Bring Out the Carnies

Carnivals are always a good time. Last night, a couple of friends and I went to the Brockton Fair. It was one-stop shopping for airbrushed "redneck" t-shirts, bling, pissing Calvin stickers, and your choice of string bracelet representing any Latin & South American nation. One could watch boxing, eat fried dough, and see two sideshow "freaks" (Alas...no Arturo the Aqua Boy). Okay. So I paid $1 to see a little person. And no, you could not fit her in the palm of your hand as the sign suggested. I thought it was a joke, but I walk by this poor little woman sitting in a little chair. I wanted to bring her a magazine or something.

But I came for the rides. And then I found myself dropping another $5 to ride a mechanical bull. When I was a child, my brother was a big Travolta fan. He embodied his every dance move and boy-in-the-bubble stare. I guess there was a resemblance — if Travolta was a red-haired Irish lad completely covered in freckles. I remember having to watch Urban Cowboy on several occasions because of his obsession. I don't know...I never cared for the movie but I always thought it would be interesting to ride a mechanical bull.

I went into some German brewhaus-inspired "fun house" which was completely lame. A true waste of three tickets, but Maria is one of those people who considers the Tea Cups at Disney World to be an adrenaline rush. I wanted to get pictures on that random cylinder than rotates — the grand finale of one's carnival "fun house" experience. Somehow, I almost ended up doing a handstand. That sort of feat, however, requires coordination — something of which I have very little.

(Pardon my friends' poor usage of my digital camera. They kept hitting random buttons.)