THE ZIPPER

 I've always wondered if the riders on the carnival's Zipper Ride are real people. I mean, who would subject themselves to this kind of environment...for a good time. Seems to me, you use this sort of equipment if you want to make a prisoner talk. 


You're put into a small cage--and it's locked from the outside by you know who, the carnie operator. What if he steps behind a tent to smoke a joint and ends up at the cotton candy stand, drunk on sugar?  He could be gone for hours. Or if he snorts meth and returns to the ride cranked up...you could end up flying around in that cage at 75 miles per hour.


I'm thinking that the carnival buys old crash test dummies and they ride the ride. It's all for show. Look what we have. Aren't we a great carnival?


There's a small bench that seats two (The new safety rules now required 2 per cage.) A metal bar--wow, that should really hold you in if there's an emergency. The bar is lowered to your lap and off you go.


I remember a love affair I once had with 29 year-old latino man. Oh la la. I'm walking down the street in Sonoma County, California with my dog Capri. I'm wearing sweats. This car slows down...and a gorgeous, young, stud rolls down the passenger window."Cute dog," he says. I'm expecting him to drive off after complementing the dog, after all, he didn't look like a meth addict AND he had his teeth. 


He invited me to his job site (he's a contractor) to show me his work. I've been told not to take candy from strangers and was relieved when he didn't offer any. "Are you a serial killer?" I ask. Maybe he is one...doesn't mean he's not honest. 


"Nope." He smiles and I'm thinking...this guy is like a fantasy. In the movie, the girl would go to the job site. No question about that. 


"I'll follow you," I say. 


 I'm telling this story because there's a similiarity between going to the job site and getting in The Zipper's cage. I've got to look the carnie in the eye to decide whether  I'm going to trust he'll keep me safe. 


He starts kissing me, the stud, not the carnie, and I feel like the cage has just been locked. 


The way The Zipper works is this: The entire ride spins and each car flips taking you upside down and back. This kiss is making me dizzy. My heart is pounding my stomach prepares for the sudden drop. I'm hot and I reach for his zipper... 


Check out how that thing flies around. Some people like that kind of thrill. Me? I prefer risks that will bring me to my knees--but not kill me. Which, by the way, is what happened at that job site. I think I crawled out of there...all I know is that somehow Capri and  I made it home.


Which brings me back to the ride. This morning, while I was taking a break from writing The Zipper story, I open the paper and this is what I read:

I swear, I found this article after I'd started the Zipper story.


The article indicates that as the kids were getting off The Zipper, it went into motion and dropped them  15 feet. No mechanical problems were found. We all have an idea of what happened...the 'ride operator' wasn't paying attention. 


And the ride I took? Let's just say that ride       operator paid attention. Oh, yes he did.

 THE SWINGS

Let me start with this: I don't like going in circles. I remember when my older brother first got his driver's license.  It was 1963. We were the first on the block to have the new 'smallest' car, the Chevrolet Corvair. Back then, the corvair was considered so small that it came with a large, mock, wind up key. Cute, huh? (At least the one my father brought home had one...) I searched online to find one of those keys and came up with a blank. It was probably on display and my dad talked them into giving it to him.

So my brother is driving us in the corvair. Fun you might say. I suppose it could have been for most kids. But my experience? Not so good. He drove us down our street to the corner, turned around and headed back to the circle of the dead end street. When we broke into the circle, I was all smiles. But my brother thought it would be funny if we never left the circle--and so, we began our revolutions. 


The first go-round, not so bad. But with each consecutive round, as the speed increased and houses streaked into blur, the realization that this may be the worse event in my life, hit. Clamped onto the dashboard with my fingernails, I tried to get my brother's attention. "STOP!!!! STOP!!" Perhaps he glanced at me, because later, he mentioned that he'd never seen me turn yellow-green before. 

Of course my misery added to the fun. How could it not? "It's like the merry-go-round," my brother shouted on, let me estimate, the tenth round. He had a knack for eventing games. One of his favorites was "A Quarter Stops The Machine." We only played this game when he babysat my sister and me. The moment the front door closed and our parents drove off--he began walking toward us, swinging his arm, hand in a fist, back and forth. "A quarter stops the machine," he said with each step he took toward us.

My brother was not mean, he was absolutely great. He just had a different opinion of what's fun. The 'machine' stopped before he actually reached us, which was thoughtful. And I'm certain he thought my screams were those of glee and carnival ride excitement.

