“We’re off to the Coxville Zoo, to see the elephant and big kangaroo!”---Lieuen Adkins
Maybe you’ve been to the beach one time too many. Perhaps you consider Disney-type amusement parks a snore. Could be you get altitude sickness in the mountains. Possibly, you’re just plain bored. If so, you’ve come to the right place. The Flying Pie is privy to events bizarre and eccentric, celebrations of quirk not usually found on the family-friendly shores of Lake Weary. Jeeves, the envelope, please.
Mermaids On Parade
Now your ordinary parade is nothing special in New York City. The locals have seen it all, from the green shenanigans of St. Patrick’s Day to the oversized balloons of Macy’s Thanksgiving to the preposterous antics of the Gay Pride exhibitionists. But even New Yorkers get a little revved up for the Coney Island USA Mermaid Parade scheduled for September 25. Where else can you buy a seat on the judges’ stand for a mere $200 and cast your vote for sea creatures bearded or smooth in the King Neptune and Queen Mermaid categories? This year, local hero Randall Roffe will compete in both contests, so get there early and vote twice.
Blobfest
You remember The Blob. “It creeps and leaps and glides and slides across the floor, right through the door and all around the wall, a splotch, a blotch….be careful of The Blob.” Yeah, that one. Well, they haven’t forgotten the oozy guy in Phoenixville, Pa., either. This year’s July 9-11 Blobfest at the Colonial Theater features an exciting reenactment of the famous scene where the moviehouse empties in a blind panic as The Blob seeps down the aisles. Outside the theater is a festive street fair with live music, celebrants decked out as various science fiction characters and a contest for creative people dressed as The Blob, if that’s possible. Come to think of it, we know a few people who would just have to thrown on a pair of overalls.
Fireballs, Anyone?
Each year on the evening of August 31, residents of Nejapa, El Salvador gather round to make merry and throw fireballs at one another. No, real ones….palm-sized missiles made of kerosene. First, of course, they paint their faces like skulls, stomp around a bit and generate some serious-looking spittle to get fired-up at their rivals on the other team. All this foolishness is in commemoration of the 1658 eruption of the El Playon volcano nearby. If Las Bolas de Fuego seems a little dangerous to you, it’s been going on for more than 100 years now with fewer catastrophes than the U.S. has at its shooting-gallery malls on any given weekend.
Meanwhile, back at the reef, divers and music enthusiasts head for the Florida Keys Underwater Music Festival every July. Bill Becker, the founder, coordinator, music director and Grand Poobah of the UMF, has taken festivals to a whole new level with this annual paean to coral preservation at Looe Key Reef, a 25-years-plus ongoing phenomenon. The event houses pre-selected radio playlists and ocean-themed songs streaming live from underwater speakers along with musician-divers and local artists playing whimsical instruments. Snorkeling is optional, but highly encouraged.
Mud Bath
Nothing to wear? Don’t mind a little dirt under your fingernails? You’ll be right at home at the Boryeong Mud Festival in South Korea. Located about 200 kilometers from the capital at Seoul, the village of Boryeong is widely popular for its mud cosmetics, or so we’re told. What began as a local marketing scheme in 1998 has evolved into a renowned ten-day July festival drawing in millions of visitors every year. While immersing yourself in mud might seem a little odd, you should know Boryeong’s product stands out for its rich natural minerals and nutrients which have incredible benefits for the skin. You can choose between the popular mud pools, the rollicking mud slides or even mud skiing, along with an array of makeover and massage facilities, as well. Try it, you’ll like it. Here’s mud in your face.
Oh, Shit!
Wen we were kids, scatological humor was all the rage, to the great dismay of our parents. Well, most of them. Barry Flynn’s father worked at a radio station and one day he came home with a recording called “The Crepitating Contest,” which was pretty much about….well….farting. The contest announcer, broadcasting in a very excited voice, even had names for the farts, one of which was a “blivet.” For some reason, I have never forgotten about the blivet though I have otherwise pretty much left potty humor behind me. Not so the denizens of the Sapphire Valley Resort in North Carolina, who host the annual Great Outhouse Races by turning a shallow-sloped bunny hill into a lavatory showdown on skis.
