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.)

Feasting upon the Bones of My Enemies (Pt. 2)

It was the morning of August 25th, 2010, and thus far had not been kind. Its inception was rude and abrupt. Its morning repast was unusually light - not by choice, but rather due to a depletion of food supplies in the Johnson abode. That is, unless one were to count the one remaining moldy bagel. Not that I am above eating a moldy bagel, but at the moment, it didn't seem particularly appetizing. Nevertheless, hunger overcame reasoning. I carefully removed the moldy portions, ate what remained of the old bagel and proceeded to commence my daily commute to school - a commute which would prove to be among the worst I had experienced thus far. You see, I had foolishly fallen prey to the temptation of searching for the "Holy Grail of Parking Spots". I say "foolish" because when parking at UT, you take what the parking gods grant you. No questions asked. Much to my chagrin, this mythical "Holy Grail" did not exist, and instead, my quest sent me into the very blackhole of time I wished to avoid - downtown morning traffic. Further exacerbating the commute was the growing amount of physical exertion required to retain the contents of my bowels, which will play an important role later in the story.

After performing the daily sacrificial offering, an act which consisted of circling the parking garage for 20+ minutes, the parking gods seemed appeased and miraculously granted me a spot on the fifth level. Walking briskly from the parking garage to the classroom, I was convinced that somewhere along the line, I had committed some egregious offense and was being justly punished for it. Perhaps, it was well deserved? So be it, I concluded. Maybe I shouldn't have tossed my garbage into my neighbor's lawn like that? Maybe, I shouldn't have laughed that day when those zoo monkeys flung their poo onto that poor unsuspecting old man and child? Maybe, just maybe, I had overstepped the bounds of prudence when I kicked that pathetic freshman into that trash receptacle? Famished, fatigued, and now penitent, I resigned myself to fate and resolved to do no more harm.

The classroom I am referring to is located at 1600 Peyton Manning Pass, directly in front of the Neyland Stadium - the same site where that rather peculiar monologue was given only weeks earlier - and is called the UT Hearing and Speech Center. Being the nerd that I am, I typically arrive to school roughly 45 minutes early in order to review lecture notes, secure a front row seat, etc. This particular day, because of the foolish route I had taken, I had arrived late - approximately 9:50 am. Entering the classroom, I used my bookbag to reserve a seat and hastened to the restroom to relieve myself of the gastrointestinal burden that had been churning within. Much to my chagrin, the door was locked. Never before had it been locked, and never at such an inopportune time as this had I expected it to be. Not good. Like a navigational system that reroutes itself when one makes a wrong turn, my mind quickly scanned the known surrounding area for alternate options, weighing their distance and accessibility, and concluded that it would be best to exercise patience and wait, as all existing alternate options would be too time consuming. So be it, I concluded. Wait I will.

And, wait I did. 3 minutes. 5 minutes. 7 minutes. 9 minutes. I double-checked the door, just to ensure I had not deceived myself. In fact, I wiggled the doorknob extra hard in hopes that the rattling noise would draw the attention of the occupant inside. Still locked. Confounded! I listened intently. Not a sound. I won't lie - the devil himself presented me with the temptation of using the women's restroom. (A temptation in which my French brother-in-law Erwan would've easily fallen to; in fact, he may have even proceeded straight to the women's restroom without even first checking the men's restroom!) But, not me. Get thee behind me, Satan! A man's dignity and pride simply will not allow such. The wait continued. 11 minutes. 13 minutes. At this point, mild annoyance was mutating into smoldering anger. My abdomen churned and growled in agony. Any vestige of compunction or resolve to "do no harm" was quickly withering away.

But, alas! Suddenly, an indistinct sound could be heard from within. Straining my ears, I listened closer. Beyond the concrete walls were the muffled sounds of faucets running, paper towels dispensing, and locking mechanisms unlocking. Heaven be praised! But, in an effort to avoid a potentially awkward encounter with the mysterious occupant, I sidestepped around the corner, all but disappearing from view. A man of rotund figure, who shall hitherto be referred to as "M.O.R.F.", exited and turned the opposite direction, preventing a glimpse of full-on frontal view. Confounded, again! Had there been a casual observer, they would've remarked at stark contrast at the man who had just disappeared behind the corner and whose peering eyes re-emerged. He would've remarked at the man's drastic change in physiognomy; once calm and civil, now resembling the feral beasts of the Appalachians. He may have even remarked at his penetrating gaze; it was the same morbid stare of Medusa that turned heroes of old to stone. M.O.R.F. disappeared into the classroom - the very classroom in which I had reserved a seat - and, as he did, I swiftly glided down the corridor and rushed into what would become...

