Chocolate Syrup Will Add a Realistic Brown Tone to the Blood

OK, I will admit this: I never really liked Michael Jackson. Sure, I was “there” for the 1982 premiere of the Thriller video on MTV, and I was of the first generation of suburban kids to try and fail at moonwalking. But, when my parents presented me with my very own cassette tape of the Thriller album, I asked them to take it back to the store.

I have confessed this ambivalence to assorted friends over the past few weeks, and most have reacted with a touch of horror. “But what about the dancing?!?!” they exclaimed. “Don’t you think he was a genius?” Hmmm. Well, the dancing was good, and he was very creative. But I was just never…thrilled.

When he died, I was not surprised that there was a collective national gasp of shock. But I certainly didn’t imagine that there would be an elephant parade in his honor! Or a Maya Angelou poem ("Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing, now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind")! Or a butter sculpture! So I got to thinking -- perhaps I have underestimated the whole Michael Jackson phenomenon. Is there a way connect with this larger movement, to feel it for just a moment?

To that end, I decided to take to the streets and gauge the impact of Michael Jackson’s life and death in my own community. I was going to ask people about why they were so attached to him, how his music changed them, and how they were coping with his death.

So Last Friday evening, my friend ECM and I headed out to the 2009 World Record Thriller Dance. Here was the premise: You were supposed to dress up like a zombie (we didn’t – I regret that), wait in line for hours, and then join with thousands of similarly bloody individuals in a dance that filled several blocks of city streets.

When ECM and I embarked on our attempt at investigative reporting, we found that most zombies were more than willing to let us pick their brains. Take, for instance, “Chubby Farmer Zombie," who joined us on the sidewalk to chat about the larger significance of the event. “Why did you dress up like a zombie tonight?” I asked him. “Because my wife made me,” he answered. “It didn’t have anything to do with Michael Jackson?” I continued. “Ah, yes!” he corrected. “Michael Jackson! Michael Jackson changed music, man! He was the KING OF POP. He just died, you know.” At that point, he was joined by his nagging wife (sporting an “I Love Brains” shirt, below) and their charming son, G.I. Joe.



My attention was diverted by “Vitamin Water Zombie,” who came up to us to ask us what we were doing. “I’m taking pictures of people like you!” I said. “Why?” he asked. “Because I want to write about why all these people came out tonight in costumes to do a dance from the 1980s.” He said, “I came because my ex-girlfriend wanted me to come.” I looked at him quizzically. “It’s complicated," he added.




There were others.


Zombie with a Brain on a Stick:



Corporate Logo Zombies:



Elvis Zombie:



Going to the Chapel Zombie:



Zombies Up Past Their Bedtime:



A Banana:



A Penguin:



Random Bloody Guy:



ECM and I planted ourselves with a good view of the main stage. The music started for the warm-up, and we could hear the perky dance instructor zombies begin their work.

Right, Left, Right, Left, Shoulder Step, Shoulder Step, Shuffle Back, Hop, Hop, Forward, Slide, Slide, Right Hip, Right Hip, Left Hip, Left Hip, Claws Up, Claws Up, Stare, Stare.

But it turned out that all we could really see was a confused and sweaty crowd of zombies milling around without a place to be. ECM and I were debating about what to do when we heard a zombie say, “Hello, Seattle! We are 300 zombies short of a record. Please go sign up so that we can be WORLD LEADERS!!!”

World leaders! Yes! The Senate election in Minnesota was won by a similar margin. Our participation mattered! We mattered! I grabbed ECM by the arm and dragged her down the street and over to the sign-up station. We weren’t mere journalists. We weren’t bystanders. We were going to DO the Thriller dance, join in this ghoulish display, be a part of HISTORY.

We signed up, gave our phone numbers for verification, and joined the throngs on our way to dance. Except…Wait….There was no dance. We found ourselves out on the street watching a costume contest. About 20 zombies were up on a platform, vying to win an XBOX.

I stood, practicing the dance in my head (Slide, Slide, Roar, Turn), while the competing zombies introduced themselves. Oddly, the fellow who won was not dressed as Michael Jackson; rather, he was dressed like Billy Mays.

