Anti-Scene

[Originally written some time in 2002]

As far as I know, there is not much of a real scene here in New Jersey. Granted, I have come across many people that used their entire allowance at Hot Topic, just for the simple fact of being able to say: "I shop at Hot Topic, I'm cool" or what have you. Oh yes, I am ever so impressed because you gave in and decided to support a corporation, while in the meantime, mommy is sewing your brand new patch onto your black backpack so you can show it off on Monday in school.

So yeah, aside from those that blatantly scream "I spend my allowance at Hot Topic to make mommy and daddy pissed", there are the ever present metal heads, hip hop dudes and a random spattering of punks—tho most of them are all about the fashion and will make faces at you if you don’t fit the stereotype. Then there’s the preppy douchebags and their fake ‘n’ bake girlfriends rolling around in plastic cars that they can't handle at high speeds—tho they do put so much effort into showing how fast they can go. Just can't wait to die, I suppose.

From what I have experienced, there is no united scene around here. Maybe I can't really speak for the rest of the state, because I haven't been everywhere in Jersey. Here in E-town, there's nothing. Oh, and that so-called 'club' one city over...it doesn't even deserve recognition. The only 'dress code' enforced there is green. Enough said.

Being inspired by certain things isn't bad, but blindly falling into a genre or trend is pure stupidity. It happens all the time, tho people are never aware that they do it, and they certainly make for good amusement.

Anyway, getting to the point. Yes, I have indeed reaped a benefit from the fact that 'unusual' clothing is more readily available. However, it also means that anyone who just thinks it's 'cool' or "my friends will freak when they see me in this" will grow bored and move on. There are countless times where I hear the story of "oh, I used to dress like that". The reason you don't now, is because you only liked the novelty of the clothing/accessories/music. Do you seriously think you're going to convince me to change just because you grew out of your phase?

That's always been good for a laugh. If I was going thru a 'phase', I'm quite sure I would have grown out of it by now. Let's see, I'll be 21 in December, which means I've been in my 'phase' for about six years now. That's sort of beating a dead horse, eh?

However, it is important to stop caring and not let the exploding 'trends' bother me, as I know that one day it will get boring, and the next 'new thing' will be sought after. While all the lemmings gather, I'll just continue to be myself. Of course I know that there are plenty of people who say: "This is just me". Sure, I'll believe that, considering the fact that the majority of the people who do say that [once again] are corporate Hot Topic products. Manufactured DIY is such an oxymoron. If it has pre-made, you are only impressing the other idiots who do not comprehend the purpose of DIY.

In any event I am straying from my point.

There are many different labels that people attempt to place on me, from 'goth' to 'punk', and other not so nice names], but I have never really considered myself to be any of these.

In my heart, I have a fondness for the circus and sideshow, which has been with me for numerous years. My best friend said that he considers me to be a true Carny, and since that is not an honor one can easily gain, I might as well start wearing it with pride. There is joy in modifying my body, to please only my own aesthetic. Clothes, hair, make-up and accessories follow the same vein. The music I listen to and movies I watch are because I want to, not so I can throw around my knowledge of them adnausem. These are just things that make up me, not because they are a part of some stereotypical genre or scene. You cannot lump me into your general categories, and it's simply because I don't belong in any of them.

Even while wearing clothes I don't consider being 'dressed up' in, some random woman passed me on the sidewalk and said "Cool outfit". My appearance can make a good conversation starter, but I have noticed after a few minutes, people are looking past my skin, and are talking to me. Perhaps this is due to the fact that I carry myself with confidence, and I do not allow trends to dictate what I should or should not wear.

In the end, I will always feel like the eternal misfit, because I know that there is no one else like me. However, I choose to embrace this, knowing that I am true to myself and don't need to play some character in order for people to like me, as I have no interest in fake friends. Take your scene and shove it; I'm proud to be a Carny, and no can ever take that away from me.