In my mind,  as we circled, the corvair had lifted off the ground and we were whirling around the dead end unattached to anything. Wheeee! Funnnnn!  To me, we were on a collision course toward infinity...which brings me back to the carnival swings. 

Do you realize that as your flying full speed, lifted high from the ground--that the swing you are in, let say you weigh 120 pounds or higher, is held on to the ride by chains? Yes, chains, my friends. Which are checked and maintained by, you guessed it--the carnie ride operators.  I'm not saying anything discouraging about the carnies, but I know what they're thinking. After all, I'm their type. They want to impress me. "I like that foxy woman on the swing. I'll show her how to have a good time." The ride clicks into super-speed mode. That's how the carnie guys strut their stuff. Making sure that you really enjoy the ride.

And if you step off the swing, yellow-green, they know you're itching for more.

THE FERRIS WHEEL
Today I'm going to play hooky. Well, I did work from 5:30 this morning until 10:00am. but now, I'm in line for the ferris wheel in my mind. Which always reminds me of the fact that the guys who have the nerve to come on to me are usually crack addicts sitting on the sidewalk in San Fran or the carnies. I'm serious. I'm told I'm intimidating, I'm not sure why. I'm very sweet. Perhaps because I like to step out in style? Or that I'm an extrovert?


Anyway, as a dental hygienist, it was always tough to carry on a conversation with the carnie ride operators because it was difficult not to gawk when they opened their mouths to say, "Hey baby, I'll give you a real ride." Wink. 


Now, in reality, you can't get me on any ride. I get dizzy just making the decision to go to a carnival. I hate the round and round of, let's say, a merry-go-round and the stomach plunge on an up and down ride. But when a carnie offers you a real ride, it's better to climb into the ferris wheel chair rather than hang around. Simply saying "I only date crack addicts," used to be sufficient. But now, the reply I get from the carnie is, "I smoke crack, baby." I see those rotten teeth and jump into the chair.


Once, it was me and a friend on the ferris wheel. The carnie stops us at the top. They like to do that. At first, I'm thinking, wow what a gorgeous view...that thought lasts maybe 1/32nd of a second. And then the horror that we have to go back down, hits me--the thought of it sucks the breath out of me. I'm ready to panic and start screaming for a ladder. Meanwhile, while my not-so-good friend rocks the chair so we're swing like a couple of over-ripe apples. 


A carnival used to come to a shopping center near my house when I was growing up. Rides, junk food...This particular outfit had a trailer that when you went in, which was scary in itself-- you had the unique opportunity to view  a two-headed baby embryo in a jar. Stuff like that. We loved/hated that trailer--I got dizzy standing in line for the two-headed baby, as well.

The weather here moves between over cast and sun. Rain is on its way. I don't care. I'm dressing spring/summer. I like this picture and I want these woman as friends.

Shouldn't there be some sort of twitter conference where all of us twits could meet up, hear some speakers, whatever. Wouldn't it be cool to chat with some of your twitter friends? Or should I just have a tweet party at my home? LOL.

Today I sent out two more queries. My goal is to get two out everyday. Only two, you might say to yourself? For me, it takes awhile to tract down an interesting agent or pub house. Lately, I've been sending out to Lit agents but will go back to pubs soon. Some have asked for my manuscript.

Spring is here and ...well, we all know what we're thinking about in spring...

Re: Are you a serial killer.

Okay, here's the story on the serial killer test. You must answer the riddle even if it's I don't know. Someone with a proclivity toward serial killing will give a particular answer. So give me some answers!!!!

THE CARNIVAL IN MY MIND

The good news? I no longer have a committee of critics in my head trying to break me down. It's been replaced by a fantastic carnival. The bad news? A few drunk carnies hang out there instead. Occasionally, though, when I have an extra smart idea, I win a small stuffed bear. 

FIND OUT IF YOU HAVE THE MIND OF A SERIAL KILLER?  (If you answer this riddle correctly...don't hang out with profilers.)  While at the funeral of her own mother, a woman met a guy whom she did not know. She thought this guy was amazing--the dream guy she'd been searching for--and she fell in love with him immediately. However, she never asked for his name or number and afterward could not find anyone who knew who he was. A few days later the girl killed her own sister. Question: Why did she kill her sister?

Todays Quote: To say this book is about about me (which is the main reason I was uncomfortable---me, me, me, me... frightening!) is ridiculous. This book is not about me.            --Super model Kate Moss, talking about her book, Kate: The Kate Moss Book