimpse of without paying. The World's Smallest Woman, Thelma, was a nice lady. The Hypnotist and Hypno-dog were unfortunately not scheduled to appear until later, so I couldn't make that. But, fortunately, I was able to watch the arm-wrestling. It was a hoot! I wasn't too impressed with the makeshift cow utter, but I didn't tell that to Myrtle. What I was impressed with was #957. Myrtle wasn't exaggerating - what a gorgeous bovine! I stroked #957's massive head, whispering a few words of endearment into those furry ears. I told her how well proportioned her hind thighs were, how well-defined her color markings were, and large her eyes were. And, although I exaggerated a little, I told her how respectable the size of her utter was. It was about this time that #957 released a tremendous fart. I think maybe that was her way of saying thank you. We really bonded, #957 and I. And I thought, this must have been how Myrtle and Betsy felt long long ago, almost 90 years ago at the 1916 Tennessee Valley Fair. If Betsy looked anything like #957, then no wonder Myrtle took such a likin' to her.

The one thing Myrtle made sure that I did at the fair was ride the Ferris Wheel. "You can't go wrong takin' the ol' Ferris Wheel for a spin!", she said. So, that's where I found myself - swaying to and fro, suspended high in the air, then brought back low to the earth. And, over and over. It's slow. It's relatively safe. Now, this was my kind of ride. I sat there, pondering the profound mysteries of the universe, slowly devouring my footlong corndog, biding my time, and trying to ignore the ominous sounds of the giant metal assemblage that creaked and grinded on its rusty hinges. I tried not think about the people who had assembled it - they were a people who apparently did not fully understand the benefits of regular flossing, a people who I would not trust to change my light bulbs, and a people who probably had as many screws loose as the massive machine itself. But, Myrtle said they were good people, and that's good enough for me.

The giant wheel turned and churned, stopping occasionally to allow new passengers on and old passengers off. Each time it started or stopped, it would crack, snapple and pop, serving as a potent reminder of your mortality here on earth. But, while I was fully aware of the possibility that this potential wheel-of-death could collapse at anytime leading to a horrid demise, for some reason, it didn't bother me. After all, the view was nice. The air was fresh. The sun was out. The breeze was blowing through my hair. "Hey, maybe life isn't so bad after all?", I thought as I took another bite of my footlong corndog, oblivious of its origin or ingredients.


I was beginning to like this fair. The breeze blew quietly. The lake reflected the clear blue sky above. The trees rustled and swayed below. The crowd was bustling, but couldn't be heard from up here. It was peaceful. All the colors from the myriad of exhibits all seemed to blend together into one mosaic. I could see everything. There was the local town juggler "Jugglin' Dale Jones" down there. There was "Orville the one-legged Unicycler" down there. There was "Hector", a local favorite with the Latino community, who was actually a man dressed up in jalapeno costume. There was Jeremy, the flamboyant man, who pranced around. Then there was "Big Mama's Deep Fried Stuff on a Stick", with a line of people 20 deep all anxiously awaiting there turn to order. Across from her was "Jimmy's Cracked Corn", another local favorite. Across the way the locally famous "Uncle Ray and the Whiskey Drinkers" band playing their smash hit tune, "40 cent meat and 10 cent whiskey". Then there was that Bluebell Chicken contest that everyone had been talking about in town. The general consensus was that Dean Chicowski had the best lookin' chickens in Rocky Top, and from what I heard later, he took home the top prize. It was all so beautiful from up here on the Ferris Wheel.

I could tell that my turn was almost up, so I polished off the corndog as the giant metal assembly screeched to another halt. This time a scary man with bushy eyebrows motioned for me to exit, so I did. All in all, it was great day at the ol' Tennessee Valley Fair. We make the best of what we have in life, as Myrtle says, and I had made the best of my day at the fair. Nonetheless, there was much work to be done back home. I bid farewell to #957, wishing her luck in all her competitions, and high-tailed it back to the prairie.

Her name was Babs. Babs McGee.

It was a quiet Tuesday evening in the middle of September, that month where the summer heat dies down and the brisk morning air reminds you that autumn is right around the corner. I found myself sitting on a bench in front of the Walter's Life Sciences building on campus, where I was actively engaged in the consumption of my evening meal. It was a meal that was purchased with one of those "Welcome to Knoxville" coupons you get in the mail. I had clipped out a few that had caught my eye, just like my mother had taught me long ago, and had kept them in my backpack for a time such as this. This particular coupon was for Chick-fil-a, and was set to expire within a week. What a waste to let it expire, I thought. So, with it, I had procured a tasty grilled chicken sandwich w/ fries for 50 cents under retail value.

The air outside was particularly fresh that evening, perhaps due to having been cooped up in the classroom or studying in the library all the livelong day. The evening sun was like a blazing orange ball that had just begun its descent over the distant horizon. As it did, it set the sky ablaze over Neyland Stadium, turning it from an azure blue to an fiery orange. The foliage had taken its seasonal cue from mother nature and, little by little, was beginning to show signs of the grand permutation that it would soon undergo. A few ambitious leaves had already fallen here and there, and at this time of day, you could hear the wind rustling those leaves through the street nearby. A few people passed here and there, each going their own way, like the leaves. It was tranquil. And, as the day had been long and exhausting, its tranquility was not unwelcome.

