I know it’s darn early, but I can’t help it. There’s something wrong with me. Every year at this time I have to wander Hobby Lobby and Michael’s and Party City, looking for the Halloween stuff. It really is some kind of illness, one that manifests itself in pumpkins, skeletons, and stupid childlike grins. And here we are, again. The season on witches is upon us and the trappings of said season are slowly infiltrating…. and I can’t stop grinning…
I know, it’s sick….
Ok. So I know that I owe you a blog about circuses. The question is, is it now worth it?
I lost two different drafts due to computer errors. These were full-out brilliant posts that I am not sure will ever be topped and I just am not feeling like trying to recreate them right now.
BUT… There is a new circus coming to town.
So…. I guess I’ll have something to write about after this weekend, won’t I?
To get in the mood, I decided to bring you a review of something that I know we used to be able to purchase at circuses – flat taffy.
Now I don’t know about you, but I am a big fan of taffy. I like everything from traditional salt-water taffy to laffy-taffy and any taffy in between. But there is something about flat taffy that just makes me salivate.
Flat taffy has been hit or miss on the market, but recently I found that both Cracker Barrel and Michael’s are fully stocked.
I flat out love this taffy. I remember taking road trips with my family to far away, exotic locals such as Pierre, South Dakota, and Enid, Oklahoma. We would load up the ol’ green station wagon and motor on down the road in full-on Griswold mode. Normally our gas station layovers were more like Indy 500 pit stops. Dad would pull next to the gas pump. Then we would synchronize our watches.
“You’ve got 30 seconds,” he would say, a manic, time-pressed gleam painting his eyes.
We would rush in, head for the urinal, do our business, shake it off, run our hands under gas station bathroom sink water that always was either just above arctic or molten sun mass. Then we would run back to the car, our thongs (that’s what we used to call flip-flops) slapping the tarry, summer stained asphalt.
Dad would have already filled up, paid, and peed by then and he would be waiting, impatiently tapping his fingers on the roof of the car. The moment he saw us, he would gesture to us like a third base coach telling us to steel home. We would pile into the car, and then the tires would squeal, leaving about three pounds of rubber behind and we were back on the road. Dad had these stops down to a artistic science, working them into our travel schedules with meticulous plotting, like Shakespeare working out a sonnet. Nothing would get us off schedule.
But occasionally, things would be different. Every once in a while we entered a magical realm, where schedules didn’t exist and time was on our side, and we’d stop somewhere exciting like:
Stuckey’s. The crème de la crème of highway monuments. A treat fit for a king of the road. These short siestas were probably owed more to Dad’s fatigue than any real sense of parental benevolence. Dad was old school masculinity and mom never drove. That meant that when the freeway hypnosis kicked in, he had little choice other than to pull over for a moment and try to regenerate. But Dad was a master at the game. He always let us know that he was stopping for us.
For those of you who never got to experience these concrete oasis, let me tell you what you missed. It was the ultimate tourist trap. Rows upon rows of trinkets and confections that would cause jaw to drop and chin to shine with silver slivers of saliva. Tacky t-shirts and plastic things made in exotic corners of the globe would call out to every kid in a thousand mile radius, brainwashing them into begging mom and dad to buy! Buy! BUY! I swear, we never got out of one of these without aggravating both parental units to the point of yelling, weeping, and gnashing of teeth.
But the pinnacle, the jewel in the Stuckey crown, was the candy aisle.
Row upon row of glistening, over-priced nostalgia called out their Pied Piper song. What kid could resist? Corn syrup and glucose in every shade of the rainbow and artificial flavors that would have made Willy Wonka kneel at the great Stuckey sandals, shone like stained glass windows in a sugar church.
To give my parents their due credit, we never left without something to pacify. There were fizzy Zots and Bottle Caps and gummy Cola and Gatorgum and Pumpkinhead Bubblegum and Slush Puppy Paws and candy buttons and a host of other cavity-causing friends as numerous as the grains of sand on the seashore.
Sometimes I would reach for the Nik-L-Nip,
which always looked so promising but never quite satisfied.
