Sports Chat

I wrote this one for a class I took at Chicago's Second City.

“SPORTS CHAT”
9/12/08

CAST
Roy Plonske - 40s, Radio Show Host
Lane Vundervetti – 20s, NFL kicker

(Radio Booth)
(Two men sit facing each other.
The older one mimes pressing dials on a switchboard.)

ROY PLONSKE
Hello and welcome to “Sports Chat” on AM 820, the Chicago area’s number one source for all you Sports fanatics. My guest today is Lane Vundervetti, who I believe is a kicker in the National Football League. Is that correct, Lane?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Um, yes. I’m a kicker for the Jaguars.

ROY PLONSKE
Fantastic. But more important than your career is the fact that you love Sports. Now, let’s get down to brass tacks: Which three words come to your mind when I say “Sports”?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Hmmm. Interesting question. Off the top of my head, I’d have to say, “Thrilling,” “triumphant,” and “competitive.”

ROY PLONSKE
Uh-huh. I agree with the first two words whole-heartedly, but “competitive” is a bit of a head-scratcher to me. Unless you mean to suggest that each note of Sports is competing to out-rock the previous note. In which case, one could hardly disagree.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
(confused)
Competing to out-rock the previous note...

ROY PLONSKE
Right. That’s what I thought you meant. Here’s a doozey of a question: which do you prefer, the A-side or the B-side?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
The A-side or the B-side of what?

ROY PLONSKE
Why, Sports, of course. The topic of this radio show.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Well...by A-side or B-side, do you mean, like, pros vs. cons? 'Cause I’d have to say the pros, such as being paid a great deal of money to play sports...

ROY PLONSKE
Whoa! There’s a company that’ll pay you to play Sports? I’d quit this radio gig in a second if I could snag a job like that. At least five times a day I play Sports.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Really? I didn’t realize you were so athletic.

ROY PLONSKE
I didn’t mention athletics. I’m talking about Sports, a musical achievement you agreed was both thrilling and triumphant.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
I’m lost. What exactly are you talking about?

ROY PLONSKE
Sports, you meat-head! The chart-topping album by Huey Lewis and the News.

LANE VUNDERVETTI
Wait. Let me get this straight. You’ve devoted a weekly half-hour radio program to an album from—what—1984?

ROY PLONSKE
1983, stupid. God. What kind of a stooge assumes sports-athletics instead of Sports-Huey Lewis when he’s asked to give an interview on “Sports Chat”?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
(sarcastic)
Right. How silly of me.

ROY PLONSKE
Well, for the seventh-straight week, “Sports Chat” is going to call it quits prematurely due to miscommunication with a dumb jock. But before you get the hell out of here, Lane, answer my question: the A-side or B-side?

LANE VUNDERVETTI
(beat, followed by dry delivery)
The A-side.

ROY PLONSKE
The man’s got a soft spot for the “Heart of Rock and Roll,” “Heart and Soul” opening salvo. And who could blame him? Don’t touch that dial because “World News Tonight” is up next. The News is gonna share tales of all the wild parties they had on their '86 World Tour.

Hey God, Are You Out There?

Originally printed in The Advance-Titan, in October of 2006.

Olig to God, do you copy? Over. (Static hiss.) I repeat: Olig to God, do you copy? Over. Ha! That got your attention, didn’t it?

Considering there might be millions of other frail and aimless humans trying to channel you at this very moment, I figured I had to do something to set myself apart from the herd by contacting you with this nifty prayer Walkie-Talkie. I would have blessed it with holy water for full effect, but that might have short-circuited the gadget. Oh, I can just picture you scanning the current throng of praying people, debating whose pleas merit your undivided attention.

“Hmm...Mel Gibson’s nagging me again...starving Ethiopian begging for a morsel of food...Holy crap, is that scrawny guy contacting me via Walkie-Talkie?! What a novel idea! I want to hear what this nut-job has to say.” My scheme worked masterfully, benevolent Creator.

Seriously though, God, I hate to do this to you, but...I need to borrow some money. I got a little tipsy the other night and wagered a hefty amount of cash on the outcome of the movie “Kramer vs. Kramer.” Thinking there was no way I could lose, I logically bet on Kramer. Well, by the film’s conclusion, it became painfully clear that I should’ve bet on the wild card: “When it comes to divorce, there are no winners.” It was a poignant moral lesson, but on the downside, my greaseball of a bookie is going to shove my tongue into a pencil sharpener if I don’t cough up two grand by this time tomorrow.

