Spring is in the air and despite the fact that my allergies have me sneezin’, wheezin’, itchin’, and scratchin’, I couldn’t be happier. The changeover from winter to spring ushers in street festivals, spring flings, and best of all – it’s the start of carnival season! Yes, my life is that exciting now that I eagerly await the chance to get out of the house on a spring night and attend a local carnival.   

Since I was a kid, I have always loved a carnival. What’s not to love? Blinky lights, creaky and dangerous amusement rides, skill games that you have zero chance of winning, and roving packs of teenagers full of testosterone and energy drinks. In the 80’s, we had Gloucester Day – a glorious four day affair that at its high point featured the Phillie Phanatic being flown in by helicopter to the softball marathon our town had, to its low point where the star attraction was “Big Shot” the very half-assed, ersatz, now defunct knock-off Phanatic mascot of the 76ers. In its heyday, Gloucester Day had amusements, vendors packing the circumference of Martin’s Lake, pony rides, and endless things to do. Over the years, it has taken a hit, and actually went away for a bit. It is now back, but last year was a letdown. A few scattered vendors, a few inflatable rides, and a wrestling demonstration that featured a guy who I am pretty sure I saw stocking the shelves at WalMart last week.

For awhile, Gloucester Day was a dangerous place for me to be. From 1981 to 1985, my dad was assistant principal of Gloucester’s public elementary school. This meant all the bad kids went to him first to be reprimanded for their naughty deeds. Pepper in the fact that I went to our town’s Catholic school and you will realize why I was Public Enemy #1 in Gloucester City during most of the 1980’s. And it seemed that almost every public school kid wanted nothing more than to see my big bushy blond head on a stake. It wasn’t very pleasant for me to be getting on the Tilt-A-Whirl and have to hear some kid whose dad probably neglected him, was in jail, or was an alcoholic tell me that my dad was an asshole. My dad, who is one of the kindest people you will ever meet, who loves us, cares for us, provides for us, and never missed any of our sporting events, is not an asshole. I knew that then, but at nine years old that’s not something I wanted to hear about someone I looked up to. But in the sad vicious circle of life, most of those kids who really gave me a hard time are now themselves neglecting their own kids, in jail, or are alcoholics.

Regardless, I still like visiting other towns and parishes for their carnivals – I have been feverishly researching and planning out this year’s carnival itinerary. There are so many things I love about going to a carnival. I love the goodwill aspect of it when it’s all in the good name of charity- to keep a Catholic school going, help a community out, or just bring a community together. I love seeing parishioners or townspeople who volunteer their time and efforts for a good cause. There are good vibes in the air, along with the smell of cotton candy, popcorn, and cheap cologne from the earnest teenage boys trying so hard to make out with their dream girl behind the Gravitron.

A good carnival also serves as the breeding grounds for some of the best people watching you can do anywhere. (Except the Atlantic City Boardwalk, that place is the pinnacle for people watching) It’s a festival of sights – neon lights flashing, packs of teens flirting with each other, dads with bad tattoos in wife beaters pushing strollers, and anxious little kids looking up at thrill rides with fear in their eyes. And there are some heart-warming sights as well, like young parents bringing their infant child to their first carnival, or old married couples slow dancing to a bad cover band’s version of Nazareth’s “Love Hurts”.      

Then there are the food vendors and beer gardens, a must stop for me at any carnival. The concept of a beer garden has forever fascinated me – I always imagine a verdant area of land with flowers sprouting and beer pouring down from the sky, when really, it’s usually just a fenced off section of parking lot. I also appreciate when I carnival has a wide variety of food options, above and beyond the normal hot dog/hamburger/French fry choices. A favorite of Cailin and I is the chicken on a stick (kebab) vendor, the grilled corn on the cob, and one rare but amazing delicacy- the London Broil sandwich. And of course, who can forget the cardinal rule for carnival food – anything deep fried is good, especially when sprinkled with powdered sugar.

The games of chance are always a riot as well. Somehow, no matter how much of a pep talk I give myself to avoid getting suckered in, I always succumb to the pressure and the siren call of the carnival barker. I acquire a false sense of confidence via the liquid courage (Miller Lites) I drank in the beer garden. Certainly I can shoot this overinflated rubber basketball into a non-regulation hoop thirty feet away after having four Miller Lites, three chicken kebabs, and a funnel cake. And for what? The chance to win a giant plush banana with dreadlocks and a rasta hat, a framed Jonas Brothers poster, or a fake Yankees jersey.

Best of all now is that my son Jack loves carnivals, which is a gift and a curse. Last year, he sat calmly in his stroller, didn’t beg to go on rides, and hung out eating French fries while Cailin and I had a few beers and watched the Phillies. This year, my parents took us to a local carnival and Jack was a blond blur. He refused to sit in his stroller, and insisted on going on the same attraction over and over. It was one of those giant maze sort of things, with rope climbs, slides, and a rickety wooden walkway. There was a giant painting of Patrick, the Spongebob character on the ride, but was cleverly named Patrix Playhouse – intentionally misspelled as to avoid any threats of copyright infringement. Because you never know when any bigwigs from Nickolodeon Studios could show up at a church carnival in Bellmawr, New Jersey.   

Last but not least, how can I forget the carnies? The easiest target in the world of comedy, comedy writing, and carnival jokes. The role of carnie is easily one of the most reviled, mocked, and lowly status of employment that a human being can have. Even used car dealers, personal injury lawyers, tax collectors, and Meatloaf’s personal masseuse laugh at them. But I have to give them props, carnies are dedicated professionals with middle school educations that proudly travel from town to town and assemble and operate amusement rides. It’s the perfect job for a vagrant or drifter to make a few honest bucks. And I even found a youtube video where these kind toothless souls give you tips on how to win the games.

We started carnival season last week in Bellmawr, and have many more on the docket. And if last Thursday is any indication, this year of carnival going will be as good as something deep fried and caked in powdered sugar. Jack was smiling the entire night, and except for an incident where he was bobbing his head along to a Nickleback song, we had a fun night and really look forward to many spring and summer nights eating meat on sticks, losing hard earned cash on rigged games, and seeing Jack laugh the night away while riding something that was put together by a greasy and shifty yet misunderstood carnie.

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