The Annual Autumnal War

Every year around this time I start getting antsy.

Part of it is the change of weather.  The nights are getting brisk, the sky takes on that deeper blue and the leaves start to turn.  I take my sweaters out of storage, do my fall housekeeping and then...it hits me.

They are almost here.

They fall upon us like an annual first week of October zombie convention. They start showing up in town, hauling their bizarro trailers behind their ratty, duct-taped together circa 1978 Ford pickup trucks.  Chewing tobacco stores get low in the convenience stores.  Can't find PBR 24-packs in any of the drive-throughs.  Rally's starts to get really, really busy. Mothers start to herd their kids in from the backyard well before dark and I get really suspicious when anyone who looks like he might be one of them lumbers down the street in front of my house, heading for the Circle K and the 33 cent hot dogs.

An annual fog descends upon us, almost like a pre-autumnal stench, a miasma that overpowers the dusty smell of changing leaves and newly fired up fireplaces; an unusual smell that doesn't necessarily smell bad just...different.

Yep. I can smell it. 

The carnies are coming.

Oh, granted: I still have a week or so before they are all here.  Two weeks before the war begins.  I need to stock up. I need to be certain my bunker is adequately prepared for the safety of me and mine.  The conflict between us is of long standing.  They--the carnies--and I have a long, terrible history that goes all the way back to the days when I worked in the bar across the street from the fairgrounds and they invariably tortured me every night after the county fair closed down.  They came swaggering through the front door, their pockets crammed with the money they had taken from the unwary with their rides, and games, and freak shows, and candy apple booths.  Oh, I can spot a carny from a mile away. 

Yes, they brought the money of Fairfield county into my bar in their pockets, and I got them stinking drunk and took it all away from them! Took that money for my community!  For the town I love!  And yet they never got the hint.  Every year, like clockwork or a cabbage-smelling plague, they come back...looking for me.

So far, I've always won. So far, I've always managed to come out on top.  I have always emerged as the victor in the annual war with the carnies, like I'm the brave English and they are the garlicy French in our Hundred Years' battle over tip money.

But this year, they mounted a sneak attack.  They must have bribed someone very close to me considering the predicament I'm in.  This year, they are arriving in droves, scenting victory on the fall air.

This year...I have toddlers.

God help me.

The carousel.  The pony rides.  The little airplanes that go in a circle.  Not to mention the cotton candy, the funnel cakes, the hot dogs, the lemonade turn-ups, the sasparilla, the game where you throw a ring around a goldfish bowl or a bottle and get a live rabbit.

Oh...they are out to get me no doubt.  They are probably plotting right now in their pop-up trailers. I can sense it.

"That Celina woman is DOOMED.  Let's get one of those shoot the water into the clown's mouth games.  Those kids will LOVE those. Mwa ha ha ha ha."

I'll admit it; I've been a little apprehensive this year as we crept closer to Fair Week.  I've hidden as much of it as I can from the toddlers--no need to get them to be willing stooges of the enemy.  I detour around the Fairgrounds, so they don't notice the growing influx of campsites.  I hurry them back inside whenever a suspiciously bright-colored semi comes rumbling past on the road.  I don't allow them to watch any local television.  And yet, somehow the toddlers know, like all kids know, that a huge opportunity for mischief is on the horizon, one that will allow them to yell "Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!" for a whole two minutes per three dollars worth of tickets.

But I have a secret weapon, one that will see me through this annual battle with my customary aplomb.  One they will never expect.  One the toddlers will be overjoyed about.  Oh yes, I have my own secret weapon in this battle with the carnies that they'll never figure out--one that begins with a Z and ends with an O. 

No, I'm not going to tell you what it is, but I'll give you a hint.  It involves animals and a slightly better-dressed foe.

Heh. They will never see it coming.

*Celina's annual battle with the carnies was abbreviated last year, but there are years' worth of carnie-related posts  on this blog.  For previous installments, just check every October's first week of blogs. This blog post has been carnie approved.*

Oh No! Could it be...?

The carnies are pulling into the Fairgrounds.

For those of you who may have missed my previous carnie encounters, you might want to check them out. We get great carnies up here. I keep threatening to write the "Great American Carnie Novel," but no one believes me.

Yet.