Kidding! If you weren’t omniscient, you’d have been totally duped by my deadpan ramblings. Okay, before you divert your attention back to the starving Ethiopian, I’ll get to the point — I’ve got oodles of questions followed by a request. My first question is: do you remember that time two weeks ago when I tried to purchase some Nacho Cheese Doritos out of a vending machine and the bag got trapped in the area just above the deposit slot? My bag of Doritos plummeted into the unreachable limbo zone of the vending machine. It was traumatizing; I thought tragedies like that only happened to other people.

Why do you allow that kind of suffering? Is it because I laughed at some jokes about the recently departed Crocodile Hunter? That’s it, isn’t it?! That vending machine injustice was my karmic comeuppance for snickering at a morbid joke. Look, perhaps my response was inappropriate, but sometimes we need humor as a defense mechanism against sorrow. Nevertheless, the next time Siegfried or Roy gets viciously attacked by a wild animal, I promise not to laugh. Because I love Nacho Cheese Doritos.

Moving along, do you really get bent out of shape about gay marriage? Because a lot of your devotees do, and it’s disappointing that certain people cite you as an enabler for their petty hostility. You advocate the “until death do us part” bond, right? Well, I promise you the divorce rate in this country would decline if gay couples could wed in every state. Hear me out, God. Approximately 5 percent of people are homosexuals, so if you’re a gay man in some sparsely populated state like Wyoming, odds are that finding a mate will require an exhaustive search. By the time you find someone you dig enough to marry, you’re going to stay together out of fear that you’ll never meet another compatible man without having to relocate halfway across the state.

“Divorce? Nah, nuts to that,” thinks the homosexual from Wyoming. “The dude I’m with is pretty cool, especially when you consider there are only 14 other gay men in this entire frickin’ state, and I know for a fact that half of them are deadbeats. You gotta know when to hold ‘em.” (Editor’s correction: recent studies suggest there may be more than 16 gay men in the entire state of Wyoming.) (Columnist’s rebuttal: stay out of my prayers, editor!)

Here’s another question: when Muslim males die, are they really greeted by 72 virgins? In regard to the fairer gender, when Muslim females die, are they also greeted by 72 virgins? That just doesn’t seem fair; generally speaking, sex with a plethora of virgins is much more appealing to men than women. I’m no expert on women, but from their perspective, I’d imagine showing the ropes to 72 inexperienced men would be more hellish than heavenly. Seriously, eternal bliss should be without gender bias.

Sometimes I feel like my faith is dwindling irreconcilably. Case in point: back in mid-June when I visited Chicago, shortly after bar close, I kneeled before the entrance of Wrigley Field and prayed the Cubs would return to the .500 mark by the end of the season. To say the least, that prayer was overlooked. My final question at this late hour is, “Why do you hate the Cubs?”

God, I’m never quite sure if you’re a great listener or if I’m crazy for babbling to myself on another restless night. This brings me to the request I mentioned earlier. I would give you a 69 Fist Pump salute (my utmost display of reverence) if you just popped your head out of the sky for a mere two seconds to blurt the words, “I’ll explain later.” If you could only bend the rules of cosmic mystery for two measly seconds — which is less than nothing in eternity time — it would be immensely beneficial to planet Earth. I don’t mean to sound insulting, but let’s be rational here: when it comes to visual evidence, you’re outranked by both Bigfoot and the Loch Ness monster.

Friends of Bigots

On orientation day of my class at the Second City, the instructor informed us that using a spotlight to accentuate your action descriptions is a heavy-handed and hackneyed practice. As no changes have been made in light of this tip, consider this the behemoth slob in boxer shorts from a weight loss commercial, the word "Before" appearing just below his flab-squeezed belly-button. If, someday, I'm able to produce a sculpted "After" model , you'll be the first to know.

This is satire, by the way, not to be confused with actual bigotry because I typed it with the fingers crossed on my right hand. I am far too accustomed to one-handed typing. (Wink...Sigh.)

INT. LAW OFFICE

Three men pose statuesquely around a polished wooden table, consulting leather-bound books between steep shelves. Outside of the setting, starkly spotlighted, stands a dashing yet disheveled actor named IKE WINSTON.