But more often than not, I reached for the flat taffy.
Ah. Flat taffy. There is not a fruity flavor of sugary sweetness that can teleport me back to nine quicker than some good, Old Fashioned Flat Taffy.
Recently, I was out on an expedition and I ran into a box of these babies. Of course I had to indulge. As you can see from the smile on my face, I was really thrilled.
Now I don’t know about you, but I only remember one flavor. It was kind of a sweet, mixed fruit flavor. Sometimes I could convince myself that the red was strawberry, the yellow banana, and the blue raspberry, but I could never be fully sure that I was really tasting what I thought I was. Imagine my surprise when I turned the package over and saw:
What the what? There are flavors? I had no idea. I know they didn’t have Cotton Candy or Grape when I was a kid because I was nuts for those two flavors. In fact, I still think that Grape Big League Chew is the greatest flavor of any candy on the planet Earth. All I knew of, back in the day, was Rainbow.
Being the responsible (cough cough) adult that I am today, I did something that I never had done before: I flipped the package over and looked at the ingredients.
Awesome. How can candy be any good without Palm Flakes? I don’t know, and quite frankly, I do not want to live in a world where it is any other way. This thing has no saturated far, no trans fat, no cholesterol, and no Sodium. Only 19g of Carbs? Are you kidding me? These things are practically nutritious! They are even gluten free. I love how they had to tell me that their taffy is not a significant source of either Vitamins A or C.
With the guilt of destroying my diet safely behind me, I eagerly tore into the wrapper.
The smell was an instant time machine. A waxy, fruity fragrance floated toward my nose, sending my olfaction into overdrive. This was the real deal. For a moment, I thought I was wearing my short 80’s shorts, riding in the ol’ green station wagon, my legs sticking to the real leather bench seat in the back. I finished unwrapping and reached for the rainbow.
Okay. I have to admit that my enthusiasm began to dissipate a bit at this point. The taffy looked . . . what’s the word? Elderly? I think that this particular stock had sat on the shelves of this particular craft store since at least last July. Taffy should be soft and pliable without the slightest hint of crunch. This taffy more than hinted.
Luckily, the stale stagnation appeared to have only effected the ends of the treat. Once I began to mess with it a bit, I found the middle parts to be sufficiently bendy.
The first taste was like the first warm day of spring after a nasty winter full of snow and frost. You roll down the windows and let the breeze caress your hair… if you have any… and you blast Here Comes The Sun, by The Beatles, because, little Darling, it really has been a long cold lonely winter.
To be honest, I really bought three bars of taffy. The first two were gone almost before I knew what was happening. My dog looked at me in absolute wonder as I Scooby Doo’ed the whole bars, as if to say, “Hey man, don’t Bogart those.”
Finally, on the third bar, I could relax a little and enjoy myself. Everyone knows that taffy is not only good for eating, and I had no guilt in making this colorfully delicious elephant.
I named him Alfred, and he became my good, close friend….
for about ten seconds….
Then I ate him.
He was delicious.
Time to go get some more taffy. Talk soon.
Hi. Hello. How are ya? Been a while, huh? I know, I know, I’m just like that chick or dude that you met at summer camp
that promised that they would write “the very minute I get home and then every day after that.” You waited by the mailbox every day, like Ralphie expecting his Little Orphan Annie Decoder Pin, and every day you were disappointed.
He/she hadn’t written. They didn’t write. They wouldn’t write.
Every day, that darned ol’ mailman would show up with a stack of gleaming white envelopes and multi-colored glossy magazines and your heart would jump. Maybe today….
Only the letter never came, did it? Instead, it was just a pile of bills and inquiries and none of it was for you.
You cursed. You spit. You punched your pillow. You drafted an incredibly witty, extremely mean-spirited response to your spurned love. Maybe you even mailed it. And what happened, bucko? It came back, didn’t it, with a big blue stamp that said: Return to Sender. Address Unknown. No Such Number. No Such Zone.
You were heart broken. You sighed in the darkness of your room and every time a sad song like I Ain’t Missing You At All, Someone Like You, or Yoda’s Theme from The Empire Strikes Back
came on the radio, you would turn it up and let your heart bleed.