Our local fair is the last in the State of Ohio, taking place every first week of October since the first Neanderthal taught the first mammoth to do tricks. For the past few years, I worked at the bar across the street from the Fairgrounds and we were inundated with carnies. As some of you know, I love me some carnies: they're great character studies, they always have good stories, they spend their money as fast as they get it and they tip well. (the last bit was the bartender in me) But this year, I get to look at carnies in a whole different light. I no longer have to deal with them; it's purely voluntary.

So yesterday, I did some snooping around. I was pleased to see that my favorite carnies were back, including the carnie czar and a couple of the middle-aged oddballs that always made me laugh. They recognized me immediately, calling me by the wrong name and asking if I remembered their preferred drink.

"Of course I do! You drink root beer and made me cook chicken wings daily. How could I forget you??? *subtext--butthead!* "

"You're the best bartender I've ever seen."

*note to self--missing another tooth but still wears the same 'cologne.' Wonder if Old Spice will ever go out of date?*

It's nice to be missed.

So, in order to keep you guys up-to-date on carnie activity in southern Ohio, I'm going to continue my carnie blog this year--as a customer of my former bar instead of an overworked and underhumored 'girl.' (I think some of them think that 'girl' really is my name) Maybe I'll get more carnie insight to share with you; perhaps I will start researching that "Great American Carnie Novel;" or, maybe, I'll just get drunk and type incoherently for a while. Either way, you'll be kept in the know about the great carnie tragedies and life events, as usual.

It's almost as fun as killing Elves...

Oh. Speaking of killing Elves, have I mentioned that The Asphodel Cycle 3:Temptation of Asphodel will be released in November? *grin* Not too much longer to wait, and I'll keep you amused with carnies at least for a couple of weeks.

See? That's not so bad, is it?

Attack of the Carnies--Part Three

Owwwwwwwwwwww.


That's really all I have to say.

Owwwwwwwwwwwww.

Okay, so last night was torturous. The regulars were whooping it up because they had trucks in the truck demolition derby. The Fairview had a truck--a Rolling Rock truck! Gee, wonder why they picked Rolling Rock..

At any rate, they lost.

I don't think that Fair week was quite what my doctor had in mind when he said 'light duty.' By the time we closed last night, I could barely walk. Even now, I'm still lying in bed and have no intention of moving from it for any reason today--save perhaps for a long, hot mineral salted bath.

Apparently the carnies were tired too (or hungover from Monday) because they all left by a quarter of two. We actually managed to get all of our bar work done early. Although the night felt slower, it was characterized by a brutal hit at about 10:30. I mean brutal. I slammed my finger in the cooler door (it's now black--maybe that's not a good thing?) and banged my head on the edge of the bar while stocking beer. Yeah, yeah...go ahead and say it.

So, the story of the night. One of the head carnies (right below the carnie czar) got in trouble with his wife for not coming back to the camper instead of going out drinking. He was on his FIFTEENTH shot of Jager in an HOUR, and his reply was: "I spent sixty bucks for you to get your hair done and it still looks like shit. I have to drink! It's a better waste of my money!"

Yeah. I did a spit-take of fresh-squeezed lemonade that one of the carnies brought me. It spewed all over the bar and I mopped it up and tried to look innocent.

In the end, though, the regulars ran the carnies out. I think I have to give the point to them.

Carnies--3
Celina--4
Regulars--1

Carniwars

Carniwars--(n) The act of baiting or instigating trouble with carnies.

Oh, the stupidity.

You know, despite my tongue-in-cheek contest with the carnies, I actually like them. They come into the bar, spend scads of money on food and drink, tip well, and have a good time. Sure, you get the odd butthole in the bunch, but for the most part they are well-behaved and fun to watch.

Not so the locals. Nope. Now we're seeing the beginnings of the young, dumb element of southern Ohio who show up at the bar looking to cause trouble. I actually had a guy (who's old enough to know better) tell me last night that he was hanging out at the Fairview so he 'could piss off the carnies when they come in.'

Okay, first off: not in my bar, pal. I don't tolerate assholishness when the carnies AREN'T here. I'm certainly not going to tolerate it now. Second off: why bother? What's the point? Is there any logical reason to do such a thing?

