My Kind of Funnel

I spent the day in good ole West Point on Saturday. The radio once told me that West Point is “the city with great history and personality.” Well, actually, the radio told Anna D., and she told me. Anyway, somehow I missed that message growing up. But I keep going back, almost yearly, for the Prairie Arts Festival. This shindig takes place annually on the first Saturday of September, which some people call "Labor Day weekend." It’s a time to see people I used to know and decide whether my life is more successful and important than theirs now…er… I mean, it’s a time to catch up with old buddies from high school. This year I decided to capture the experience in the following photos. You see, the Prairie Arts Festival draws all types of people. There are a handful of decent people there, but some really strange-looking folks crawl out of the woodworks for this event.

Exhibit A: Old-timer with a bum leg. But the leg is ok because it’s wrapped in a rebel flag, which has healing powers.



Exhibit B: Super classy BAMA fan. Nuff said. As my friend Carrie Anne pointed out to me, his shirt is hemmed. That means it was intentionally altered to be that length. He didn’t just cut it off. Oh no. He sewed it there. Couldn’t dare let us miss out on that saggy overhang. No, siree.



We’ll call Exhibit C “Old lady club shirt.” Dude, I hope I never find her in the club.



Exhibit D: No you didn’t. (Can I have this many exhibits? Some lawyer tell me, please. Kelvin?). This lady has 3 apparent issues, but her outfit displays that there just might be some on the inside as well…Afro, cut-off jean shorts WITH INTENTIONAL SLITS, and white tennis shoes. Rollin on the river.

Exhibit E: Poor kid. Someone wrote on his nice collared shirt with a Sharpie. A sharpie?! Why ruin a nice shirt like that? It says: "Don't you mess with dis Jr. Policeman." There were an abundance of airbrushed t-shirt stands that would've come in handy...



The real reason I go back to West Point for Prairie Arts Festival isn’t to walk around sizzling in the hot sun, or to window shop for overpriced knick-knacks, or even to fake smile at all my old classmates. It’s to eat a Funnel Cake. Yep. That’s why. It’s the best $5 I spend every year. Every succulent bite of fried batter with powdered sugar sprinkled on top (which, I’m sure I could make at home with some batter mix, a Ziploc bag with the corner cut off, some hot grease, and some powdered sugar) is worth every penny of that $5. I look forward to it because where else will I get one? (I guess I could go to the State Fair in Jackson and get one, but all I can think about are the germs that inhabit all those carnival rides. Hence, I do not attend.) I always wait to get it at lunchtime because
1. I apparently love to wait in line for 45 minutes under the scorching sun & 2. I build it up in my mind for a few hours before I let myself give in to the suspense & 3. Lunchtime is when people normally eat. To show all my admiration for the Funnel Cake, I dedicate this haiku to it:

I love Funnel Cakes.
I’m having a love affair.
Do not interrupt.

And this one…

Hello, Funnel Cake.
I am going to eat you.
Get in my belly.

And this one…

You are just fried bread.
Hot, greasy and sugary.
I don’t care. Come here.

And this one…

You cost me five bucks.
Oh, Medusa of batter.
Hey, no forks allowed.

Kurt likes them, too. And, yes, I gave him a bite. One.

While I’m here, I’d also like to defend my stance on hand sanitizer (Laurette and Kelvin). I do believe it is 99% alcohol and does kill germs. However, it leaves invisible dead germ boogers on your hands that get on your food, which you consume. Ugh. I prefer to wash my hands like this (the way Laurette taught me):
1. Pull down paper towel for availability.
2. Turn on faucet.
3. Lather hands with soap and rinse.
4. Dry hands with paper towel.
5. Turn sink off with paper towel protected hand.
6. Open door with elbow or paper towel protected hand.
7. Hold open door with hiney.
8. Toss paper towel into trashcan.
9. Swish!

All the cleanliness I learned growing up was from Laurette Clark Wolfe. She taught me how to lather a wash cloth, and how to use a payphone – carry rubbing alcohol and cotton balls in your purse so that, when you want to call someone, you can swab and cleanse the phone, keypad, and your own ear. (This was before cell phones, a.k.a., junior high school). I guess the saying should actually read, “Laurette(ness) is next to godliness.”

Cheers.