Hobo Ethical Code

It has come to my attention that being a hobo has become 'trendy'. While this information is not very new, I must confess that I really don't understand why people have to ruin cultures that existed for many years. There are kids that come into the Hostile City for the specific purpose of posing as a squatter or gutter punk. They congregate in the park, contribute nothing of worth and will put their hand out in hopes of making some money.

Honestly, I find this to be incredibly disgusting and insulting to those who have truly embraced such a lifestyle. On a recent trip to South Street, I saw a couple of these kids sitting with a cardboard sign and asking for spare change. Their clothes appeared to be fairly new and were quite clean, the girl was wearing bling plugs, and neither one of them looked as though they had spent a single nite on the street. When I walked past and that hand when out, my natural response was "Get a fucking job!"

There are a lot of homeless people in this city, some of which are addicted to drugs or alcohol. Every single one of them has a story, and unfortunately, there are many who lie thru their teeth for sympathy. While I have given of myself in many instances, lately I cannot bear parting with a dollar or even the loose change jingling around in my hand bag. Mostly due to the fact that I myself am unemployed, but also because I am tired of people taking the easy way out. If I really wanted to, I could be just like those individuals who would rather sit on the street and prey on the generosity of strangers than make the effort to get a job.

On a few occasions, I came across some hobos recently, and without a second thought I happily handed them whatever I could spare. It did not matter what they were going to use the money for, nor did I really care. At least they are being honest, and I will readily reward that over some lame story that's supposed to play on my heart strings. Besides, as a Carny, I sort of feel obligated to show kindness towards like-minded individuals.

In any event, before taking the plunge and jumping on a train to score cool points, one should be fully aware of what is considered to be proper traveling etiquette.

An ethical code was created by Tourist Union #63 during its 1889 National Hobo Convention in St. Louis Missouri. This code was voted upon as a concrete set of laws to govern the Nationwide Hobo Body.

• Decide your own life, don't let another person run or rule you.

• When in town, always respect the local law and officials, and try to be a gentleman at all times.

• Don't take advantage of someone who is in a vulnerable situation, locals or other hobos.

• Always try to find work, even if temporary, and always seek out jobs nobody wants. By doing so you not only help a business along, but ensure employment should you return to that town again.

• When no employment is available, make your own work by using your added talents at crafts.

• Do not allow yourself to become a stupid drunk [or drug addict] and set a bad example for locals' treatment of other hobos.

• When jungling in town, respect handouts, do not wear them out, another hobo will be coming along who will need them as bad, if not worse than you.

• Always respect nature, do not leave garbage where you are jungling.

• If in a community jungle, always pitch in and help.

• Try to stay clean, and boil up wherever possible.

• When traveling, ride your train respectfully, take no personal chances, cause no problems with the operating crew or host railroad, act like an extra crew member.

• Do not cause problems in a train yard, another hobo will be coming along who will need passage through that yard.

• Do not allow other hobos to molest children, expose all molesters to authorities, they are the worst garbage to infest any society.

• Help all runaway children, and try to induce them to return home.

• Help your fellow hobos whenever and wherever needed, you may need their help someday.

• If present at a hobo court and you have testimony, give it. Whether for or against the accused, your voice counts!

For some more interesting reading, check out the Dictionary of Old Hobo Slang, brought to you by the Original Hobo Nickel Society.

Serpent Queen - Part I

In addition to the various prose that has been directly inspired by the circus, sideshow or carnival, there is a short story that's been in storage on my computer for a couple of years now. To be honest, the original motivation behind penning the words was of a personal nature, so those details will not be shared. However, I do really enjoy the way the story came out, and figured I might as well put it in a more public domain. Perhaps this will assist me in finally completing the novel I have been working on for the past several years, which I definitely need to start talking more about. Having complete strangers read my intimate thoughts always seemed strange to me, but I know that I have a gift that would only be wasted if kept to myself.

The story has no discerned time in which it takes place, but I believe I was aiming for the mid-1940s, tho there may be some elements that are not compatible for that period. Then again, that's the joy of fiction - one can create a world and have total control over the things contained within. For me, writing about this particular subject seems to come naturally, and I certainly hope that someone out there enjoys reading it.