...Dante's ninth circle of Hell.

If not the ninth, at least the seventh or eighth. "(Cough, cough, cough) A trap! Oh, how wretched I am!", I muttered. I will not endeavor to embark upon an expository discourse describing the hideously offensive odor that permeated, no, that had been baked into the four walls of this room. Indeed, any attempt would be woefully inadequate. Never before had my olfactory senses been so inflamed, so overwhelmed. Never before had my nostrils been filled with a stench so putrid, so vile, so reprehensible. The most comparable experience I can recollect was my experience in the army gas chamber. In fact, I exhibited similar symptoms - irritation to eyes, nose, and throat, difficulty breathing, drooling, nausea, etc. An average man would, perhaps, rather have gnawed his own arm off than stay inside and suffocate. And, yes, I could've succumbed to the idea of barreling out of the restroom gasping for breath, but once again, my dignity precluded me from doing so.

So, summoning every survival skill I knew, I sealed my nose and mouth as tightly as my shirt would allow, only inhaling and exhaling when better judgment deemed it absolutely necessary. Business was taken care of at warp speed. In fact, the entire time spent inside the ninth circle could've lasted no longer than 60 seconds, perhaps shattering a world record. Not even bothering to check myself in the mirror, I kicked open the door, stumbled out, and breathed deeply of the life-giving air. Feebly leaning on the railing for support, I slowly made my way back to the classroom. Panting, I cast a scrutinizing glance over the classroom for anybody even resembling the culprit, but alas! he was nowhere to be found. A grimace clouded over my brow, but I quickly gathered my composure and once again remembered my earlier vow to do no harm.

An epic inner struggle ensued, at the end of which the following letter was written:

"Dear M.O.R.F.,

We are not that different, you and I. We are both capable of mass destruction, as you have clearly proven this morning. One of us, however, has abandoned his old barbaric ways in an effort to reform himself for the good of society, not wishing to inflict any more harm. In this regard, we differ greatly.

Indeed, one must commend you for the impeccable timing and skill in which you executed your cunning attack this morning, luring me into your deathtrap. It was well planned, and had all the marks of a veteran. Credit must be given to whom credit is due. I know not what compelled you, but this I do know: despite my sincere attempts at reformation, the primal instincts still remain within. Prior to this morning, they lay dormant. But thanks to you, good M.O.R.F., these primal instincts have been awoken, aroused, and provoked. Let me make this clear: you have violated the cardinal rule. And, as you will soon discover, violators will be violated. I look forward to orchestrating your demise, and witnessing your systematic destruction, my good friend. Ciao!"

Facts: True and False

Hey, kids! Gather 'round! It's time to play a game! This game is called "The following statements are true / The following statements are false". It's fun and easy!

Ok! The following statements are true:

• After much trial and error, I have discovered, with an indescribable sense of satisfaction I might add, the "perfect route" from home to school.
  

• I am foaming at the mouth to fill my stomach, that carnivorous abyss, with some good ol' Korean BBQ.
  
  
• I am also foaming at the mouth to step foot inside a local karaoke establishment and leave it in utter shambles, just like the olden days in Korea.
  
  
• On my bedroom floor, there lay strewn about an intimidating pile of clothes (clean). Each attempt to organize this unsightly pile has been met with a resilient line of reasoning that is beyond my powers of refutation: "Hey. Why even hang this crap up if I'm just gonna wear it this week?"
  
  
• I found not one, but three pennies on heads today. Hooray!
  
  
• The first week of school has come and gone. The most astonishing aspect of which was the staggering gender ratio of my department: less than one male for every ten females. (Perhaps, this has some correlation with the three pennies I found today?)
  
  
• Of the many noble souls of the above mentioned department, some are willing to engage in conversation with me, but most are not. (Eh. Scratch the penny theory.)
  
  
• Each time any of the following songs are played on the radio - "Airplane", "California Girls", "Billionaire" - the likelihood of me furiously ripping my radio from the dashboard and hurling it out the window increases ever so slightly.
  
  
• Last week, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I received a $2,000 scholarship. Hooray!
  
  
• In a grand reversal of fortune, the much anticipated "Lake Day" (a day in which I enlisted myself into a group of like-minded individuals that was to venture out to a local lake for the purpose of skiing and tubing) was canceled due to inclement weather. Boo! Hiss!
  
