Kidnapped by Carnies

I like to think carnies don't reproduce. Not out of choice, mind you. They're sterile, naturally. And when a member of their troupe dies, whether it be Lobster Girl or Sketchy Tilt O' Whirl Dude, they gather their supplies and speed off to the nearest suburb. Then they set up shop right outside of the sleep little neighborhood. Families from the area flood the makeshift theme park and enjoy the festivities. The laughter and sheer joy that the carnival generates hides the carnies true and insidious intention(that's right... carnivals are FUN. Okay, perhaps not). Taking a note from Buddhist monks, the carnies watch for any children focused on the ride or show a deceased carny represented... the freak show, ring toss, etc. A child seen frequenting an area more than once is targeted. Chosen. A week later the carnival says its farewells, leaving behind used condoms, beer cans, and inescapable memories... save for one unmarked van. The carnies have been keeping tags on their Chosen One, and wait until the right moment to snatch them up. The child is told that they, too, are part of the carnival. Imagine the look on some little girl's face when they tell her she's the new bearded lady.

Well, that was a weird tangent. But you have to admit, carnies are fucking sketch. And they have probably stolen a few children over the years. Kids run away to circuses... but carnies abscond with them. Nobody wants to run a carnival. Have you ever looked into a carny's eyes? Nothing there. They're dead inside. They all had dreams. "I'm gonna be a doctor!" "I'm going to be a fireman!" No. No, you will serve a dark and vengeful God, tricking children out of their hard earned allowances to throw balls at pins with lead weights in them. Did you know that a carny's smile, much like a solar eclipse, should not be looked at directly? I mean, they seldom smile. But when they do... Christ. Christ have mercy on us all.

But they serve a purpose. Like mosquitoes and parasitic worms and shit. All part of the natural order. If you take away carnies, you lose roughly 3/4's of injury lawsuits and 1/2 of the molestation charges in this country. It's not pretty, but they serve a purpose, one far grander than any one of us could ever fathom.

While I'm spouting ridiculous things, maybe I should mention one of my childhood quirks that has absolutely NO relevance to anything I just said. When I was 8, my father had some movie on in the living room about a a super alligator living in the sewers of NYC. And the scene I stumbled upon was pretty gruesome: the found some poor sanitation worker's leg. From that moment on, till I hit puberty, I REFUSED to put my legs under the covers. I'm still confused as to why. I must have figured there was an alligator living under my sheets, and the moment I slid my legs under... well, you can figure it out. But why my sheets? Why not UNDER the bed? Or fucking sewers, for that matter? Why on Earth did I sleep in the cold for FOUR SOLID YEARS out of some irrational fear that SHEET ALLIGATORS were going to gnaw on my limbs?

Also completely irrelevant: I'd like to try haggis. I feel like something so foul sounding must taste like Ambrosia.

...

I really need to meet someone.

A Restraining Order to God, With Love

I had a curious thought today, as I so often do: people who wax poetic like God sound like spouses suffering from domestic abuse. They have the same excuses. He works in mysterious ways. He only hits me 'cause he loves me. He's all I've got. You don't know Him like I do. Yeah, yeah, yeah. The whole damn lot of you need to be placed into a battered women's shelter.

I feel like I've had that pent up for some time. And thoughts that I generate are like bile. Waste. It's good to get them out before I poison myself... which has happened before. One of my peculiarities is that I can't think about death. Not for long, anyway. And not abstractly. I can look at a tombstone and think, "Oh, that guy's dead." No problem. But the moment I start to dwell on death it gets to me. I hyperventilate. I look around nervously, half hoping/dreading a psychiatrist will come running up with his burly orderlies, who then descend upon me, restraining me and taking me to happy land with a strategic shot of morphine... come to think of it, that whole fantasy could probably use a psychiatric evaluation. Maybe I have submissive tendenci- NO. NO SELF-EVALUATIONS, DAMN IT! 

