I have faint memories of riding salt and pepper shakers as a child. For those unfamiliar, salt and pepper shakers are a carnival ride, where you climb inside a small pod at the end of a pole-contraption, then that pod circles while spinning. It's a miserable experience, and I have to chalk it up to being the early 80s as to why they don't exist anymore. Litigation being what it is now. I would never let any of my children ride such a cruel monstrosity, and I may have some resentment issues towards my parents for letting me board the thing, though most of my childhood memories are blurry. As this is one of the few images that I can recollect, I'll assume it's a good thing the rest remains out of focus.
Anyway, the carnival has come to town again like it does at least twice annually. Semis unload and set up their rickety ferris wheel and assorted vomit-inducers, along with “food stands” for corn dogs, funnel cakes, and pizza grease. (Perhaps I shouldn’t’ve separated those from the vomit-inducer category.) Generators power the thousands of light bulbs, and I can’t see how the operations turn a profit. (Do they also pay rent to the supermarket for using their parking lot?)
Curiosity, plus a desire for an alternative to Redboxing it, inspired me to take Leslie to perhaps ride the ferris wheel. We arrived at the tail end of an evening as the clock approached ten. I escorted my wife through Sucker’s Row, ignoring pleas to dart balloons or ring bottles. I’m not a mark. I’m not a rube. I have no need for an oversized, Styrofoam-stuffed fuzzy banana and I really can’t fathom who does.
The gate and corrals to accommodate the non-existent lines had a sign requiring five tickets per person to ride the big wheel. Without knowing the conversion rate between dollars and tickets, I wasn’t discouraged. When I located the booth and learned tickets were a dollar each, I was less than thrilled. But ten bucks for ten minutes time was acceptable, especially since I’d already turned down Leslie’s request to stop at a specialty sundae shop. (Doesn’t the old saying go “You have to spend money to make happy?”)
Mostly fortunately but a little unfortunately, we discovered the booth was closed. Tickets couldn’t be sold, cash wasn’t accepted at the ride, and we were out of luck. Really? I can’t speak for Les, but I felt lucky.
In lieu of making myself nauseas via the ride, I opted for one of their “famous” funnel cakes. Did they possess a special mold to make the stringy bread into faces? Had their special flavoring (aka powdered sugar) won international acclaim?
I approached the large, unhappy woman behind the food counter and asked if they, unlike the ticket booth, were still open.
“Sure. Cash only. No change.”
My wallet contained a twenty and nothing else. While one funnel cake mightn’t make me sick, four funnel cakes made that ending inevitable.
I briefly attempted a haggle for two funnel cakes and ten tickets, but the carnie corrected me that, “Ticket booth’s closed.” Of course. Stupid me.
As my boys get older and more adventurous, they’ll more than likely want to try some of those rides, win some worthless crap, and impress future girlfriends by tossing ping pong balls into goldfish bowls. Staying one hour could easily run fifty bucks, and that’s without entering Sucker’s Row.
Spending a couple hundred bucks for Disneyland doesn’t seem so bad by comparison. See? There’s always a silver lining.
Oh wait. That’s just the reflection from pizza grease on the blacktop.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Automatic for the Pee
I shall now attempt to list Innovations in Toilet History without doing any research whatsoever:
Water closets and commodes replaced outhouses so the waste could be flushed away.
Someone decided a second seat would be helpful in providing (1) more comfort for sitting, and (2) a wider berth for men to urinate. Though women have forever complained about leaving the seat up, I, as a man, have never bemoaned the seat being down when I choose to stand.
Perhaps enough others bemoaned, because someone invented the C shaped seat to replace the oval. I can only assume this helps exceptionally large people, and I’ll leave "large" to your definition. I’ve never personally required the gap and I still have the courtesy to lift the seat to pee.
Within the last two decades – and probably more recently – someone invented the automatic toilet flusher. Sensors detect when I’m finished with my business and the commode flushes without my direction. I hate this.
Firstly, that sensor has a direct view of my ass. I’m not usually paranoid, but who’s to say the computer chip isn’t constantly transmitting photos to the internet? It’s not a pretty thought, and I’d like to wipe it from my mind.
Secondly, I stand up to wipe. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. I’m far from an environmental activist, but how much wastewater is required to turn off the buggers until I'm ready?
(God help the unfortunate soul who drops something in the bowl.)
If the point is hygiene – I no longer have to touch the handle so many others have used while their hands are less-than-ideally sanitary – then those hygienists should also be aware that toilets should have lids to avoid any possible germ splash. I don’t like public restrooms to begin with, but I’m willing to use seat covers and wash as necessary. Pulling a handle isn’t a big worry, and if it was, I can always wrap my hand in unused toilet paper first.
If the point is to avoid those people who gleefully leave souvenirs for future stall-sitters, I understand. I tend to hope our population isn’t that generous as a whole.
Regardless, it seems my best option is to avoid detection by taping an index card over the sensor before dropping trou. At the very least, I’ll need to start signing other names to my briefs' waistbands.
Water closets and commodes replaced outhouses so the waste could be flushed away.
Someone decided a second seat would be helpful in providing (1) more comfort for sitting, and (2) a wider berth for men to urinate. Though women have forever complained about leaving the seat up, I, as a man, have never bemoaned the seat being down when I choose to stand.
Perhaps enough others bemoaned, because someone invented the C shaped seat to replace the oval. I can only assume this helps exceptionally large people, and I’ll leave "large" to your definition. I’ve never personally required the gap and I still have the courtesy to lift the seat to pee.
Within the last two decades – and probably more recently – someone invented the automatic toilet flusher. Sensors detect when I’m finished with my business and the commode flushes without my direction. I hate this.
Firstly, that sensor has a direct view of my ass. I’m not usually paranoid, but who’s to say the computer chip isn’t constantly transmitting photos to the internet? It’s not a pretty thought, and I’d like to wipe it from my mind.
Secondly, I stand up to wipe. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. Toilet paper. Flush. I’m far from an environmental activist, but how much wastewater is required to turn off the buggers until I'm ready?
(God help the unfortunate soul who drops something in the bowl.)
If the point is hygiene – I no longer have to touch the handle so many others have used while their hands are less-than-ideally sanitary – then those hygienists should also be aware that toilets should have lids to avoid any possible germ splash. I don’t like public restrooms to begin with, but I’m willing to use seat covers and wash as necessary. Pulling a handle isn’t a big worry, and if it was, I can always wrap my hand in unused toilet paper first.
If the point is to avoid those people who gleefully leave souvenirs for future stall-sitters, I understand. I tend to hope our population isn’t that generous as a whole.
Regardless, it seems my best option is to avoid detection by taping an index card over the sensor before dropping trou. At the very least, I’ll need to start signing other names to my briefs' waistbands.
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