Nope. It's just idiocy--and I told him that after I took his beer away and showed him the door.

At any rate, last night was the first night that most of the carnies had money. They spent it too. I was tending bar with josh, the newest bartender, and we ran our asses off. It was a looooooooooooong night and tonight promises to be longer. The truck demolition derby is tonight *rolls eyes* which means that the farmers AND the carnies will be in. Oh yippee. More David Allen Coe. I just can't wait.

The high point of the evening? The carnie who looked at me and said "You can't call me a carnie; I have all my teeth."

Whatever. He's still a carnie, but he's a nice one with good dental hygiene--always a plus.

The low point of the evening? The carnie who tried to start a fight with my husband. Apparently, the husband is some sort of cat because he doesn't have tattoos. Further investigation revealed that he's the same one who said I should be fired. I think that tonight he may find his drinking time limited in the Fairview.

Let's call Monday a draw.

Carnies---3
Celina --- 4
Regulars---0

And it begins...

Last week was just the beginning. This week is the week of hell. This is fair week---and now everything is ranged against us...the poor bartenders at the Fairview. We start our shifts with locals who've dropped their kids off at the fair. We end our nights with carnies. Somewhere in between are the regulars, who either come in to watch the carnies or stay at home to avoid them. Then there are the 'others' who come in to pick fights with the carnies.

Either way, hell week is here.

I work the night of the demolition derby, the concert, the tractor pull..... you get the picture. I will be tortured with endless repetitions of David Allen Coe and Travis Tritt on the jukebox, while serving bottomless pitchers of Purrburr. Trust me--my mood will deteriorate from this point.

*snort!*

But I'll get lots of great character studies too.

Normally at this time of year, it's 70 degrees in Ohio. Today, it's 92. Normally, at this time of year, I'd be wearing sweaters. Last night, I went and bought summer clothes on clearance so I could be a tad more comfortable behind the bar this week.

But the good news? *grin* The carnies love me. I've already got hookups for fair food. I can't wait! Fresh squeezed lemonade, elephant ears, funnel cakes, deep-fried snickers, italian sausages, corn dogs....

Thank god I'll be working hard enough to work all that off.

And since they love me that much, I guess I'll have to score this in my favor....

Carnies---3
Celina---4
Regulars---0

A Carnie-vore Pit

At last!

After months and months of referring to the 'mythical beer garden' that is the bar's response to the anti-smoking laws in Ohio, we finally have it! Yay! A place to serve alcohol--legally--where people can sit and smoke and drink. Our regulars were all so excited--

--and never got to sit on it.

The carnies immediately took it over. Now think about it: for MONTHS our regulars have whined and moaned and griped because they had to go stand outside (fifteen feet from the door no less) in all kinds of weather just to have a cigarette. And then, today, on the first day of having the mythical beer garden turn into reality, it's inundated with carnies.

I immediately started calling it the Carnie Pit. While the regulars stared glumly out the window, the carnies laughed, drank, and smoked to their hearts' content. Large tractor-trailers drove slowly by the front of the bar, taking the rides loaded on them to the fairgrounds, and honked at the cheerful morass of purrburr-swilling humanity whooping it up in the Carnie Pit. All that the long-awaited beer garden needed was a spittoon to make the picture complete.

Many grumbling plans were laid by the regulars, hoping to determine a way to claim the Carnie Pit for themselves tomorrow. I have a feeling, however, that their plans will be in vain.

So how do I score this? It's really not a loss for me, but it's definitely a carnie win.

Carnies -- 3
Celina -- 2
Regulars -- 0

Chilly con carnie

So it's hot here. Despicably hot. The forecast calls for high 80s and low 90s for the next couple of days. I am personally not fond of hot weather--and particularly not fond of sweating while at work. So, despite the fact that it is not October, I turned on the air conditioning at the bar. It didn't take long for the bar to cool off.

It also didn't take long for the carnies to cool off. Within ten minutes, all of the carnies in the bar were shivering in the frigid 78 degree air of the bar, whereas I became quite comfortable. Now, the way that I look at it is that since I'm the one working, the temperature should be at a level that I am comfortable with. That's not too much to ask, right?

Wrong.

Apparently, most of the carnies hail from Florida. They LIKE the heat. They do NOT like any temperature under 85 degrees. Oh the bitching!