Soon, the crowd dispersed. ECM and I looked at each other. Slide? Slide? Roar? Turn? Where was the dancing? We signed up! We were ready!

We made our way up to the front, where ECM found what seemed to be a zombie-in-charge. “When is the dance?” she asked. “The Thriller dance already happened,” he said. “You missed it.”

Missed it!!?

Missed it!!?

Missed it!!?

Days later, we are still at a loss. We were part of this huge event, this RECORD BREAKING event, and yet we weren’t. I have started a letter:

Dear Guinness Book of World’s Records,

On Friday, July 3, Seattle broke the Thriller dancing record with 3,848 zombies. You will need to subtract 2 from that total, because ECM and I somehow entered the twilight zone and didn’t actually do the dance.

Sincerely,

Zombie, Ph.D

I am also at a loss about the larger meaning of this evening. It didn't seem to have much to do with Michael Jackson. Does this suggest that his music transcends his untimely death? That the Thriller Dance will live on, even though he has joined the Land of the Dead? Perhaps there was a sense that drenching oneself in ketchup and carrying around a fake amputated leg could create unity. After all, aren’t we always hungry for something common to rally around, to cry over, to feel together? But more likely, most people were simply happy to have an excuse to celebrate Halloween in July (and maybe win an Xbox along the way).


(Somebody out there was able to see the actual dance. Thanks, YouTube. The dancing starts 22 seconds in.)

Literature

I feel like I was a bit of a voyeur at the state fairs. Truth be told, I'm not really that comfortable with weird food or scary rides or kiddie rodeos. But September always brings a wacky event that is just my speed: the Friends of the Library Book Sale.

I really love reading. I always have. I was one of those kids who looked like she was doing the phonics worksheet on her desk, but she was really reading a novel on her lap. I think that reading, especially reading fiction, has made me a much more creative person. And these days, I'm pretty proud of my eclectic tastes -- I can enjoy the Pulitzer Prize winning masterpiece, but I can also appreciate the finer points of a schlocky thriller.

People who read like I do make up a geeky bunch, and there's something pretty funny about bookish nerds competing to get their nail-bitten hands on the best used paperbacks the city can offer. Twice a year, the library system puts on these huge sales in an abandoned Navy hangar. There are thousands and thousands of books on every subject, and waiting for them are thousands and thousands of slightly furry people wearing wool socks and Birkenstocks.

Today's sale began at 9 a.m., and my mom and I arrived at 8:45. The line had already wrapped itself around the building. People came with empty suitcases and stacks of cartons and boxes that they could use to haul their treasures home.

It was cold outside, but the anticipation in the air warmed us all up. Despite the classical music being piped out of the building and the aroma of coffee from the nearby espresso stand, this was a line of tense people. Whose child would be the lucky new owner of that fresh copy of Walter the Farting Dog? Who would be the first to claim that first edition of the unauthorized biography of Anna Nicole Smith?

There was a lot at stake.

Apparently there's also a bit of a controversy about the book sale. I learned about this in the newspaper this morning. ON THE FRONT PAGE. I guess this is a big story! It turns out that online book dealers tend to snatch up all the books and pull them off to the side. Then they scan the barcodes to check the going price on the internet, leaving behind their piles of discards in the corner. In the meantime, the regular shoppers don't get a chance to see those books. Horrors! The efficient sale volunteers came up with a new rule to solve the problem: "You can still use [handheld scanners], but you can't take books off the table. They can scan only as they walk up and down a table. That's settled things down considerably."

Well, phew! I wouldn't want to see a brawl between a scanner-wielding capitalist and a bearded fellow holding a ceramic NPR mug.

I managed to avoid conflict as I gathered up 30 "gently loved" children's books for Blue and Green. I'm so pleased that the boys are avid readers, and I try to keep up with their interests. Books about reptiles are big this season, as are Magic School Bus science books, and the Magic Treehouse series. I also picked up a classic about slime. It begins, "Slime in my pocket, in my shoe. Is it custard? Is it glue?" How could I resist that?