In a setting such as this, all the day's thoughts can't help but to settle - like a cloud of dust that billows behind a car on an old dry dirt road, and then slowly dissipates into the wind as the car fades away into the horizon. As I sat there, lost in reverie, taking the occasional bite out of my grilled chicken sandwich, and allowing the swirling dustcloud of the day's thoughts to settle into place, the only thing that occupied my overactive imagination was one of my childhood dreams. It was an idea that undoubtedly had some correlation with watching Robocop, and also an idea which I am somewhat reluctant to share: I would have detachable forearms that could be replaced with a multitude of instruments. Practical instruments. For example, I could replace one with a shoehorn. Whenever I or someone else was about to put on my/their shoes, I would simply remove one of my forearms and attach the shoehorn - Voila! My arsenal of forearm attachments would know no bounds. I could have one for every task conceivable - a hammer for building things. A knife to cut things. Well, then again, my mom wouldn't let me play with knives, so maybe just a butterknife. Various cooking utensils like spatulas and wooden spoons, or metallic, if you prefer. Toothbrushes. An all-purpose food blender with variable blades and blending speeds. Maybe even a toilet scrub brush? Oh, how easy life would be with this assortment of detachable tools! This was the coolest idea ever! Well, at least, it was 20 years ago in the mind of a 7 year old. In the midst of all this juvenile reminiscing - which, hopefully the reader will forgive and understand as the effects of fatigue - something in my peripheral vision suddenly demanded my attention. I cast a quick glance down the sidewalk..

and, there she was...

They say that love is like a butterfly: is you chase after it, it will run away, but if you just stand still, it will land on your shoulder. I'm not sure if I believe that anymore, but her - I know I had seen this butterfly somewhere, but where? She looked so familiar. Ah, yes! That one time in the University bookstore. We were both there in the literature section. She was perusing through Charles Dickens. "Great Expectations", I believe. I was just about engage her in conversation over this fine piece of literature, for I had recently read it myself, when she abruptly replaced the book in the shelf and left in a hurry. As she rushed passed me, the aroma of her perfume overwhelmed my olfactory senses with an indescribable delight.

And here she was again. She was tall. She was elegant. She looked intelligent. As she walked, or rather floated nearer, time seemed to have come to a halt. The wind blew through her long mahogany hair, which cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall. A single ray of light shone forth from the heavens, which had perhaps been ordained to shine in just that spot at just that moment in time, and made her silver earrings shimmer like a star in twilight sky. This must be how a fish feels, I thought, at seeing those shiny lures sparkle and glimmer underwater. Luckily for me, I wasn't a fish. But, if I were, she was lucky that those earrings weren't loaded down with earthworms and night-crawlers.

Lo and behold, she sat down next to me, and she did, that same perfume could be faintly detected in the breeze. I decided I was just gonna play it cool. Besides, who needs romance? I needed romance like a needed a major coronary. So, I assumed a casual disinterest. I did this by staring at the ground and watching the ants below assemble around the all crumbs that had fallen from my sandwich; mere crumbs to me, but for them, a hearty meal for the entire colony. And, in these hard economic times, even for ants, was something to be regarded as nothing less than a miracle, almost like manna falling from the heavens. The ants below were seizing the opportunity that good fortune had afforded them, and so I decided to do the same.

"What's the name, toots?", I said looking off into the distance, squinting as if I was trying to unravel some profound philosophical paradox. It was at times like this that I wish I smoked cigarettes. I could blow one of those nice rings of smoke that would dissipate in the air.

"The name's Babs. Babs McGee", she responded, coolly.

Her name was more of an anachronism than the Latin language. In my entire life, I had only known one other person by the name of "Babs", and that was "Beboppin' Babs Brown". And she had to be over 70 by now. Maybe 80. I knew the name had to be phony. I noticed she was carrying a large bag.

"Whatcha got in the bag, hotlips?", I said impassively, watching a flock of geese fly overhead.

I had heard that girls liked to be called names like that. Her eyes seem to light up at my question. She reached into her bag, and extricated the most beautiful spatula I had ever laid eyes on. It was shiny. And, I could tell it was top quality. I admit, I was excited, but I needed to maintain my composure. And, I did.

"A spatula? Who carries a spatula in their bag?", I said taking another bite of my sandwich.

At that moment, she looked around, almost as if to make sure no one was watching. She opened up the bag and displayed a whole set of kitchen cutlery - spoons, knives, both wooden and metallic, chopsticks, spatulas, and on and on. All so shiny. All so new. Never in my life had I seen such a fine assortment of cutlery. I wanted to ask her if she had any shoehorns, which would perhaps lead into a conversation about the detachable forearms, but better judgment prevailed.

"Listen kid," she said, "what would you say if I told you that this set of kitchen cutlery could be yours for only $149.99?"

"$149.99??"

"Plus...... a lifetime warranty." She added with a seductive smile.