THE oil lamp sent a dim flame across the stretched canvas tent, shadowy figures dancing like stringless marionettes, black soot collected in the corner where a wooden table resided, a powder blue jacket draped over the coordinating chair. Sulfur filled the air for a brief moment as a match was brought to the end of an expertly rolled blunt, pungant smoke hanging heavy amongst the thick humidity that dominated the evening. It appeared as beads of perspiration on his white skin, wiped away with a black silk handkerchief for the third time since he sat down. Summer was always brutal when most of the day was spent inside that tent, even if every other hour was consumed by talking out on the bally stage. They all stopped when he was using the microphone to lure them closer with his intriguing words, promising that all sorts of unusual things were on display for their viewing pleasure, should they be so inclined to pay the admission. He was never quite sure what caught their curiosity more—the huge banners with exaggerated depictions of the various acts, or their awed expressions when they realized the man in the fancy suit with the heavy accent was quite the attraction in his own right. The talker had no intention to profit off the condition that Nature had bestowed upon him, and one that he had come to exploit himself in the beginning, before recognizing his true gift. He had the ability to get people’s attention without having to capitalize on the fact that he was not like everyone else, and it enabled him to collect large tips as he used every last ounce of his skill to call them in. At the end of the day, as he sat and inhaled the mix of pot and coke deep into his lungs, a smile was fixed on his lips; satisfaction of another successful week of long hours on that stage. The weekends were not any easier, but there were two other talkers that took turns doling out bullshit to the marks and rubes. While the show may have been over for the evening, he was just getting ready for the one he would put on display for the locals.

* * *

ON a hot Summer night deep in the swamps of New Orleans, a woman laid on the banks of the Mississippi River, ready to give birth on its muddy shore. She was an unwed mother of great wealth and social status, so ashamed of the child she carried that she had lied to everyone about its conception. The truth was she loved a man her father did not approve of, but that did not stop her from engaging in an affair so full of passion that her mind was never plagued with worry of any resulting consequences. It became clear to her a few months later that she was pregnant, and while her lover was overwhelmed with joy, she knew the child would never be accepted by anyone in her family. Then a lie was fabricated to implicate her lover as a rapist, which resulted in a conviction that took his life. The slaves that had seen her leave the house after everyone had gone to sleep were aware of the secret and whispered among themselves in their native tongue, saying she would pay for her dishonesty. Nonetheless, they had helped her down to the murky water where she intended to dispose of the baby as though it was an annoying inconvenience, burying all traces of the secret once and for all. Her screams were lost in the thick swamp, audible only to the few slaves that had been paid extra for their assistance. The evening became still when her bastard son was delivered into the world, and the superstitious slaves could only display horror when they set their eyes on him. It was obvious their prophecy had come true, and while the exhausted woman moaned in agony as death sought to remove her spirit, they discussed the fate of the baby they believed to be the spawn of the Devil. However, it was not the vibrant child they threw into the river, but rather the body of his dead mother, her shameful secret following her to the watery grave and never spoken of again.

Wrapped in a white cotton sheet, the baby was sold to a small circus that had been more than happy to take him into their already odd family. The Carnies made sure he received the best care possible, often putting him on display should they be in need of some extra cash to do just that. Levi remained an attraction for only a year before the Carny folk no longer wished to exhibit him as a freak, even though they had many people with birth defects and disfigurements that kept the curious public coming back for more. They never treated him any differently than the rest of those that worked hard to pitch the tent and raise the banner line. He was brought up among the rest of the children born into their strange Family, and while they never looked upon him the way the locals did when they happened to pass by while the children were playing, he was quite aware of the fact that he was not like others. The most obvious signs were his extremely pale skin and troubled vision, being both far-sighted and sensitive to light—which led him to constantly wearing glasses with tinted lenses during the day—as well as being able to see the tips of his white eyelashes. No one in his Family seemed to make a big deal out of it, and so Levi learned to appreciate his unique appearance. He had nearly been startled the first time he saw himself in the mirror, a strapping young lad in his teens with snow white hair and brilliant blue eyes offset by red pupils. The reflection was one he had not been prepared for, but at the same time, he was fascinated by the features that certainly set him apart from everyone else. Levi easily fell into place as one of the rousties, spending long hours swinging a sledge to drive stakes and ensuring the canvas was in the air by night fall. He sat with the other Carnies at every meal, but remained quiet while they engaged in conversation. His gift of gab was discovered one evening when he got up on the empty stage in the sideshow tent and delivered the pitch he had heard from the talker dozens of times. There was an audience of one who stood unnoticed in the back of that tent, and the Boss decided it would be a sin to waste such a presence. After that, Levi found himself on the outside of the tent, always dressed in the finest suits as he worked his charm.