  
• My French brother-in-law, Erwan, continues to amuse me. First, he informed me that he "sometimes" irons and starches his underwear. Odd, but understandable. Next, it was discovered that he chooses to sit down and urinate as opposed to standing up (in direct violation of the unwritten code of manhood). Lastly, recently while shopping at Krogers, I was informed by "my sources" that he elected to do his business in the ladies restroom. For me, this was the straw that broke the camel's back.
  

Alright! Now, the following statements are false:

• Parking at the University of Tennessee has thus far been a stress free experience. Not once have I been late to class. Not once have I abandoned plans to stop by the gym after class due to lack of parking. And, not once have I been tempted to punch the mustaches off other operators of motor vehicles competing for the same parking spot.
  
  
• I am not intimidated at all by this semester's workload. It should be a piece of cake, or as the Koreans say, "as easy as laying down and eating rice-cakes."
  
  
• I got a wicked tattoo across my back that says, "UT Audiology & Speech Language Pathology Thugs 4 Life".
  
  
• While enjoying a delectable evening repast at Cracker Barrel this past Sunday with new friends (one of whom is endowed with an exquisite sense of humor), I did not laugh so hard that I cried, nor did I nearly fall sideways out of my chair drawing the attention of entire establishment.
  
  
• I did not crap a litter of lizards when I opened the monthly cable & internet bill from Comcast.
  
  
• An alarmingly disproportional amount of my grocery budget is not being spent on jars upon jars of hot pickled okra.
  
  
• In order to offset these unforeseen costs, I have not elected to begin showering at the UT gym (FREE), nor have I considered simultaneously doing my dishes in these showers. Yet.
  
  
• Over the past week, a mysterious beauty of western European descent - one whose hair is "black like the plumage of the raven" and whose teeth would "put even the purest of ivory to shame" - has not at all attracted my attention.
  
  
• I have ample courage to approach the above mentioned beauty.
  
  
• Today, from its rude inception in the morning 'til its weary end, has been the best day ever.
  
  
• I don't feel the initial stages of a malicious cold laying siege to my body's precious immune system.

The Letter (Part 1)

"Education - the progressive discovery of our own ignorance. " -Will Durant

May 19th 2004, Kirkuk, Iraq. More than 140 miles north of Baghdad, east of the ancient Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, long convoys of olive green trucks entered Kirkuk Air Base. The occupants of these vehicles quickly dismounted and retired for the day, weary and fatigued. The day had been blistering hot, and now the night was becoming freezing cold - both extremes were equally unpleasant. The giant pumps of the Kirkuk oilfields in the distance churned as usual, permeating the dry desert air with the thick smell of petroleum. Also in the distance could be heard the sounds of an occasional gunshot ricocheting, which were sometimes accompanied by the stentorian boom of a mortar round. The power of these explosions seemed to shake the very earth, or at least rattle every window and fixture in the old dilapidated building which housed the weary soldiers.

In this building, the same group of soldiers who had just retired for the day were laying in their bunks; some already sleeping soundly, while others lay staring absentmindedly at the rusty ceiling. In one of these bunks, lay a certain soldier, who perhaps due to the sounds of distant gunshots, was unable to sleep. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind. This particular chapter that life had presented to him had proven to be lonely and tumultuous, but writing the occasional letter seemed to alleviate the insipid drudgery of daily life on the other side of the world. Using a small flashlight for illumination and a considerably thick book for a writing surface, the ink of his pen was scribbling furiously onto a crinkled piece of paper. He signed his name at the bottom, "Your friend, In Kyu", and inserted the piece of paper into an envelope addressed to a certain "Erik Johnson". He would drop it in the mail bin tomorrow morning, but for now, he decided to return to the book which had temporarily used to write on, "The Count of Monte Cristo". He read on in hopes that the day's fatigue would cause his eyelids to become too heavy, and eventually fell asleep.


June 5th, 2004. Mililani, Hawaii. In the vast azure firmament, could be seen an arc of prismatic colors along with a lone cirrus cloud carelessly drifting away with the tradewinds of the Pacific. The brilliant rays of the summer sun radiated over the beautiful island of Oahu, the most densely populated of all the Hawaiian islands. A cool breeze blew gently, causing the ferns and leaves across the island to dance quietly. If one were to listen intently deep within the tropical verdure, one might hear the clangs and clanks of bags upon bags of recyclables being exchanged for handfuls of coins. This was the Mililani recycling center, which offered a juicy 5 cents per any can or bottle. For a certain lanky man-child, business was good. He had just completed his weekly transaction and was tabulating the lucrative profits gained by the exchange, "Four dollars and five cents... Four dollars and fifteen cents.... Good week". Appearing satisfied, he proceeded homeward bound. He checked his mail and proceeded up to the 12th floor via the "Urine Elevator" (aptly named due to the recent string of instances where one would find a mysterious puddle of urine standing on its floor). He carefully maneuvered around these mysterious puddles, and successfully reach his destination floor. "Ugh. Gross", he muttered. The door of Unit D-1201 was unlocked and opened, and he was finally in the comfort of his own home.