DISEMBODIED VOICE: You’re watching the Celebrity Channel: Entertainment for Entertainers. This is a paid program.

IKE WINSTON: Hello, I’m Ike Winston. Until recently, my life was a flourishing joyride of
pleasure and success. Then I was fired unjustly from my job, playing Dr. Randy Mansom on TV’s “Open Heart-Throb Surgery.” The termination put me in a financial crunch; I had to sell my favorite Jaguar, several assault rifles, and half of my indoor hockey arena. My plight got worse
when my former employer and co-workers publicly besmirched my good name, making it hard to find work elsewhere.
(beat)
And it was all because I spoke out against those damn sodomizing fairies.

The spotlight shifts to the three men in the law office: a homosexual, a Jew, and an African-American. KEN KENDAL, the homosexual, steps forward. His hair is gel-spiked and he wears a turquoise business suit.

KEN KENDAL: Are you a celebrity whose bold remarks have been misconstrued by the media? If so, Friends of Bigots want to help. My name is Ken Kendal, and for a reasonable rate, I offered Mr. Winston the service of my friendship. There’s no better way to prove you don’t really hate gay folks than being seen in public with a gay man like me. Ike, tell our celebrity viewers how fabulous I am.

IKE WINSTON: “Fabulous” isn’t my kind of word, Ken, but...you’re okay, I guess. Being photographed with Ken while browsing for scented candles at Bed Bath & Beyond helped to convince the public I was only kidding when I said: “Those damn sodomizing fairies seriously make bestiality seem like one of the sacraments.” Thanks, Friends of Bigots!

Another celebrity, GIL CARLSON, replaces Ike in the spotlight. Gil wears a black cowboy hat and long-sleeved blue denim. He preens arrogantly and broadens his shoulders as if daring someone to punch him in the sternum.

GIL CARLSON: Howdy. Name’s Gil Carlson, country music sensation. You prob’ly recall the
hullabaloo stirred up by the left-wing yahoos following the release of my concept album, “Peace on Earth, Jew Colony on the Moon.” There was protests, boycotts, and CD bull-dozin’—come on, it ain’t like I killed nobody.

DAVID KLEINMAN, a man of Jewish faith with dark curly hair and glasses, introduces himself.

DAVID KLEINMAN: My client’s poor grammar and double-negative notwithstanding, let me assure you that he most certainly has never killed anybody.

GIL CARLSON: (seething) You fancy yourself a book-reader, don’t ya, Kleinman?

DAVID KLEINMAN: Indeed, Mr. Carlson. Reading books has taught me a thing or two about freedom of expression. I don’t own a copy of “Jew Colony on the Moon,” but that didn’t stop me from inviting my client to my nephew Jeffrey’s Bar mitzvah. Once Entertainment Weekly printed a photo of my client dancing the Hora amongst dozens of my people, America became willing to give him a second chance.

GIL CARLSON: And sure as hell, I benefited from that second chance...for two whole weeks, ‘til I slipped up again just before an interview with one of them late-night fellers. The gap-toothed Yankee announced that I was the next guest and I made a grand entrance, sittin’ on a rocking chair hoisted by two of my finest slaves.

Cue the third member of Friends of Bigots—a black man with a stern countenance named Darren Hodges.

DARREN HODGES: And that’s where I came in. The rented friendship offered by my gay and Jewish colleagues may not convince the public you’re really a tolerant person. Sometimes it takes a black man like me, Darren Hodges, to pose with you waiting in line outside of a Public Enemy reunion concert.

GIL CARLSON: (proudly) Damn right. I was kicked in the ribs countless times outside of the Pubic Alimony show, and not once did I retaliate.

DARREN HODGES: That’s because you got hog-tied with that silly-ass Hulkamania doo-rag you
had on.

Gil jerks his focus to the side and frowns peevishly at Hodges. As a quick gesture of diplomacy, Kleinman puts a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.

KLEINMAN: Keep in mind, celebs, if your behavior incites the ire of not one but two minority groups, Friends of Bigots will offer a half-price bargain on the rental fee for the second friend. Insult a minority group once, shame on the public for misinterpreting what you said. Insult a minority group twice, shame on us for letting you save so much cash!