Anyway... where was I? Ah, yes. This phobia of death started when I was six or seven. My parents aren't religious... well, that's not completely true. My mom converted to Judaism to appease my father's mother, but she's really a big fan of Jesus. And my father... he's an enigma. Some days he's a deist. Sometimes he's an agnostic. Often he'll mention his theory that when we die we'll all end up in some spirit well, like a deranged hippie's wet dream come to fruition. And sometimes he's Friedrich Nietzsche. So I had no tangible sense of God. I just knew what I saw was real, and anything that was outside my range of knowledge either  didn't exist or just plain sucked, like the Easter Bunny or the Baltimore Orioles. And I'd go about my day without a care in the world. I saw friends, "learned" in school, ate the food presented before me with nary a complaint... but then night fell, and shit suddenly got real.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment this happened, or what might have cause my little mind to wander into the deep end of the asinine knowledge pool. I crawled into bed one night, per custom, and my parents tucked me and did their nightly ritual of shooing bad thoughts away by rubbing my head like some kind of shaman couple. Then they left and it was just me. Alone. In the dark. Nothing new. But I couldn't fall right asleep. So I thought about girls (AND HOW FUCKING ICKY THEY ARE. AM I RIGHT, FELLAS?), my favorite movies, what kind of mischief I'd get into after school the next day. But then my thoughts landed squarely on the subject of death. The big dirt nap. The final Sonata. And I soon grew... unsettled. Nervous. 

Here is pretty much how it went down in my head: *Why am I so scared? I mean, when I die, I get to go to Heaven and see all my relatives. And I'll be there forever and ever and -* AWWW SHIT. Eternity wasn't sounding so hot to little Jake(Reference to youthful Jake or my penis. Your choice). *Whoa. Forever? Won't I get bored? Won't time lose all meaning? Won't I get sad? No, I'll be happy... some freakish smile forced onto my face for all time.* OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK. Shit's getting real. I'm getting too close to my own Socratic Truth too young. I'm not ready for this. *And... will my pets go to Heaven? What about my friends that believe in different gods? What about them? What if I don't get in? What if I just live forever? What if I die and it's just darkness?* NAH. NAH. STOP. At that point I became inconsolable. I asked my parents to give me an answer. They couldn't. They weren't going to sit there and lie to me. I mean, my mother believes in this stuff. And if it brings you comfort to believe in God, I have no qualms with you. But my father didn't want to bullshit me. He just told me that eventually I'll figure it out myself.

And I did. I mean, as much as one can. I dismissed the concept of God around the age of 17. Up until then I was a deist... but even then I couldn't come to terms with the idea of eternity... whether it was spent in a glorious kingdom, Detroit, or eternal darkness. I still have trouble. I just figure I'll do what good I can while I'm here and hope I leave a mark. My own little slice of immortality without having to be around to suffer it.

Shingle Creek

I've been having a sort of "crisis of fate" as of late regarding my future. Since 9th grade I've wanted to be a teacher... preferably a professor, but I can compromise. I picture myself clad in the finest tweed, molding young minds by day and drinking to forget the depths of their stupidity at night. But just like the BEST laid plans, sometimes they can't help but fall apart. You see, I wanted to be a history professor... probably American history. I have a bank of knowledge ranging from before man walked the Earth to what President Obama's favorite color is (it's fuchsia :D). So I thought I could use this to my advantage in my academic pursuits. But I grow weary of history. And every damned history professor I've ever had has been a major proponent of Republicans, Reaganomics, Apple Pie, and Mom, not to mention the sickening philosophy they generally share that Providence moves history. No it doesn't. There's no God, you silly bastards. What you see is what you get.


So I have a Woody Allen-esque, irrational fear of becoming that. You know what they say: if you fight monsters long enough... but besides knowing everything about history, I also LOVE animals. Love 'em. Can't get enough of them. I've probably read the Smithsonian Institute's book Animal a dozen times over. When I was little my parents painted manatees on the wall of my bedroom. Manatees. Even for a Floridian that's odd. I've taken my fair share of zoological/biological/sciencetastic courses, and I'm starting to think that working with or around animals would bring me a lot more joy than succumbing to alcoholism or tweed poisoning. But what on Earth would I do with a biology degree? Park ranger? Eh. Fish and Wildlife Service? EH. Researcher? Maybe. Getting warm. Fuck it. I'm still not sure. I'll figure it out. But I wanted to do something now. Something tangible. Sure, I could wait to get my degree changed, tentatively entering the RING OF KNOWLEDGE that is biology to learn lots of new things. But I'm impatient. I wanted to go out into the nearby woods and poke something with a stick. Figuratively. AND POKE SHIT I DID. Figuratively.