Wiping the sweat from his brow and removing his black army boots which had been soiled red by the Hawaiian clay, he felt the hunger pangs usually associated with this time of day, or for that matter, any time of day. He inspected the contents of the refrigerator. "Some old bread. Boiled eggs from last week. Ugh. Good grief. Absolutely nothing to eat... again.", he sighed to himself. Closing the door in dismay, his attention shifted from hunger to curiosity, and was drawn to the stack of mail on the countertop. He sifted through. "Hmm... phone bill, pizza delivery coupons, credit card pre-approvals, junk, junk, junk, and... ", he paused, discovering an envelope. Its edges looked dingy and worn, as if it had undergone a long arduous journey. His eyes brightened. It was postmarked from Iraq, and addressed from a certain "Private Cho". "In Kyu!", he exclaimed. This was the name of his best friend; a noble soul he had not seen or heard from in at least six months. He hastily tore open the envelope and read the letter contained within. Once. Twice. Thrice. Each time reading with a little more scrutiny and enthusiasm. If a casual observer were to examine his facial expression as he read, they would remark the evidences of joy and perhaps inspiration over his physiognomy. Upon finishing the letter for the third time, his hunger pangs once again commanded his attention. A plan was quickly developed to employ those newly acquired profits from his recycling ventures into resolving the pressing needs of the moment - dinner.

(To be continued...)

Operation: "K-town Stomp"

Disclaimer: The following may or may not be entirely true. Some names have been concealed to protect the innocent.

It was the stormy evening of July 7th, 2010. Somewhere in the dark recesses of Knoxville, Tennessee, several men of dubious character dressed in pinstriped suits had convened in a small, dark room. With the exception of the creaking sound made by a low hanging ceiling lamp swaying to and fro, all was silent. The dim lamp emitted only enough light to illuminate the pale physiognomies of all constituents in attendance. Thick smoke from Cuban cigars rose slowly from ash trays, further obscuring these faces to a degree which rendered them almost unrecognizable. Scarcely had they all sat down, when the man whose arrival they were awaiting rapped upon the door.

"Hark! It is he!", whispered one of the voices.

The door creaked on its hinges as it was opened, and the light from outside briefly revealed the countenances of all - some ghastly, some nervous, some impassive. The man entered with a firm step, said not a word, and carried in his hand a leather-bound suitcase. The door shut behind him, once again shrouding the physiognomies of all with shadows. The man sat down at the table in what appeared to be a seat reserved for him, a seat which was adjacent to a mysterious lady whom, judging from the almost imperceptible glance exchanged between them, he seemed to be acquainted with. The suitcase was opened, its contents displayed to the satisfaction of all, and closed again, drawing nods of assent from all in attendance. At last, the silence was broken. The two parties then began the negotiations, funneling all concerns through an unbiased arbitrator who sat in the middle of the dark room. Questions were raised. Answers were returned. Stipulations were made. And at last, a mutual agreement was reached. Papers were circulated around the table, which, after going full circle, were returned stamped, signed, and sealed in blood-colored ink. These papers, which held all the markings of an official document, and a set of keys were then exchanged for the mysterious contents of the suitcase. All constituents appeared pleased, and one-by-one trickled out of the room just as they had trickled in. The mysterious transaction was complete and its participants scattered like cockroaches.

Bustlin' beetles, Erik! Were you the man with the suitcase?

I must confess. I was. And, I will also confess to you the following: the above scene loosely describes one of the most memorable days of my summer thus far. It marked the day that I officially became a "Knoxvillian", acquiring the deed to a little piece of that sacred American soil in which I intend to reside for the next 3 years, maybe more.

And, pray tell me, who was the mysterious lady?

Ah, yes. That lady was none other than a certain Tiffany Gomez, a sagacious realtor in the Knoxville area whom I would heartily recommend to any good fellow looking to procure a piece of Knoxville soil. I found Mrs. Gomez to exhibit all the traits of someone successful in her profession - helpful, personable, armed with a vast knowledgeable of the local area, and not to mention, eminently magnanimous. For example, upon discovering that my iPod had recently met its fateful demise in the washing machine, she generously bestowed upon me an Apple giftcard at the conclusion of our meeting.