* * *

WITH the dwindling blunt gripped tightly in his teeth, Levi buttoned up a crisp pink shirt, leaving the last few undone to enjoy whatever cool air existed, and slipped into the jacket. He stood in front of the mirror to inspect the final result as he combed white locks into a sleek style. He used a bit of grease paint to darken his brows, lashes and sideburns, completing the illusion with a dark blue bowler. It was something he always did before heading into town, having no need or want for any uninvited attention, as show time was over. Instead he desired to return to the bar and find a new face that was not yet privy to his hustle. There was usually someone he came across that would have lots of money but was low on intelligence, and he had not been in the city of his birth for several weeks while the circus was on tour. Levi certainly hoped that there would be fresh marks waiting to be fleeced.

Ditching the roach in a glass ashtray, Levi exited the tent and stepped out into the muggy evening, tilting the brim of his hat down. There were a few Carnies that were still awake as he crossed the dark midway—they chatted in the cook tent while enjoying a cold brew, but made no notice of his quiet exit. While the circus was asleep for the evening, New Orleans was still wide awake, with plenty of people packed in the bars, drinking to their heart’s content. Lushes rubbed elbows with the twenty-somethings losing all inhibition with every pint or shot; pheromone fueled lust and a desire for the attractive woman across the room. Drunken voices collided together and laughter added to the discord that echoed out on the street where he stood, contemplating as to which establishment would have the patrons with the fattest pockets. He casually smoked a cigarette and strolled along, peering into every place as he walked past to check out the scene, and his attention was drawn to a red-lit lounge that promised live, exotic girls.

Curiosity begged for a glimpse of those curvaceous forms in barely-there sequined costumes, even though he had been in attendance during the hootchie-cootchie shows more times than he cared to remember. Not so much because he was there to ogle the women as the rest of those flesh hungry wolves did, but rather a presence to ensure that none became overzealous and made an attempt to grab one of the girls. He had no desire for them, mostly due to the fact that he worked with them and considered them to be a part of his Family. However, he was not standing in a sweat-filled tent, unsure what kind of show that lounge had to offer. Levi watched several men go in as he mulled over a decision, taking note of the fact the men were all well-dressed, which obviously meant that they were wealthy. Suddenly he was warming up to the idea of entering into the unknown, delighted by the fact that those men would not only be drunk, but also distracted by the women who danced for their pleasure, making it that much easier for him to take their money. Wiping a bit of dirt off the tip of his blue alligator skin boots, he paused a moment to make sure his attire was in proper order, securing the bowler so that none of his white hair would be visible. He approached the entrance with confidence, presenting the man at the door with a few bills, which easily gained him access to the seedy environment that lay just beyond the heavy wooden door, lights dancing on its black lacquered surface as it swung open.

There were tables clustered around an oval-shaped stage trimmed with large round lights, dozens of men drinking and smoking, some engaged in a game of cards. It was so much more than he expected. However, that was not going to stop him from finding a table to sit at in order to enjoy a game. The bar was where Levi situated himself though, requesting a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass as he slid a twenty to the tender. From his perch on a black leather stool, he could easily observe the several hands of poker being played, carefully studying each man to learn his strength, weakness and tell.

