October 21, 2005
UNDER THE LITTLE TOP
I believe I've posted on this before, but I can't find the post. I haven't seen a small circus in a long time. Not the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Baily spectacular, or even the Clyde Beatty Cole Brothers circus, but the little mom & pop circus, mom being bearded.
Alan C. Hill's Great American Circus. The Hoxie Brothers Circus. And some even smaller. I saw one in St. Augustine that only had two dogs that could walk on their hind legs and three albino pythons. No pachyderms marching trunk entwined to tail, no genetic misfires, no high-wire acts, not even a tent. Had fun, though.
That has to be the toughest of careers. Most everyone will go to the fair in the fall. Most no one will go to a fourth tier celebration of freakish abilities, and shitting, despondent animals.
I'm still kicking myself in the ass for not buying that silk tour jacket when I caught the Hill circus in Charleston in 1990, by the by. That bitch rocked.
And so now I'm determined to seek out these pathetic sideshows, these Sisyphean attempts to bring Thrills! Chills! Spills! to the ball-scratching masses on a ten dollar a day budget. Boosting wallets being considered tips for the sporadically employed Features. It's all word of mouth, of course. No websites advertising the Imminent Arrival. Perhaps a blurb in the local, but I need to know what is in a 300 mile radius. I suppose I could go to Gibbtown and ask around. I'm sure the fair freaks interact on some incestuous level with the circus freaks, right? I mean, a carny's a fucking carny, right?
In a way, though, I'm finally ready to run away from home. It sucks here. I figure, talent levels being what they are, I could merely turn on the cymbal-banging monkey and engage him in a one-sided conversation and make liveable coin in a small-top circus. I mean, a freak's a fucking freak, right?
I stabbed a carny in the side of the neck one night in a bar in Guthrie, Oklahoma. Someone had said that he had a gun, and he reached into his coat.
He didn't actually have a gun, but he and I will always share our special time together.
Posted by: Bane at October 21, 2005 6:50 PMI reckon the monkey riding the poodle shows went the way of vaudeville-TV rules the home when video games are off limits. I used to like the medicine shows and when the old man wasn't looking I'd buy a bottle of the 90 proof "good for colds, moles, and sore assholes," stuff for a buck. Tasted like warmed over silage but potent shit.
Posted by: GUYK at October 21, 2005 7:58 PMWTF? Sure we got circuses. Were you under sedation during St.Cindy of The Drainage Ditch's Freak Show and Goat Molesting Exposition?
Missed a good one, you did.
Posted by: Gerry N. at October 21, 2005 8:55 PMI'm still trying to get more info on that annual sideshow convention I mentioned. Perfect opportunity for a mini-meet, too. As you said, a freak's a fucking freak, right?
Posted by: zonker at October 21, 2005 9:04 PMCircuses, large or small, always smell like animal shit to me.
Besides, they have farookin' clowns.
Gross.
Posted by: Jim - PRS at October 21, 2005 9:07 PMYou know, "Freaks" came out on DVD a few months back.
Posted by: Jack Straw at October 22, 2005 7:10 AMThe last of 8 kids, I grew up on Cinderella Road--a cruel joke, believe me. But there was an absolutely awesome circus that arrived at the Mel Ott field near my home. At 16 tender years of age, I saw my way out of servitude and fear: I was going to leave in the morning with the acrobat family! (I was too young to see that THAT cruel irony perfectly matched my current state of being). However, the next morning I arrived at the field at 7:30 a.m. only to find the circus had been swept from the field. Clean gone, except for the faint smell of dung, and dozens of red and white popcorn bags laying around like drunks sleeping one off.
Posted by: Joan of Argghh! at October 22, 2005 7:37 AMThat was pretty, Joan. A flower. Thank you.
Posted by: Bane at October 22, 2005 8:01 PMWell Bane, we southern belles don't carry neck-stabbing knives around until we're 18 years old. Nowadays my buck knife makes a dandy slam-weight in the bottom of my purse, but has also come in handy for carving pretty flowers on the ribcage of many a sarcastic hole surrounded by ass.
:O)
Posted by: Joan of Argghh! at October 22, 2005 8:20 PMDarlin, yer prescience precedes you...for twas a Buck folder I used, snatched, as it was, from the pouch on my belt, and poked into the varlets neck.
I went into the muscle, not wanting to endure the spurting. He became some humble, and I apologised as I kicked him out the door of the Sad Cattle Club, into the street.
Some of his posse did not fare so well, being unconscious, and beat, some.
They...well, bounced and scraped a bit.
We fetched our guns, in case they wished a rematch. Sometimes they do.
And we drank a bit more.
Posted by: Bane at October 23, 2005 3:04 AMIt just struck me, me being some slow, at times, that you may think me sarcastic, in what was a genuine compliment to you.
I am stung. Your image of your circus moved me, and I saw, and heard the popcorn bags, as they rustled there in the burgeoning day, you bereft.
I lay stuck, as a child, once, by my tongue, to a block of dry ice I thought fetching, until adults could free me.
There...see? A bit of me. I meant you no harm.
Posted by: Bane at October 23, 2005 3:11 AM