KEN KENDAL: A black man, a Jew, and a homosexual are more than just three guys who walk into a bar at the start of a joke. For an hourly rate of an itty-bitty ten-thousand dollars, Friends of Bigots can save your career!

DARREN HODGES: Call within the next hour and I promise not to make a pass at your wife.

GIL CARLSON: Hodges, you take back what you said about Hulkamania!

As Carlson huffs and stomps in place, the three members of Friends of Bigots smile straight ahead, unperturbed.

DISEMBODIED VOICE: Call Friends of Bigots at 773-###-5309. Remember: the pound signs represent three explicit epithets...

GIL CARLSON: Your kind is even lousier than the Mexicans, you know that?

DISEMBODIED VOICE: Friends of Bigots is now looking to hire a Mexican.

The Lemonade Stand

INT. KITCHEN – MORNING

A highly strung workaholic named ERNIE crumbles a handful of Tums antacids onto a bowl of cereal. Dressed in a suit and tie, he hunches over the kitchen table like a surly Gargoyle. His wife MAUDE, a pleasant and dopey woman, tends to the breakfast being made on the stovetop.

ERNIE: (sardonic) All the colors of the rainbow. Yippie.

MAUDE: Ernie, I made you some of my trademark “Bacombos.” You’re running late, so you can eat in the car if you like.

ERNIE: Again with the bacon and Combos, Maude? My cholesterol is going through the roof and your lousy food experiments are gonna send me to an early grave. And I’m not running late. I don’t punch in at the migraine factory ‘til 9 a.m., so quit rushing me out the door, will ya?

MAUDE: Oh, but it’s already 9:30, sweetie. Today is National Clock Tinkering Day.

Ernie lurches forward and spits his Tums-speckled cereal back into the bowl.

ERNIE: Freakin’ daylight savings time! Curse you, Cronus, you damned Greek god of time. I can never hit your biannual curveball!

He snags his briefcase and rushes for the door. Maude picks up a plastic baby resting on the stove.

MAUDE: Kiss Ernie Junior goodbye.

In his haste, Ernie leans in close to the doll but catches himself.

ERNIE: That’s not a real baby! Dammit, Maude, stop dropping these hints. I’m too busy to juggle a career and a family.

MAUDE: Okay. Maybe we’ll visit you at work later today; you can kiss him then.

Ernie groans in exasperation, turns, and stomps toward the exit. Before crossing the threshold, he berates his watch.

ERNIE: You just had to spring forward this time, didn’t you? Didn’t you?!

EXT. SIDEWALK – MORNING

ROSCO stands behind the counter of a lemonade stand crafted out of wood. A cardboard signs reads: “Round the Corner Lemonade, $.50/ cup.” Like his coworker, Rosco is cranky and unable to cope with stress. He pours a cup of lemonade and disdainfully surveys the long line of customers. Among them is a conspicuous man with a puffy red beard contrasted by blonde hair.

ROSCO: Where the HELL is he?

A FEMALE PATRON is first in line, cradling what looks like a bundled baby. She clears her throat, hinting agitation.

FEMALE PATRON: I’ll thank you not to swear in front of my child, sir.

ROSCO: (sighs) Okay, okay. My mistake, ma’am. Here, this cup is half-off.

A shoebox rests on the counter. Rosco removes the lid and hands her back a quarter.

FEMALE PATRON: I would accept no less.

She walks away as Ernie rushes toward the lemonade stand, swinging his briefcase wildly. He stops suddenly and squints at the woman and her bundled baby.

ROSCO: Hey, there you are. It’s about damn time.

FEMALE PATRON: You’re swearing again.

ROSCO: Full refund!

With that he throws a quarter at the woman. Ernie intercepts it.

ERNIE: Wait!

He swats the plastic baby onto the ground and the other customers gasp in horror.

ERNIE (CONT’D): That’s not a real baby!

He drops the quarter back in the shoebox as the customers exert a collective sigh. Ernie empties his briefcase on the countertop and out come its contents: several lemons, a box of sugar, and a hammer.

ROSCO: I don’t want to hear your bogus excuse for being late until after this ungodly rush is over. We’re low on the sun-juice, so get to hammering.

Ernie smashes fitfully at the lemons. Meanwhile, a MALE PATRON approaches the lemonade stand.

MALE PATRON: Uh, hi. I’d like a cup of lemonade, please.