But you didn’t learn, did you?
No. The very next summer, you went to camp.
You had almost forgotten. Then you were in the mess hall and you ran into he/she again.
They looked surprised. You were shocked. You had rehearsed this scene so many times in your head, you knew exactly what you would say to them when you saw them again. But now the script was gone.
You stood there, babbling like a codfish and your mind was blank and your tongue was dry and thick.
And they were so nice, weren’t they? And they had great excuses. They had missed you. They had wanted to write, but they had moved from Dover, Delaware to Louisville, Kentucky over the fall and they had lost your address and you were the lost love of their life.
And you believed them, you sap.
You were inseparable during camp, smooching beneath the firefly trees and the summer breeze.
You swore you’d write. You were gonna keep in touch, this time. This time, it would work.
And you found yourself standing in front of the damnable mailbox, yet again, flipping through stacks of electric bills and credit card invoices and your mom’s Better Homes and Gardens.
Yeah. It’s kinda like that.
Only this time, I promise I’ll write….
Have you seen Monsters University?
I did.
I thought it was a pretty good flick. I liked the college setting, and I would be lying if I told you it didn’t give me a nostalgic tickle or two, reminding me of glory days and gory days. As I watched the flick in a theater crowded with children and merriment, there was something about it that made me uneasy. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but for some reason I kept picturing a fat man vomiting in a four star restaurant, a man being chased off a cliff by buxom beauties, and Catholics dancing on a cobblestone street.
Then it hit me.
*Warning, this could be very disturbing to the easily impressionable and those with good taste.*
Monsters University ripped their anthem off of Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life.
I am serious . . . and seriously disturbed by this, and I am wondering what kind of monstrous group would insert such subliminal programming into their “kids” flick in order to attempt to manipulating them in order to forgo birth control and overpopulate this great planet of ours?
Oh yes, it is that insidious.
Let me show you what I mean:
Ok. So that was the Monster’s U anthem. Delightful, no? I mean it certainly sounds innocent and legit. The problem is that it completely rips off “Every Sperm Is Sacred” from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life. Check out what I mean at the :56 mark. (seriously, go straight there or this entire post will make no sense)
I know, right? Shocking.
Now listen to them both again. No, your ears are not deceiving you. They truly ripped off Python. What kind of world do we live in, anyway. Graham Chapman would be rolling over in his grave.
Think twice before submitting your child to this torture…
Oh, man, I hate it when this happens. I just wrote the most epic blog about my visit to the circus. It was two parts, hilarious as Adam Sandler before he made Little Nicky, and literally a literary masterpiece. Rarely had the words flowed so freely from fingers to keyboard, creating a beautiful symphony of words that precisely captured all of the goofy, little-kid nostalgia that I felt at this circus.
I finished my draft at my office, and backed it up like any good kid should. The draft was saved, and I was off for home, where I hoped to tweak it a bit, edit it (unlike I do my other posts, right?) and then post it to the applause and adoration of my millions of readers* Unfortunately, I forgot that I had an earlier version up on my laptop. This version only had two pictures on it, and none of my wonderfully crafted prose. When I opened up my laptop and it woke from blissful hibernation, it automatically saved my most recent version – the version with only two pictures. Seriously, it was like three hours of work down the tube.
This is what happened afterwards:
At any rate, I will try and recreate what I can, but don’t expect lightening to strike twice. I will see if I can get part one up by the end of the day. In the meantime, up-yours laptop.
Sincerely,
Deigh
So you remember this poster?
Well I went to the circus. I am doing a full write up. It should be done in a day or two but in the meantime, let me give you a teaser.
Yep, it was a one ring outdoor circus.
You don’t want to miss this review.
I leave you with the world’s worst Mickey Mouse to tie you over.
Today I was plodding through my local Walmart when I saw perhaps the most amazing gift that mankind has received in the last four years: golden sponge cake, sweet white cream, three ivory puncture holes, all wrapped in crinkly cellophane.