When the lights in the room were dimmed and the ones on the stage bathed it in a red glow, strange music filled the air and all eyes were directed to the sultry silhouette poised behind brightly colored silk scarves being held taught by what was supposed to be harem girls, their naked bodies visible through the sheer costumes they wore. Applause erupted in the lounge as the music swelled and the scarves were dropped, revealing a beautiful woman that was wrapped in the coils of an albino python. Her blond curls had been gathered in an elaborate up-do accented by jewels that dangled from the veil which hid most of her face. In fact, it seemed as though her body glittered under those lights while she moved across the stage, rhinestones sewn in just the right places on the opaque fabric that desperately clung to her curves. She caressed the underside of the snake’s head, its bulky body draped across her shoulders with careful balance, its length wound around her chest, waist, and hips; the tail held fast to her leg. How seductively she moved despite the weight of the serpent she carried with her, each pose fluidly transitioning to the next in what could very well be a deadly ballet. Levi knew that python was capable of crushing her to death should it so desire—and yet she handled it with grace as though sharing an intimate dance with a lover. Showing no fear, she brought its powerful head towards her lips, allowing the head to enter her mouth in a rather suggestive manner, earning a round of cheers and catcalls from the men as silver coins rained onto the stage with a clatter that lasted for several minutes.

There was no interest in the next woman that flaunted herself for the approval of those men, her feathered costume evidently meant to be falling down in front as she shook back and forth. Levi abandoned his post as well as his intentions of hustling those easily distracted hound dogs. He had been so entranced by the snake charmer (something the sideshow lacked) that he not only desired to learn her name, but also ached for a glimpse of the face that had been hidden by the jeweled veil. He made his way across the lounge, doing his best to avoid the men that clamored over one another to be close to the half nude woman that sat on the edge of the stage, collecting tips between her heavy breasts. Levi easily turned away from it all as he slipped into the dimly lit hallway lined with numerous doors. The apprehension settled in when he passed the doors (many of which had something hanging from the knobs to indicate those inside were not to be disturbed), for he had an idea as to what was going on. The cleverly disguised brothel had him fooled, and he reluctantly admitted that his usual knack for uncovering such a farce was severely lacking. Either that was a result of the vast amount of whiskey he had just consumed, or the spell he felt had been cast upon him by the serpentine enchantress.

A strong perfume crept up his nose, tingling senses as it was eagerly inhaled and sent a chill through him when he slowly exhaled. It was a subtle blend of roses, vanilla and something else that he could not identify thrown in for good measure. The scent was not some cheap oil meant to be slathered on skin in order to make it smell sweet despite the noticeable odors that lingered from long hours of sex. No whore had good taste in things of that sort, nor did they bother to purchase an exotic blend such as the one which enticed the carnal pleasures in his brain as he continued down the hallway, ignoring squeaking bed springs and the occasional moan forced from the lips of a whore or her client. There was a light that spilled under the door at the very end, soft music crackling from a record player. Levi hesitated for a moment, his head now swimming in the scent, almost as though it intoxicated him more than those shots of whiskey. His hand trembled as it reached for the glass knob and wondered exactly what he was doing.

Did he have something to say to that radiant goddess, the woman who was so mysterious she had him fighting off nerves as he dared to enter the room uninvited? Would he even he able to form words when he laid his eyes upon her, not as a casual observer struggling to see her from across a smoke-filled room, but rather face-to-face as an admirer? He tightly gripped the multifaceted glass, his palm sweating terribly and heart beating so fast he could feel the pulse through his entire body. Taking a deep breath, he slowly pushed the door open, still not quite certain of what would greet him on the other side as it silently pivoted on its hinges.

Stay tuned for the continuation of this riveting tale!

Tales From the Road

A continuation of the feature introduced last month, in which I opened up the proverbial journal vault of things I wrote while traveling with an authentic 10-in-1 sideshow on the carnival circuit. To briefly recap, I found the opportunity via Sideshow World, packed my bags and drove out to Bedford, PA. There I met a couple who owned a menagerie, i.e. farm animals, and had spent fifteen years exhibiting them all across the country. Some names have been changed out of respect for privacy.