ROSCO: Well, aren’t you Mr. Originality? One cup of lemonade!

Ernie grabs a sleeve of paper cups and yanks at the one on top. It won’t give; the cup is stuck.

ERNIE: Lousy paper jam!

With a vicious yank, he separates the cup from its sleeve. A wad of gum is stuck to the bottom.

ERNIE: Which one of you hell-raisers stuck a wad of gum in here? I want answers!

ROSCO: To hell with your investigation, Ernie. We’ll file a police report later.

A bullish snort of air escapes from Ernie’s nostrils. He fills a cup of lemonade and hands it to the male patron. The man drops some change into the box and darts away.
A TIMID PATRON approaches, drink in hand.

TIMID PATRON: Yeah, I bought a cup not too long ago and I found a fingernail embedded in a cigarette butt at the bottom of my drink. I’m sure it was an honest mistake, but…I’d like a refund.

ROSCO: Well, goodbye profit-margins!

Furious, he steals the hammer from Ernie and slams it down on a very juicy lemon. Citric acid sprays from the fruit into the Timid Patron’s eyes. The man reels backward and rubs his stinging peepers. Ernie shoves his coworker.

ERNIE: And hello lawsuit. Now there’s a fair trade.

The Timid Patron pinches the bridge of his nose and rests his other hand on the counter.

TIMID PATRON: Guys, just calm down…

ERNIE: (to Rosco) Who’s the cross-eyed Janitard that taught you how to make lemonade? Your technique’s all wrong. LOOK.

Ernie reclaims the hammer. Aiming to crush the lemon properly, he misses by inches and hammers the Timid Patron’s finger. The man howls and nurses his finger.

ROSCO: Bravo, Professor Lemonade. Now we gotta offer him a bribe.

He dumps out the contents of the shoebox and shovels dozens of coins across the counter to the Timid Patron.

ROSCO: Don’t sue us, you rotten bastard!

The conspicuous man in line rips off his fake red beard and reveals his true identity.

DISTRICT MANAGER: All right, I’ve seen enough, gentlemen.

ERNIE: The District Manager?

DISTRICT MANAGER: That’s right, Ernie. I dropped by for a surprise inspection, incognito, and what I’ve seen has been disgraceful. The tardiness, the cuss words, citric acid in the customer’s eyes—and Ernie, what you did to that baby was sickening.

ERNIE: That wasn’t a real baby!

DISTRICT MANAGER: Really? Well, nevertheless, you’re both canned. We’re bringing in some new blood to replace the two of you. (Calls offstage) Timmy! Trisha!

Two adorable children enter the scene and establish themselves behind the counter of the lemonade stand.

ROSCO: What a load of crap. Selling lemonade is a MAN’S job.

ERNIE: Freakin’ scabs!

DISTRICT MANAGER: Settle down, gentlemen. As a key part of your severance package I am offering to drive you to the unemployment office.

ROSCO: (considering) Hmmm. What do you think?

ERNIE: I think gas costs too much to turn down a ride from this scumbag.

With that, the disgruntled workers trail behind the man who fired them, exiting the scene. After a beat, a FAT PATRON steps toward the lemonade stand, indulging the children with a pleasant grin and a melodic tone in his voice.

FAT PATRON: I’ve got two quarters for two special little persons if you’ll kindly pour me a cup of lemonade.

TRISHA: We’re on our break, fat-ass!

The customer recoils, more shocked than offended. He slinks away, forever terrified of the future.

Timmy produces a small rectangular box from his pocket and extracts two candy cigarettes.

TIMMY: Candy cancer stick?

TRISHA: (nods) Fat-ass didn’t even say “please.”

Just Tires

I was on my way to dinner with a woman at a Mexican restaurant when it occurred to me that I had no chewing gum. When I’m on a date, chewing gum is a necessity. I need an instant remedy for the dragon breath brought on by those sneezing fits and vomit burps that you never see coming.

My date would be arriving at the train stop soon, so I started looking around for a convenience store to buy gum. As I quickly scanned the skyline, I caught a glimpse of a green and yellow sign, the same color design used by BP gas stations.

In actuality, the sign was for a store called Just Tires, but that didn’t register during the first take. As I was doing a double-take, I thought to myself hopefully, “DOES THAT PLACE SELL GUM? (Disappointed sigh.) Nope. Just tires.”