That’s right, friends and neighbors, I present to you the Sweetest Comeback in the History of Ever:
Twinkies are childhood. I can’t even tell you the first time I tasted a Twinkie, but I cannot remember a time without them. I’ve had them fresh, slightly stale, warm, cold, frozen, deep-fat-fried. I even did this once:
Sometimes, when I would come home after school and the bullies had hit me and the teachers had been mean, my mummy would be right there with a fresh Twinkie and a cup of grape Kool-Aid.
When I first heard about this movie, I wasn’t sure what to think. I am dying to see a really good Walt Disney biopic. Disney is a personal hero of mine, an innovator, a dreamer, a magician. I have been fascinated by the way he was able to surround himself with the right talent to pull off his dreams. However, this trailer has allayed any fears.
While not a true biopic, this film centers around an extremely interesting story – the story about how Walt tried to acquire the rights to Mary Poppins from P.L. Travers, which was a fascinating exercise in patience and tenacity, because of Travers personal attachment to the book and her belief that it could never be translated into a decent film. Truth be told, the film has very little to do with the book (which is a somewhat bleak, pretentious, puffed up piece of prose).
Saving Mr Banks is a period film set in a time when Hollywood was a magical gem sparkling among the hills, and Walt Disney was its arguable king. I am thrilled to see the Sherman Brothers get some love, and the trailer below filled me with warm nostalgic glow that made me excited and giddy to see this now.
Tom Hanks pulls off a great homage to Walt, and while it is still blatantly obvious that this is Hanks doing Disney, and not some possession by the very spirit of the man (like D.D. Lewis’ amazing transformation into Lincoln, Ifound myself getting lost in the performance a couple of times just in the three minutes of footage we’ve been granted.
Nothing says nostalgia like old Hollywood and Disney films, and Mary Poppins was a favorite of mine as a child. I can’t wait to see what the entire thing plays like. I am especially excited to see the Disneyland footage where they filmed in the park and brought out vintage characters. I wish I could have met the man and been part of his empire, and he continues to thrill, inspire, and motivate me even 50 years after his death.
Enjoy the trailer:
Recently, these began popping up all over near where I live.
Woah. What kind of crazy amazing joyful thing is this? I feel like I have gone back to the early 1900’s. For days I have scoured our local newspapers, searching diligently to see if there is going to be some kind of parade or event or something, but so far I have heard no boisterous barkers and read no hyperbolic news print. There is literally no advertising for this thing other than telephone pole signs that kind of remind me of something out of Something Wicked This Way Comes:
The signs in my town are very basic and plain. There are no phone numbers, no prices, and no information. So, I decided to look these guys up, and this is what I found:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Family-Fun-Circus/198889566797144
That looks cool. I don’t think I have ever actually been in an honest-to-goodness circus tent.
But apparently that is what they plan on erecting.
I am actually really excited to see what will go on under the big top. Will there be lions or tigers? Will there be the human cannonball? Will barkers sell me cotton candy, peanuts and popcorn? Will I see a monkey in a diaper?
In my mind’s eye, it looks something like this:
I am sure that in reality, it will be more like this (only without the talking animals – which would be really cool to see):
Anyhoo, I will plan on attending this event on Saturday evening with my two sons in tow, and bring a full report back. All for you, dear Reader, all for you . . .
Yeah, so these exist.
About three years ago I was wandering through Luzon – a large island in The Philippines, home to Manilla, Spam restaurants (the meat, not the amazing wealth of internet ads that both titilate and confound me when they show up in my inbox) (darn those crafty internet marketers, I didn’t even know I knew the Emperor of Equador), and more people than Carter has liver pills. If you don’t understand that last comparison, ask your Grandma, she’ll explain it to you.
Anyway, Spam is incredibly popular in the Philippines. This restaurant was in a mall:
In fact, did you know that Spam is one of the most popular meat products in the world, today? In fact, in 2007, the seventh billion can of Spam was sold. That’s 7 with nine zeros, or 7,000,000,000. That’s one can of Spam for every person on the planet. That’s a lot of Spam.
Anyhow . . .