Fast forward to about 8 AM this morning. I slept through my alarm about three times. I wanted to go around dawnish, since animals are most active in the wee morning hours and twilight/dusk... and anything nocturnal can just go fuck itself because I don't have a death wish. I crawled out of bed, showered, walked out, realized I was naked, got dressed, apologized to the neighbors, and hopped into my E-Friendly Hyundai Santa Fe, manufactured circa 2001. The trail wasn't far from my home, but I had enough time to jam to some tunes. I flipped the radio on. Cat's in the Cradle, Harry Chapin. Haunting tune. Not appropriate for such a pretty day. Flip. Allentown, Billy Joel. This isn't a miserable, post-industrial era mining town. YET. Flip. Hold it Against Me, Britney Spears. Okay. Better roll up my windows.


I cruised through subdivision after subdivision, passing little man-made ponds. One was filled to the brim with sunbathing anhingas. Awesome! And on the shore? A pair of beautiful sandhill cranes. Screw the nature trail. Nature is over there, next to all these foreclosed homes. I pulled over and got out. Okay, I don't want to disturb the birds. I'm told there are DIRE consequences. Hell, I'm sure their metabolisms are so fast that if I disrupt their feeding habit at all they'll just die. Finicky bastards. I took every precaution, moving slowly and snapping a few shots. Ready for amateur photography hour? Me neither.

Nature: It's Fuckin' Majestic

So yes, gorgeous birds. They may not be anhingas. And I know for a fact the one flying is some kind of stork. But I digress; it was pretty. And I still wanted to get a look at those cranes.

Just a little closer.

Closer...

Clever girl.

Fortunately for me, they were indifferent to my presence. "Don't mind him, Martha. Just another human crawling through our feces to take artsy pictures." Pretentious birds. But I caught them pruning, so if their friends see it... well, it'll be REALLY embarrassing. 

I'm embarrassed for him.

Show off.

After wiping what I pray was just mud and water off of my clothes, I walked back towards the trail before hearing an all too familiar "yo" from behind me. My close friend Keenan was driving back from classes this morning. "What are you doing?" He asked. "I'm just taking some pictures of nature, hoping it will inspire me. Want to join me?" I said, squinting, as he had stopped his car in front of an angry morning sun. "I'll let you know." Sweet. Maybe they'll find two corpses in the woods instead of just one. I doubled back to where I parked to  start my glorious journey into the semi-known.

My loyal steed.                                                           

Nature: It's Fuckin' Surrounded by Shit

The parking lot is playground adjacent for you kids, kids at heart, and pedophiles.

Fair warning.

I'll let my feces drop where it falls, thank you very much.

So I press forward. The trail starts off boring enough; grassland flanked by subdivision. And straight ahead there's some construction project. How dare they encroach on my nature retreat? 

The nature must be behind the drainage tubes and vandalized bulldozer.

 Question: WTF? >

So I walked in. I'm greeted by green pines, a sweeping vista, and the carcass of a long dead... thing. Onward I go. Lesser blue herons flying past, egrets squawking in the trees and marshes, ibises sifting through still water for tiny crustaceans and plant life. I'm in Heaven. Here's an uninterrupted block of pictures. This is what I saw along the way.

There's a fork up ahead. One path looks desolate and not in the least bit nature-y. The other leads up to an island path and a denser forest. I think I'll go with the latter. About 2/3 of a mile later I see a small path and pavilion. Thus begins my Dante-esque descent into Hell. Welcome to East Pine Island. 

Hell hath no fury like a pine island scorned. 