Russel Stanke's Tales of Outdoorsman Glory

One.

I caught the biggest damn walleye you’ve ever seen in your life. After a two-hour tussle, I lugged the massive bastard onto the floor of my eighteen-hundred-dollar boat. Had to beat him to death ‘cause he was floppin’ around like an epileptic on a trampoline. I clubbed him with an oar—a makeshift model that was extra-God-damn-OARdinary. It had a machete hammered through the broad end of the wood. Oh…MAMA, how the sparks flew on the old work bench the night my machete, hammer, and oar had a mana ja three-way.

I swung like a Chinese immigrant at a railroad spike and clobbered him square in the gills. But the beast was tougher than I thought. He started flopping around like his scales was made of Flubber—and I’m talkin’ 'bout the top-shelf type of Flubber, not the generic kind. I can’t remember how many times I retaliated against that flagrant act of not dying—umpteen sounds about right—but eventually I forced his spirit into the Grim Reaper’s fishing net.

In the process of killing the walleye, though, I punctured roughly umpteen holes in the floor of my eighteen-hundred-dollar boat—more than enough holes to sink my treasured vessel. I lugged the beast all the way back to shore, one hand leadin’ the backstroke while the other dug in and palmed the beast’s softball-sized eye. It was a four mile swim. That’s the longest any feller in Lawn Dart County has ever swum with a machete stuck through an oar clenched between his teeth. My kill outweighed me by 25 lbs. Most people in this town will tell you that makes me one helluva fisherman. Others’ll tell you lies and say I’m just bulimic. Bunch of jealous muckrakers, they are.

My victory over the walleye was tainted slightly by the loss of my eighteen-hundred boat, but I’ll betcha my boat didn’t mind getting killed by another thing that its master loves. Plus, that walleye provided a pretty decent meal—only decent because although I’m a great fisherman, I’m not much for guttin’ and cleanin’ the scaly bastards. Don’t have the steady hands for it. On accident I discarded much of the edible parts and salvaged and cooked some of the parts that belonged in Mother Nature’s dumpster…What I did cram down my gullet, though, was downright…tolerable.

God, I miss that eighteen-hundred-dollar boat.

***

To read more about the redneck adventures of Russel, order a copy of "There Will be Blog" by me, Nick Olig.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

The Smoky Room Upstairs

Originally printed in the Advance-Titan, October 2005. Why all this malaise about going to the carnival? Why hyperbolize those lousy feelings of dread and disappointment in the documentation of a fairly decent childhood memory? “The Smoky Room Upstairs” is pretty dour, I’ll admit, but at least it conveys a sense of nonplussed honesty. For dreamlike childhood nostalgia, John Lennon had “Strawberry Fields Forever.” I have “The Smoky Room Upstairs.” What a gyp.

My dad grew up in Mt. Calvary, a tiny village not far from my hometown of Fond du Lac. Every August, the meek and frequently sloshed village of Mt. Calvary hosts a carnival at Fireman’s Park. It is aptly referred to as the Fireman’s Picnic.

It’s not my aim to deride the spirit and tradition of the Mt. Calvary faithful. The modest town treasury simply did not permit them to splurge on the crème de le crème of redneck carnival rides—namely the Gravitron and the Zipper. Throughout my childhood summers, my parents would waste their money so I could waste some tickets on a ride in which rusty carts crawled clockwise on a track fifteen feet in diameter. It’s not like I was expecting loopty-loops and laser shows, but come on, give a kid something to work with, you know?

Only one ride posed a legitimate threat to the uprising of a corn dog you had just choked down. It was a blend between a high-octane carousel and a demonic swing-set. A dozen or so seats dotted the perimeter, and they were attached to chains that dangled from propellers. Once the thing got going, the propellers spun rapidly around-and-around-and-around, and the rider got a sense of what it feels like to be an unbreakable string of snot dangling from the blade of a helicopter. If memory serves, this ride was called “Discount Nausea.”

Discount Nausea could only be tolerated in great moderation, and with little interest in the tame rides, I sought out the prize booths maintained by jabber-jawing carnies. Sadly, throwing darts at balloons and executing a pyramid of empty beer cans with a single shot from a B.B. gun were talents that eluded me. Though my ambition was to win a Bartman t-shirt, or a least a miniature poster of Don Majikowski, I usually went home with the humiliating consolation prize: an artificial clip-on feather, colored the shade of a peacock’s underbelly. Not only did the carnies take my money—okay, my dad’s money, but my frickin’ tickets—the sadistic bumpkins also had the nerve to bash my impending manhood.