These days, Blue and Green also like to browse through grown-up books, pulling out words that they recognize and inquiring endlessly about ones that they don't. Green is fond of "reading" the dictionary. He'll pick out a word and recite all the letters. "Mama," he'll say. "What does a-n-n-o-y-i-n-g spell?" Blue, on the other hand, has a few special grown-up books that he returns to again and again. We don't know why. Here's a favorite:

I'm so happy that they are little book lovers, but I'm a bit worried that school will strip the joy out of it for them. Already I'm concerned about that one homework assignment where they're supposed to fill out a checklist for each day that they read for twenty minutes. When I told them about this assignment, Green asked me, "Why do they say that reading is work?"

Why, indeed. For most of the people at the sale, reading was anything but work. There were the two frizzy mathematicians searching for gold in the science fiction aisle. There was the guy in the corduroy suit with his hefty stack of poetry. There was the way-too-cool pierced hipster with her bucket of literary theory. Nobody was working today, and I was loving the quirky wonderfulness of it all.

Everyone seems to have their own favorite sections of the sale, and I tend to stick to the kids' section and the literature section. But as I was waiting in line to check out, I became transfixed by the nearby Self Help table. I realized that I've missed out on so much by lingering in my usual zone. All this time, I could have been reading this:

Or, better yet, this:

I'll keep these two fine selections in mind as my classes start this week. On Monday, don't be surprised if you hear me holler, "Oh inner critic, let me give you a hug! I'm feeling stressed out today, but I'm LOVING IT!"

Comparative Case

The lengths I go to for you people! Seriously. You don't understand what I did for you today. Since my inbox practically overflowed after my report on the Minnesota State Fair, I figured I could entertain you even further if I enlarged my knowledge of the whole state fair phenomenon. So this afternoon, in the pouring rain, I visited the Washington State Fair, aka "The Puyallup" (pronounced Pew-allup).

Did I mention the pouring rain? It was pouring. And 58 degrees. So I was a bit surprised at the fact that zillions of other people were also at the fair, wrapped in their slickers and hunching under umbrellas. At the Minnesota fair, there was something so summery about the way the curly fries blew greasy steam on their eaters' sunburned faces. But here, the rain and the cold and the hot chocolate were constant reminders that our state decided to put its fair in the autumn, after all the kids go to school. I just don't get that.

But anyway, how do I describe this experience? OK, remember the Minnesota fair? The butter sculptures? The crazy food on a stick? The gluttony? Well, throw a little west coast cool on top of the celebration. Instead of a corn costume, you can buy an earth-friendly bamboo shirt.

And this is certainly not the place to fill up on artery-clogging piles of junk food. This year, Washington State banned trans fats at the fair.

And if you're looking for food on a stick, all you're gonna get is fruit.

But still, Washington State is not all about love and peace and healthy living. We have a nasty side. You may have heard, but we really don't much like small children or sheep. Want some evidence? Check out the Mutton Bustin' Championships.

Here's what happens. If you're a parent of a kid who is six years old or younger, you can PAY MONEY to have him or her thrown off the back of an angry, running sheep. And, if your kid hangs onto the sheep for the longest amount of time, he or she will win A BELT BUCKLE. And then that winner gets to compete next weekend for A BIGGER BELT BUCKLE.

So imagine this. It's, as I mentioned, pouring rain. Mud is everywhere. Peeved sheep are at the ready. The damp crowd rises and sings the national anthem. And then, the first kindergartner is placed atop one of the beasts. The gate is opened, and the stopwatch starts:

He stays on for one second. Then another kid and another sheep are introduced:

Seventeen tiny children go through this, all heaved up on the animal's bare back by a willing parent. Some kid hangs on for three seconds and goes home with a new buckle. But, really, the sheep wins every time.

The host of this pint-sized rodeo event left us with a piece of wisdom. He said that there's nothing more unpleasant in this world than bare skin on wet wool. Hmm. I don't know, I think having a crazed sheep step on your face might be a bit worse than that.

Later, I asked Blue and Green to choose their favorite fair. Each gave his vote to Minnesota, and I think I have to agree. The Washington fair certainly has a good vibe going. But Minnesota? It takes the cake (on a stick).