                                                 

If I wasn't an atheist before this excursion, God would have been dead to me after my time here. This is an island M.C. Escher would have lived on. I started at the pavilion(littered with Natty Ice and underwear hanging from the rafters, mind you) and went down the path. It was serene at first. After walking just a few minutes, all signs of mankind vanished on the horizon. Just me, about a million saw palmettos, a few pines, and an empty, blue sky. I can dig this. No fauna, but it's still pretty. Soon this isolation was getting to me, and I was looking forward to returning to the main trail. But I didn't want to turn around. The island is a loop, and seemed like it would just come back around. Lies. There was a fork in the path. Okay, I'll go right. Another fork... uhh, I'll go right again. Seems counter productive to go left after going right... wait, now I'm dizzy. Two rights make a left. WHERE THE FUCK AM I? The beautiful weather I encountered earlier is steadily getting less pleasant. The sun is right above me. Okay nature. I'm going to get out of here and finish this. You can't stop me. The dehydration was getting to me. I befriended a pine cone named Nero. We quickly grew close. 

Nero.

Nero and I trudged through a path that was flooded. I didn't expect such obstacles, and my shoes soon were water logged. Great. I'll die of trench foot or something. Nero was starting to get on my nerves. Our civil argument concerning who represented the best of the romantic artists devolved into a shouting match. I soon discarded him. I wandered deliriously until I spotted the pavilion. I survived the island and resolved to never return.

You just fiddled while I burned, Nero. You just fiddled.

Which path should I take: sunken path to the left of sunken path to the right?

What's that? ON THE HORIZON!

Sweet Jesus. The pavilion is in sight. I'M FREE!

I killed Nero. I-I killed him.

I was going to hang myself with the underwear. But then that would just be letting Nero win. Also, it was dirty.

The fire ants were none too pleased by my presence. 

I sat a while at the pavilion. It was truly my darkest hour. But as things seemed most desperate, there was hope again.

Hope.

One can assume this is a vessel of his own urine.

 Keenan. He showed up. Things were looking up. Now I had someone to talk to. And talk we did. Mostly about his major. Biotechnology. Biofuel. Biobio. It was pleasant. I snapped pictures as we walked and talked.

Together we entered the densely wooded part of the trail. Along the way Keenan and I found a partially buried aluminum bat. I figured he might bludgeon me to death. Nothing ventured...

Florida's Chernobyl. 

 Eventually the trail emptied out into the middle school, and seeing as neither Keenan or myself wished to get arrested, we turned back, and I naively assumed we'd go back to the car, maybe catch a nice lunch. I WAS WRONG. Keenan wanted to explore.

"Potential biofuel." DAMN YOU, KEENAN.

Keenan, testing the wrath of God.

"More biofuel." 

Is he vomiting or drinking? If he's vomiting, that's fine. If he's drinking, he'll be vomiting later.

 It was innocent enough. Sure, I've been here a few hours and the sun was making me hallucinate and hear voices from beyond the veil, but I could handle a leisure stroll back. But as I told Keenan about my harrowing  Pine Island adventure, his eyes sparkled. That kind of mad sparkle. Curiosity. No. No. No.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

NOOOO! NO, SWEET JUDEO-CHRISTIAN GOD, NO!

I swore I'd never return. But Keenan had the baseball bat, and I was losing my ability to speak or reason. So I became a reluctant Virgil to his Dante. I could write everything that happened. I'd sooner not. Needless to say we were both happy to be free of Pine Island.

Jurassic Park 2: The Lost World

After our tryst with Pine Island (his first, my second rendezvous), we made our way back to the cars. "What time is it?" I asked. "One." Holy shit. I've been out here since 8 AM. That might not seem like a big deal to you, but I don't think I've spent that much time at the Magic Kingdom, let alone a tiny "wildlife" trail. "Fuck, let's get lunch." AND GET LUNCH WE DID. I was telling Keenan how much I liked to try new and interesting foods, and how I find it frustrating when people won't try something just because it's "taboo" or odd. For instance, I love tongue. Sure, it can be spongy. Sure, you have to get past the mental image of you eating a tongue. But once you remove those negative thoughts you'll find that beef tongue is fucking delicious. Keenan had never tried it. TO THE DELICATESSEN! 

Keenan's steed.

Sweet serenity. 

It was the perfect end to a lovely day. No Blair Witch Project shenanigans. No swamp folk. No animal attacks. And I intend to do this more. I want to document my adventures... food, nature, and the quirky situations I find myself in on a daily basis by myself or with good friends. Oh, and by the way, that lunch was spectacular. I needed to get the taste of pine cone out of my mouth, anyway.

I ate Nero.