“I’m an eight-year-old boy,” I’d squeak. “I play with Ninja Turtles. What the heck do you expect me to do with a frilly blue feather?

And the carnie would guffaw, opening his mouth wide to reveal five lonesome maggots jutting from his gums.

“Weeelll, I’m sure you can think of somethin’, Nancy-boy. WHO’S NEXT?!”

It’s been said that human beings alternate between afflictions of either boredom or pain for their entire lifetimes. I’m not a very optimistic person, but I think that’s nonsense, primarily because orgasms—however fleeting they might be—are neither boring nor painful.

I mention the boredom/ pain tangent because, after wandering through the confines of Fireman’s Park, yawning in brief intervals, I would whimsically attach the fake feather’s jagged and metallic clip to my pointer finger and withstand the painful pinch until I could take it no longer. At last I would remove the clip urgently, and then shake my throbbing red finger for a while. The boredom didn’t feel so bad then.

My favorite attraction at the Fireman’s Picnic was the Moonwalk Tent. (No, the Moonwalk Tent wasn’t a diabolical scheme concocted by Michael Jackson in an unsuspecting village; it was a shaded enclosure with a floor made of puffy inner tube patches. Oddly enough, though, Tito Jackson was there, making sure no one got hurt, diligently earning seven dollars an hour.) Rambunctious hopping is an activity sure to engage children. The Moonwalk Tent had its charms, but after ten minutes or so, the fetid stench of sweaty socks lingering in a roasting confinement really got to you. Plus I was always bummed out about the absence of a top rope and turnbuckles inside the Moonwalk Tent. There aren’t too many places in which a top rope and turnbuckles can be set up feasibly, but dammit, inside the Moonwalk Tent is one of those places. And since I was too young to enact that infamous “Revenge of the Nerds” fantasy, I soon bid good riddance to the Moonwalk Tent.

It was after all these unfulfilling pursuits that I at last discovered the Smoky Room Upstairs, which was maintained by the local volunteer fire department.

The Smoky Room Upstairs was the size of a two-story hobbit-house, its dimensions comparable to a doublewide trailer living room. A tube the size of a manhole cover fed into the upstairs, and it traced back to a smoke machine with a generator that churned maddeningly.

Like I stated before, the Smoky Room Upstairs was run by the volunteer fire department, in order to enlighten kids on safety precautions in the event of a household blaze. A mustachioed volunteer would usher kids up a short flight of stairs on the side of the diminutive structure, above the seemingly vacant first floor and into the upstairs room. I say “seemingly vacant” because I had a hunch the off-duty firemen used it as a windowless sanctuary to play games of Euchre and chug beer.

His shoulders and neck craning at a painful angle, golden helmet scraping against the ceiling, our guide waved us all into the cramped room. It was furnished like an oversized dollhouse. In the midst of his boring safety lecture, he scolded a careless youngster who plopped down on an artificial couch. It’s hard for kids to discern a prop from the real thing. That’s why the little buggers feel like cold-blooded assassins when they aim a Daisy rifle at the mailman’s head.

Though the interior decorator did a half-assed job, the electrician was quite ambitious. The square perimeter was plastered with about a dozen outlets, at shin level. The fireman instilled a fear of outlets into our little hearts that day, warning us of the dangers of ramming a fork in there or overloading the amplitude as the dad from “A Christmas Story” would do.

As the lecture drew to a close, the fireman attached his gasmask and cued the smoke machine. I’ll never forget gazing at that vent, watching the smoke wisp gracefully and ominously into our air supply, feeling like I was at the mercy of a deranged super-villain and his elaborate death chamber. Years later, whenever I was smoking weed in a cramped room, my thoughts sparking like microwaved tinfoil, an inverted bog hovering over the heads of my friends, I’d recall this image.

Pretty soon, when the smoke had reached a murky, almost opaque density, we were instructed to crawl out of the Smoky Room Upstairs (a trek of roughly ten feet) and rejoin the outside world. Then it was once again time to scam money from our wasted parents so we could buy tickets for rides and booths until it was time to go home.