Bravo! Let us drink to the health of Mrs. Gomez, and may her generosity return to her ten-fold!

Yes, and may she live for a thousand years! Immediately following the conclusion of this meeting, a certain Northern Excursion demanded my full attention and precluded me from setting foot in Knoxville again until a later date - July 19th, a day of infamy.

Infamy? One would've presumed that the locals would've welcomed you with open arms!

Alas, as they say, the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow. Upon re-entering the city limits of Knoxville, I couldn't believe my eyes. On the horizon, there seemed to be a large assembly of people blockading the road. Apparently, in my absence, word had quickly spread throughout the city of my intentions to move in, and for whatever reason, had fanned the smoldering anger of the local citizens. My suspicions were confirmed as I drew nearer. Indeed, a myriad of people had gathered and were angrily shouting slogans and waving placards such as:



A fusillade of vegetables - avocados, tomatoes, potatoes - were thereby hurled at me, pounding against my car, and the crowd converged on me; not in a civil manner, but in a manner in which a pack of ravenous jackals might have converged on a stray gazelle.

Alas! And, it was thus Heaven recompensed virtue? Pity!

To the best of my fallible ability, I narrowly evaded their clutches and, arriving home, I rushed inside and feverishly dead-bolted the door. The house, or condominium rather, was completely empty - devoid of any furnishings. No bed. No sofa. No food. And, not having had sufficient time to contact the utilities company, not even electricity or running water. Wearied and fatigued from my journey, I spread a sleeping bag on the bare floor and laid myself down. Alone, in the solitude of the dark home, as nature's orchestra of frogs croaking and cicadas buzzing (or, whatever cicadas do) could be heard from outside, the imagination ran wild with a single question: "What am I to do?"

But, isn't it true, good friend, that things which in the evening look dark and obscure appear but too clearly in the light of the morning?

Again, you are correct, my perspicacious interlocutor. And, it was on the very morning of July 20th when, like a lightning bolt, it dawned on me what must be done. There was only one option. Like the taming of a wild beast, the citizens of Knoxville, or "K-town" as it might be referred to in the ebonic vernacular, simply must be shown who's boss; the operation was therefore dubbed "Operation: K-Town Stomp".

The primary mission of this operation? Completely furnish the new condominium without suffering any mortal wounds at the hands of the ferocious locals. So, taking a light morning repast, I laced up my old army boots, dawned my coonskin cap (two items indispensable to these types of operations), camo'ed up the face, dashed out the door and into the wild frontier. Taking the town by storm, I swiftly procured only items that were requisite in fulfilling my mission, and only resorted to smashing skulls when my judgment deemed it completely necessary. Having the prescience of knowing that the mission could not be accomplished alone, I also issued deployment orders to some trusted allies in Nashville; namely, my sister (also ex-army, specializing in decorative strategies and furniture acquisitions) and my father (ex-Tennessee militia, specializing in a wide array of home improvement strategies). Upon received these orders, both of these allies quickly traversed the rugged terrain of Tennessee, and came to my aid battle ready.

In a mere week's time, white flags were beginning to appear everywhere. Signs were nailed to trees near my house conveying rather compelling pleas for mercy. They had had enough - some had been kicked down flights of stairs; others had been thrown headlong into various trash receptacles; still others were the unfortunate recipients of the most egregious wedgies ever witnessed by humankind. On the flip side, food rations had been secured. Furniture had been acquired. Miscellaneous household items were now in my possession. And, it must added that all these items were attained without having received so much as a scratch on my limbs. Operation K-town Stomp was turning out to be a grand success.

These pleas for mercy went ignored, however. As far as I was concerned, the rampage was only beginning. On the last day of July, just as I was lacing up my boots in preparation to break some more bones, an official courier from the mayor suddenly knocked on my door and handed me the following letter:


Bravo! Then, assuming the illustrious citizens of Knoxville commit no further blunders or infractions, is it reasonable to presume that you and your fellow Knoxvillians are now of one accord?

Indeed, good comrade! Peace has returned, resting itself on the good city! Now, if you'll excuse me. Having recently been inoculated by the good folks at the local immunizations clinic, you must understand that I am quite sore and require adequate recuperation. I must bathe myself in the finest Pierrer waters, quench my thirst with a glass of Chardonnay, and partake of my mid-morning repast, which is being pre-chewed by my wonderful new maid-servants. Cheerio!