July 22, 2005 - Hard working Carnies

It was massively humid late in the morning. So hot that everyone was sweating just doing light chores. The only mild inconvenience experienced thus far is having to walk down to the bathroom, but a little exercise is never bad. Took claim on the sleeping quarters—which is essentially a box of sorts built over the cab of an International tractor [used for hauling the bunkhouse around]—and proceeded to move in the luggage. Items that would be needed or used on a daily basis unpacked, and the rest staying put. A trip was made into town for food and few other things such as water, ice and a cooler, as well as a folding chair scored from the dollar store.

The crew right now consists of myself, the Manager [who is an old school Carny that used to travel back in the day], this guy who will be doing magic and mentalist tricks, and this guy that has worked for the Boss for a year. [Noted here that my ex at the time was also present, omitted from the text for personal reasons.]

We were put to work, bringing the components for the stage into the tent—which we would be sharing with the menagerie—and setting it up. Having animals to play with is a good way to eat up time. The goats are great, even if their eyes are a bit creepy, and the horses are pretty sweet—one of them is quite affectionate.

It has not all been fun and games though, but I knew there would be plenty of work. After all, you do not perform without spilling some sweat. Assembled the aforementioned stage, working in the late afternoon so as not the expend energy under the hot sun. Next we were taught how to put up the banner line. Driving those stakes into the ground does not happen by magic, just in case people are unaware of the fact it takes man power. Believe me, watching the men swing that sledge with grimaces on their faces tells you how hard that is. Would have taken my turn, but the general feeling said it was something to be done by the men. How useless did I feel? No matter, the job was done and then the painted signs had to be hung, so I made up for my lack of participation on the stake-driving by carrying as many signs as possible.

Since there was not much else for me to do, I was told that I could take a shower—the first since arriving. Once all squeaky clean, headed into town for dinner, relieved to be done for the day. The remainder of the evening was spent cutting up jackpots, learning the lingo and what it really means to travel with a carnival. Eventually, around two in the a.m., climbed into bed—which was slightly more comfortable than the first—and promptly passed out.

July 23, 2005 - Receiving the proverbial torch

The morning I woke up to was a beautiful one, as the humidity that had us panting yesterday has been replaced by a very pleasant breeze, which made spending time outside much better.

Now seems like a good time to introduce the crew a bit more. Brock hails from Chicago and does a mentalist act, bending forks out of shape with the power of his mind. He can also forecast one’s past, present or future with Tarot cards and does blindfold work. Our Manager and Boss are very friendly and keep us laughing while making sure all work gets done. Reg is the resident handyman and scapegoat, often on the receiving end of many jokes. In fact, we all bust each others balls, but it is all in good fun. This guy came along while we were setting up the banner line and was welcomed into the crew as an all-purpose worker. The Boss calls him Elvis due to the black hair and heavy Southern accent. It’s one strange Family alright.

Hit town for lunch then sat and played cards since there was not much else to do. Our banners had not arrived yet, and everything else has already been taken care of. Talk of a BBQ had us eager for some good food, and I decided to make an alcohol run. The local liquor store had the green label Jack Daniels, which is not seen in Jersey, and so insisted upon purchasing it. Now the same size bottle retails for about $24 in the Dirty, but I paid $18—damn good if you ask me. A bottle of Smirnoff vodka was only ten bucks. In any event, pleased with the acquisition, a stop was made for the appropriate mixer and a bag of ice.

It was getting late by the time I returned to the spot, and despite the fun we had exchanging stories and jokes, the crew was desiring BBQ. Had to play chauffeur to Boss Jr.’s girlfriend Garnet in order for the food to appear, but I did not mind. Needless to say, the hungry Carnies were happy for our return, and the meat started cooking. Everything was set up in the tent buffet style, with everyone grabbing a paper plate and plastic utensils to help themselves. For a variety of reasons, the Bosses and their ladies do not eat pork or beef, so the sausage and burgers were turkey. The sausage was great, but I did not care much for the burger. Thankfully Jack and Coke along with a screwdriver aided in washing that down, as did the watermelon and cantaloupe.