"Ain't you a little cold, ma'am?"

"No," I replied, restocking yet more purrburr in the cooler.

A few minutes later, a different carnie: "You got an extra coat back there?"

A coat? A COAT? Are you kidding me?

The only carnie that didn't seem to care was this one girl woh at first glance seemed very out of place. She was young and pretty, slender with all of her teeth--in other words, she didn't look like a carnie at all. Once she started trying to talk to me, however, I figured out fairly quickly why she was a carnie. She absolutely could not string two consecutive thoughts together. If we were talking about football, she started talking about her period. When we switched topics to baseball, she butted in with an observation about video games. Eventually, she went outside to smoke and another carnie beckoned me over. This lady was very nice, probably a little older than me, and I really liked her since she and her husband had run up a hundred-dollar bar tab in less than 2 hours.

"That girl's not all there," she confided, snickering.

"Oh, really?"

She laughed. "I hired and fired her last week. The very next day, she came and asked for a job." She killed off her double jack and coke. "She didn't even realize I was the same person. I hired her three times and fired her twice in the space of a week, and as far as she knows she worked for three different people."

"Holy shit." I really couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yeah," the lady agreed. "I don't think I've ever met anyone stupider than this chick."

Just at the moment, the girl came back to the bar. Her boss took one look at her and commented, "If she ever has a kid, it'll probably have two heads."

The girl's vacant eyes fell on me. She said, "I think I want to wear my pink shorts tomorrow."

From behind, one of the old, toothless carnies yelled, "Do you think it could get any colder in here?"

And the girl said, "Some people eat dogs, you know."

I had to walk away. I hid in the corner and laughed helplessly. Then, I walked straight to the thermostat and turned the temperature down.

Carnies -- 2
Celina -- 2

Carniecopia or Attack of the Carnies Part Two

Surprise, surprise, surprise. The bulk of the carnies are already here. Traditionally, business at the bar doesn't pick up until late this week. The fair doesn't start until Sunday, after all, and how long does it really take to set up a caramel corn trailer? So usually, it's only a trickle of carnies until Thursday or so--but not this year. Nope, this year we are blessed with a plethora of un-tardy carnies and they're already taking over the bar.

I didn't have to work yesterday, but a friend of ours was just hired as the new bartender so we decided to go keep him company on a slow Monday night . We figured we could watch football (wow the Bengals suck), have a few beers, and I could give him pointers over the bar as questions came up.

Imagine my surprise to find carnies three deep at the bar.

Not only were they drinking, but they were eating. A lot. Poor Josh was running his ass off cooking for a group of the unwashed masses from the RV camp across the street. I recognized a few of them from previous years. Some of them even remembered my name--or some form of it--and I guess I distracted them from their primary goal for the evening which was (in a nutshell) to get blasted.

There was a carnie lovers' spat at the end of the bar and an intervention in the middle of it. (You haven't seen funny until you see three drunk carnies trying to convince a more sober carnie that he has an alcohol problem.) Budweiser and Crown Royal flowed freely and through it all I sat back in a booth with a bottle of Rolling Rock and laughed. Every once in a while, Josh would glare at me (like when I started chantiong FOOTBALL! FOOTBALL! when he had the tvs on the tiebreaker MLB game) and I would just laugh harder.

But, karma always finds a way to kick you in the teeth. Tonight is my night to work at the bar...and there will be MORE of them. So, I've decided to take a collection of carnie videos over the next week so that I can share them with you.

*grin*

Carnies - 1
Celina - 1

Attack of the Carnies, part 1 or Purrburrs and Tooth Decay

So there are two rides set up already for the county fair.

I work at a little neighborhood bar called the Fairview Inn. There's a lot of tradition involved in the place--it was established the day Prohibition ended, before that it was an old-fashioned mom and pop grocery store, the coolers behind the bar are the original mahogany glass-front cabinets that held the perishables and 'the stick' that we bartenders use as a weapon of last (or in my case first) resort came from the cop who walked the beat on this street on the first legal drinking day. He'd used the billy club numerous times when busting the illegal still in the cellar, and thought that it would be an appropriate gift to the no-longer-in-danger-of-being-arrested-owner.