The Midwest, Part 2

Michael's parents have an apartment on the top floor of a building that overlooks the Mississippi River. One night, Michael's dad said that if he stands at the window, he can see almost all of the places that have mattered to him over the course of his life. And he wasn't kidding. This is a family that is deeply tied, over generations, to a community.

Sometimes it seems like everyone knows everyone, and this six-degrees-of-separation quality cracks me up. Here's a version of a typical conversation when we visit Michael's family:

Family member: Do you know Peggy O'Flaherty?
Michael: No, but her brother Seamus was in my class.
Family member: Oh! Seamus married Maureen Flynn, and did you know that Maureen's aunt, Maeve, went to college with me?
Michael: I know Maeve. Her cousin, Patrick, and I were altar boys together.

But it's not just about knowing the neighbors. Tradition is at the heart of this culture. Some of those traditions are pretty funny, most notably the annual trip to the Minnesota State Fair. You should have heard Michael's dad wax poetic about his teenage years at the fair. Michael has his memories, too. So far be it from us to deny Blue and Green a chance to participate in this family custom.

When I was growing up in Michigan, I don't remember the state fair being any big deal. I think I went once, ate some junk food, rode some rides. But it wasn't a BIG THING that made me feel connected to my fellow state residents or turned into a ongoing family story. For Michael, though, it's different. When he talks about the fair, his eyes get this faraway look, as if he can taste a bucket of mini doughnuts in his memory.

Before we went, my friend, Sarah, gave me some advice: 1) Bring lots of money; 2) Bring lots of patience; and 3) Bring closed-toe shoes. "Closed-toe shoes?" I asked. "Yes," she answered. "For walking in the barns." I must have looked blankly, because she elaborated. "Poop," she said. "Poop is everywhere."

Well, isn't that fabulous? That's the kind of thing that keeps a person going back year after year. In the end, I did wear appropriate footwear, but we didn't even make it to the barns. We got stuck in the vast snack area. Streets and streets and streets full of food. And there were people dressed up as food! We were just minding our own business, and a guy walked by dressed as a giant ear of corn. Okey Dokey. I suppose it's difficult to pass up the opportunity to wear a good costume.

It was in this food extravaganza that I came to really understand the fair. Here is a place where the uncool becomes cool, where gluttony is celebrated rather than scorned, where you don't have to feel shame about your extra roomy rainbow stretch pants.



And of course, at the fair, even little men get to carry big sticks. Every imaginable food option seemed to be on a stick. It was a joke, but then again, not really a joke. You could get waffles on a stick:



Or spaghetti on a stick:



Or, if you're feeling hip and urban, you can order Puff Daddy on a stick:



Actually, what amuses me about the picture above is the small print in the lower left hand corner. It says, "Sausages made by special women." I love that! How do you get to be a special woman? Sign me up!

But what I enjoyed most about the food section wasn't for sale. Deep in the Dairy Barn, just past the House of Cheese, was a special revolving, glass-encased show room. Inside was the likeness of Princess Kay of the Milky Way. "Who?" you might be asking. "Is it another Barbie?" Nope. Princess Kay is the winner of a special Minnesota pageant. Every year, young maidens from across the state compete to become county dairy princesses. The lucky local winners then vie to become Princess Kay. They are judged on their communication skills, their personality and enthusiasm, and their knowledge of the dairy industry. Moo!

Don't get me wrong -- this is serious business. The St. Paul Pioneer Press claims that Princess Kay has "the equivalent of Queen Elizabeth's role as the physical embodiment of the British Empire." Well, then. If she's so important, why not carve a sculpture of her head out of a 90 pound block of butter?



And you know what's funny? Guess what Princess Kay gets as a reward for all her efforts? Do you think it's money? Scholarships? A new car? Nope. At the end of the fair, she gets to take the butter sculpture home (and presumably, she can butter her toast with that all year long).

When we arrived back at our house after our week in the Midwest, I sat down with Blue and asked him what his favorite part of the trip was. When he answered, he didn't mention the baseball game we went to, or our visit to the science museum. Instead, he said, "I liked the guy in the corn suit." Huh. Maybe on some deep, subconscious level, Blue is already part of the larger tradition. He might be a west coast boy, but Minnesota appears to be in his blood.