With stomach full and definitely slightly buzzed, it was time to get in bed. However, had a surprise visit from Reg, smoking a bowl and chatting about the crew. [Must say here that I am relieved someone smokes pot around here.] It is difficult to have a detailed opinion of people that you just met, though certain personality traits often surface quickly, particularly when one speaks highly of themselves. If I am going to trust anyone, it most certainly would be the Carnies who have been doing this long enough to make those snap judgments. Such as the Deadheads that seem like trouble.

The couple had come up to say hello, and the girl wound up being invited on as the Bally Bitch. Her duty will entail standing on the bally stage [in a skimpy costume] and wave the tip in. The boyfriend works down at the bingo tent, and they have a darling mixed breed puppy that always accompanies them. Did not get a good feeling from them initially, and it has stuck with me the more they open their mouths, fixated on scoring weed and talking about it way too much. It seems they are more in need of a ride than anything, and hey, if they can make some money, might as well. The guy had commented he wanted to bring his younger brother along, but did not say a word about that to Mab [the Boss’s wife]. Well, Carnies certainly are not stupid, and I am sure they are keeping an eye on everyone. However, something is to be said by Reg and sharing a bowl. It was also good to know that my assumptions of certain individuals have been picked up by someone else who just happens to have that ability to read people.

Aside from all that, Reg explained that it was important for us to learn all we can about what it takes to put on a show. Not only so that we have a greater appreciation for this, but also that we understand the business should there be a desire to frame our own show. Just as there are those who are ensuring the sideshow acts are kept alive by teaching a new generation, so too are these people ensuring that the classic 10-in-1 sideshow will have a future. It is a great honor, and I certainly have learned that a lot of hard work goes into this, but worth some sweat and sore muscles for the reward that is yielded.

Reg bid good night, and with stomach full, buzzed and high, sleep was welcomed.

Carny Philosophy - Man Eating Chicken

[Originally written 1.22.2004]

Was watching A&E for no particular reason, and my attention was gained by the mention of Lobster Boy. It was an entire hour on the death of Grady Stiles, and I found myself glued to screen as footage of Gibtown, Florida was shown.

One of these days I shall have to take a visit to that place. There are rides and games and animals and other cool carnival things right out in the open, all year long. The people that live there who aren't carny folk enjoy it as well. They see the freaks as friends and neighbors who just happen to have made a living from the sideshow.

That's the kind of place I wanna live in; a never ending carnival.

To this day, I still remember the episode of Jerry Springer where hole Stiles family made an appearance. Apparently, Jerry was trying to get them to make peace.

On Sunday, I happen to catch a program on the History Channel that focused entirely on circus freaks and sideshows. It was basically a visual time-line of how they came to be. It started with P.T. Barnum's dime museum that bloomed into a traveling show, and eventually sideshows became a common sight in Coney Island and other places.

Despite the fact that some people may think the freaks were exploited and treated poorly, they made a damn good living. Tom Thumb [the world's smallest man at one point] died a millionaire. Ain't that some shit?

The sideshow gave those with physical deformities a home and an income, while the rest of society would rather shut them away in the dark. When the activists came out of the woodwork to complain, it was the freaks who spoke out against them and told them to fuck off. They enjoyed what they did, and who else would hire someone with three legs or a parasitic twin?

Now for the point of the entry. Referring to the program about Lobster Boy, a gentleman that was interviewed in Gibtown said something which I have now adopted as one of my many mantras. Carnies always keep an optimistic attitude. They may have a terrible week where they earn little or nothing, but they don't let it get them down. Instead, they believe that they will do better next week, because you never know what can happen, and you have to keep a positive outlook.

A new phrase popped into my head while watching this terrible fascinating program. During the trial, a tape was submitted to prove that he was abusive to his family. There was no sound, so the tape showed what looked like a rather aggressive wrestling match between Grady and his son. The jury fully sympathized, until a second tape was submitted, with sound this time. Since the voices were now fully audible, what seemed like abuse turned out to just be playful wrestling, with Grady's wife giving pointers to her son.