Beads of sweat gathered over my brow and I bit my mustache. I wanted that set of cutlery badly, but was short on cash. Even so, I felt obligated to buy something from her - she was so beautiful! Maybe the butterfly was landing on my shoulder - how could I chase it away?

"Tell you what, toots. What's the lowest price you can take for that spatula?"

"$14.99"

"I'll take two", said I, with as much insouciance as I could muster.

The exchange took place, and our eyes met for the first time. The eyes seem to have a language of their own, capable of conveying profound meaning without even a word being spoken. Her eyes seemed to betray pleasure at my purchase. I guess a woman likes a man who knows his spatulas?

She got up and left. But before she did, she handed me this card, on the back of which was scribbled multiple methods of contacting her: office fax, office phone, office email.


And then, with a wink, she walked off. I sat there on the bench finishing off the last few fries, as she recommenced her walk to - wherever she was going. The fiery orange sun had nearly completed its descent, and she seemed to float right off into it. I didn't know where she came from. I didn't know where she was going. I didn't even know if we'd ever meet again. All I knew was that I was the proud owner of two brand new top-notch spatulas and that her name was Babs. Babs McGee. Cutlery Extraordinaire.

Pop Quiz!

1. The author of this blog, having suffered from the accumulated effects of both mental and physical fatigue, ________ in a local oil change establishment, only to be jolted by a one-armed man yelling his name.

a. threatened to overturn the conniving vending machine that stole his quarters
b. threatened to blow himself up
c. threatened to undress himself
d. peacefully fell into a deep slumber


2. Which of the following star players of the UT Men's basketball team did the author "chill" with last week at the UT gym? (By "chill", I mean that we engaged in a delightful conversation regarding the prospects of the upcoming season. By "delightful conversation", I mean that I stood from afar and waved in their general direction hoping to attract any indication that they acknowledged my existence.) Choose two.

a. Scotty Hopson
b. Melvin Goins
c. John Rambo
d. Conan the Librarian


3. There are 57 days remaining until which of the following exciting event occurs?

a. the author's favorite television program, Wheel of Fish, is back on air!
b. the grand opening of Spatula City
c. the commencement of yodeling season
d. the commencement of the 2010 UT basketball season


4. Last week, a/an ______ of average size unloaded the contents of his/her/its above-average sized _______ onto the hood of my car.

a. bird / intestinal tract
b. intimidating man wearing an eye-patch / assault rifle
c. not-so-intimidating man wearing a fanny pack /fanny pack
d. sort-of-intimidating man wearing nothing but old sweatpants / pockets


5. The acquisition of a ______ has transformed the author from a pathetic bachelor condemned to a deprived life of fried eggs and cheese to a still-kinda-pathetic bachelor privileged to the lavish life of various grilled meat-derived dishes.

a. mail-order bride from Vietnam
b. mute Nubian slave
c. alarmingly large jungle knife
d. George Foreman grill


6. Much to his excitement, the author has procured tickets to see which of the following events at the Knoxville Civic Auditorium on September 8th?

a. "A Prairie Home Companion" w/ Garrison Keiller
b. Live filming of "Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman"
c. Annual Chainsaw and Other-Small-Machines-That-Cut-Things Festival
d. Interpretive dance performance of "Rambo IV: Rambo Once Again Loses His Mind and Obliterates Everything Within a 5-Mile Radius"


7. Despite having vowed a sacred oath to never do so again, the author recently returned home ____________ after having played his first game of soccer in over 10 years.

a. weeping
b. forlorn
c. melancholy
d. beaten, battered, bruised, but overjoyed at the absence of ligament damage


8. On September 5th, hundreds of thousands gathered in downtown Knoxville to witness an event referred to as "Boomsday" - the nation's largest Labor Day fireworks display. The author elected not to attend because _______.

a. he was mired in radioactive ooze
b. he was busily engaged in auctioning off two gorgeous blue ribbon chickens
c. he was conducting covert operations to topple the government of a remote unnamed Asian country
d. he was too busy sustaining bodily injuries playing soccer that morning and couldn't muster the energy to return on time.


9. Last week, the author received an item in the mail that caused him to 1) shudder violently, 2) reflect deeply over the meaning of life, and 3) reflect deeply on the nature of America's justice system. What was this item?

a. a wretched traffic ticket
b. a 10% off coupon for Spatula City
c. a personal letter from President Obama
d. an invitation to drink from the Knox county fire hose


10. This Saturday, for the very first time ever, the author will ______.

a. attend a Ketchup Advisory Board Meeting
b. attend a UT Football Game
c. go on exhibit at the local zoo
d. experiment with mind-altering drugs


Well? How'd you boneheaded bozos do? Grade 'em yourselves, you slimeballs!

1. D.
2. A & B. Yep. I almost talked to them. It was cool.
3. D. Holla!
4. A. And it's still there, serving as a constant reminder to wash my car.
5. D. Love this thing!
6. A. Holla! Even though nobody is going with me... (sniff, sniff)
7. D. It hurts. Still.
8. D. Forgive me, Knoxville!
9. A. Jerks.
10. B. Holla!

(*I apologize for the overabundance of "UHF" references.)