Naturally, this is a themed event. Past sophisticated themes include “Who Cut The Cheese” and “Redneck Wishing Well.” The outhouse requirements are minimal. Each must have a seat---they’re not barbarians, after all---plus a roll of toilet paper “or alternative wiping tool.” We have to admit being fascinated by the possibilities inherent in the “alternative wiping tool” and we would like to suggest the sponsors consider development of a museum housing any and all AWTs used in the contests. The museum might draw a bigger crowd than the races.
‘Burning Man’ Lives
At the end of each summer, a disparate community of warped artists, exhibitionists, curiosity-seekers, neo-hippies and people who got lost in the desert come together to build and eventually dismantle a city in the bowels of Nevada. Founded in 1986 in San Francisco (of course), Burning Man alleges to be a mindset as well as a festival. The gathering’s values are proclaimed to include radical inclusion, self-reliance, individual expression, community cooperation, decommodification and running around in various degrees of nakedness. The community celebrates by combining all their individual talents to create artistic sculptures, buildings, performance art, funny cars and whatever comes to mind.
The event culminates in the burning of a very large wooden man, which has reached heights exceeding 105 feet in recent years. After the event, festival-goers endeavor to leave no trace of their activities by restoring the environment to its previous pristine condition. Burning Man regulars describe the festival as “a religious experience, an example of what well-intentioned mankind can create, a zany brotherhood of liberated humans free to fly their freak flags.”
Okay, now and then that happens. But much of the event is Crazy Time. “I once traded 25 glow-sticks for a ride on a small airplane that was nearly out of gas, flown by a guy who I later saw drive a 16-penny nail through his dick into a 2x4 on stage in front of a couple hundred people,” reported Dronephotographyfan. Now there’s a religious experience for you.
One camper walked out of her tent one night, stumbling around in the dark until she found a portable toilet in the middle of nowhere. Feeling the need to expel, she opened the door to the porta-potty and saw a guy standing behind a wooden bar top with shelves of liquor behind him. “Welcome to the world’s smallest bar,” he smiles. “What’ll you have?” His customer count might have been low, but the bartender didn’t lack for enthusiasm.
Another gentleman, eager to participate, built a custom multi-seat bicycle and pedaled from Chicago to Black Rock City, Nevada in 32 hours. He got to Burning Man a little early but they let him in anyway after eying his Illinois plates and appreciating the effort. It being dark, he meandered over to a likely camping spot, threw down his gear, stripped off his clothes and went to sleep. When he woke up, he found himself totally alone, the closest neighbor maybe 500 yards away. Naturally, he decided to brush his teeth. As he stood there, buck-naked, a random bicyclist appeared from out of the haze and pedaled by with a straight face and a single comment. “Nothing says Burning Man like a naked camper brushing his teeth.”
A first-timer from Kansas joyfully arrived adorned with tons of jewelry, a nice set of clothes and a bag of weed. He was offered a drink of “water” and doesn’t remember a thing after that. He woke up a day later next to “two earthy chicks, one with a strap-on, a sore ass and a burning sensation when I peed.” He’s definitely planning on going back soon.
We’d tell you about the four people in full-body raccoon suits rummaging through random people’s coolers at four-o’clock in the morning but nobody’s going to believe that. Maybe it was more of that tough to discern performance art.
“Eat PIE, Pig!”
The famous shout callously ripped from the pages of Wonder Wart Hog Comics is heard aplenty at the June shenanigans in the English town of Coxheath, where custard pastries fill the air at the annual pie-throwing showdown. The tradition came about in 1967 when local politician Mike Fitzgerald was looking for funds to build a village hall, and has stood the test of time and Boston cream.
Contestants compete in groups of four and must use only their left hand to throw, perfect for southpaws like Bill Killeen. Points are given for hitting anyone on the opposing team, which stands just a few feet away. A pie to the face earns six points, a direct hit above the shoulders nets three and an amateurish strike anywhere else scores but one. Any player who misses the target three straight times loses points, as well she might, and must then clean the custard bowls and prettify the demolished landscape.
The event is big with costume-wearers. Little Jack Horner is a popular outfit, as is Little Miss Muffet and Simple Simon. As the event comes to a close, local musicians dressed as fruit slog in for the gala dance conclusion. It’s a glorious sight as splattered contestants raise their voices as one to belt out “Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina” and dance the merengue. And you thought there was no such thing as Pie Heaven.
That’s all, folks….