This is a clear case of Man Eating Chicken. If you have seen the HBO series Carnivale, then you know what I'm talking about. For those who have not, it's quite simple.

In one episode of Carnivale [and in real life sideshows], there was a banner that simple said Man Eating Chicken with a picture of a giant chicken. Now, taken the wrong way, one would assume they were going to see a chicken eating a man, when in fact they saw exactly what the banner said they would. Of course this angered all the people who paid to be fooled. "Tell your friends," you say, "so they have to pay as well, and the joke will be on them."

That is the basis of Man Eating Chicken.

Thus concludes today's lesson.

Circus Family

There is a theory I have about how the Circus is like the Mafia.

Seriously. Think about it for a minute. When an old school circus set up in a lot, there was a main boss, sub-bosses and variety of workers. The games are crooked, there's likely pick-pockets wandering about, and if you're lucky, you get to be a mark. In case you did not know, that means you are gullible and flashing around your money. Don't worry, we a have nice safe spot for it in our pockets.

There are few rules in the Circus [I am using the term to generalize, so this includes carnivals, sideshow, burlesque, etc.]. Should you be an unfortunate townie that happens to break one of them, well then you're in store for some good old fashioned Carny Justice. And if you think that's just something out of a television show, you obviously have never seen the wooden bats hidden amongst plush toys at a game booth.

One of the most important rules is: you do not fuck with the Carnies. Much in the same vein as you do not fuck with the Mafia. There are dire consequences for doing so, and I'm not talking about the shit you see in Hollywood movies.

Like the Mafia, the traditions of Circus are passed from one generation to the next. If you fail to see the connection at this point, you should just stop reading and waste your time elsewhere.

Taking this one step further, as silly as it may sound [and this is just in my humble opinion], when it comes to the whole of sideshow in Philadelphia, Red Stuart is at the top of the game. He is the oldest living sword swallower, holds multiple Guinness Book records, has traveled across the country numerous times, and has done more tent shows than anyone I know of. Suffice to say that he is, indeed, the Godfather.

It seems that many performers have a better-than-thou attitude when it comes to certain things. While at first it is comforting to know that they have so much confidence, it gets to a point where one cannot help but wonder why they strut around like their shit doesn't stink. They are not the end-all and be-all of sideshow, though certainly desire to corner the market on as much as they can. Is it to bring a dying form of entertainment to those who may not otherwise have seen it? No my friends. They are doing it for the almighty dollar, and that is a blow to each and everyone of us who have slaved to pitch a tent.

Obviously one can expect some sort of compensation for entertaining audiences. However, in the old days, just having this opportunity was enough to satisfy. There were many moments when each penny was scraped together, just so that everyone could have a decent meal. Animals were more important than the humans who cared for them, because it was far easier to replace a roustie than it was to get another lion. Of course there's also those stories about how people would get tossed off the train in the middle of the night if they were considered to be dead weight.

Perhaps my head has been clouded by visions of what it must have been like in the early days of Circus, when everyone pitched in and worked their hardest in order to give the best performance possibly. The sheer joy evident on the faces that surrounded you as applause filled a canvas tent was something that others could only fantasize about. It's something that you either understand or you don't, and if you fit into the latter category, perhaps you should take some time to learn a little something called history. People lived and died for the Circus, but I do not see the same commitment from those who dare say they are carrying on the same traditions.

Certainly there are plenty of movies, television shows and even books that are full of common misconceptions. Going back to the original comparison of Circus and Mafia, do no let anyone fool you into believing that neither one of these are highly organized businesses which deal with large volumes of cash. Stereotypes exist, and unfortunately are played into any time the media picks up on a negative aspect. However, in my heart I believe that some people truly get it, and will forever remain with it.

The theory of having a Family composed from a variety of individuals who all work together for a common purpose seems to elude many. In the end, everyone will do whatever they want and there's no use in trying to change that. Instead, I am will always remain loyal to what I know and love, because Family is all I have.