Yep. Decades of DNA.

At any rate, one of the charms of the Fairview Inn is the view of the fair. (Sorry--just had to do it) The fairgrounds are across the street. It's a meticulously preserved turn-of-the-century fairgrounds, complete with grandstands and livestock barns and fabulous little green cupolas atop whitewashed wooden buildings. Just behind the fairgrounds is 'Mount Pleasant.' Coming from a state with REAL mountains, this particular hunk of rock seems more like a hill to me than a mountain. But, *shrug* that's what the locals call it.

So work last night was very busy. Not only was there an Ohio State football game on TV but the carnies are starting to trickle in for this, their last scheduled stop of the season.

Now I can spot a carnie from a mile away. It's almost like the childcatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. A whole group of them came in at around 1 a.m.

How do I know they are carnies you ask?

Easy.

First, the mullet. Not just guy mullets, mind you, but girl mullets.

Second, they always enter the bar like they're sneaking into a private club.

Third, I had to remind them ad nauseam that Ohio has banned smoking in all public places.

Fourth, significant dental issues en masse.

And fifth, they were wearing shirts with their company logo.

Let me recreate the scene for you:

The group stood in a huddle near the door, looking around with trepidation at the drunken Ohio State fans lurching about the room. After a moment's conference, they designated one poor soul to approach the bartender (who was cranky.)

"Miss, have you already called last call?"

*my internal dialogue---what an idiot! who in their right mind would call me a miss???*

"No, sir. We're open until 2:30. What can I get for you?"

"I need three purrburrs and a jack."

"Three what?" *my internal dialogue--I must not have heard that right.*

"Purrburrs."

Now, as a cat lover I get a strange mental picture when confronted by the term 'purrburr.' What is a purrburr? How does one find a purrburr? Does a purrburr hurt? And, even beyond that, is it possible for a bar to provide a purrburr? I was mightily confused.

"Um...a purrburr? Is that a shot?" *my internal dialogue--I'll just make something up. They'll never know*

The carnie laughed at me. I noticed when he did so that he was missing a significant number of teeth. "A purrburr is a beer."

A beer. I pride myself on being fairly up-to-date on the latest ale trends. This was totally new to me. So, I made a judgement call.

"Sir, I don't think we have Purrburr beer." *my internal dialogue--is it still a freaking full moon or something?*

The carnie lifted one long arm and pointed at the antique glass-front coolers with a grease-stained finger. "What are you talking about? There's a whole row of them right there."

When I turned to see what he was staring at, I nearly lost it. A 'purrbuur' is a Pabst Blue Ribbon, or, as people with full sets of teeth pronounce it--pee bee are. I pulled out the three beers meekly and then nearly ran for the bottle of Jack Daniels. If I were incorrect and the 'jack' he wanted wasn't whiskey, I'd have to run out to the car and get the tire jack out of the trunk.

*my internal dialogue--damn all carnies!*

Carnies 1, Celina 0.

But it ain't over yet. I'll win this war--I swear it!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

Oh my gosh! It's THAT time of year again.

Yep. The carnies are coming.

Last year, you guys got to hear a lot about the carnies. Carnies are probably the only fringe benefit involved at the bar where I work, which is conveniently located across the street from the city Fairgrounds. (hence the name--the Fairview) Last year, the onslaught of the carnies was chronicled in detail by me and if you look at the post for October, 2006 you can see how the battles went.

The fair in Lancaster is the last fair of the year. Most of the carnies leave here and go off to their winter bases in Florida, their campers bouncing behind their trunks. But since this IS the last county fair we get the creme de la creme of the carnies. It's a very busy week.

The fair starts October 7. Last night I ran by the bar to drop a few things off and noticed THAT THE FIRST CARNIES ARE ALREADY HERE.

What is this? Some sort of insidious sneak attack? I have the feeling that the carnies are plotting against me. The necklace of garlic cloves seemed to work last year; maybe this year I should try something stronger. Oh, well. The busiest week of the year at the Fairview is a week away. Monday and Tuesday of this week will see most of the carnies showing up. And in the end, I'm not sure which is scarier: the carnies or the people of the area who come to the Fairview to WATCH the carnies like they're in some sort of zoo.

I think I like the carnies better.