Before I begin, I’d like to point you to a blog entry I wrote in 2004, since it’s eerily similar to how this one will play out. As was the case when I wrote that entry, I was supposed to spend all day writing a new Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade review today, but became interrupted with visions of big money prizes and yuletide cheer. Yes, the local church was once again having its holiday fair.
I’ve written about this fair before, thought I can’t remember if I did at any real length. The church isn’t as “local” as it used to be considering that I’ve moved, but ever since I was a wee little grade schooler, very few of these annual fairs have slipped by without my patronage. During my youth, it was more or less a social event. All of the neighborhood kids would spent the day and evening there, experimenting with cigarettes and cursewords and horseplay and other assorted things that in retrospect probably shouldn’t have been experimented with in or near our local parish.
Undoubtedly, I’m the only one from the old crew who still finds his way to these church fairs, and obviously, this is a point of shame and I give everyone full permission to kick me in the stomach. I can’t help it. From the cheap knockoff toys (I once bought a Ninja Turtle figure there on a paperthin blistercard that named him “Ronatello”) to the Christmas music that blares over the loudspeakers, to all the old lady volunteers who string the things together, these fairs have become as much a part of my holiday season as getting at least three Christmas cards from relatives I swear I don’t have.
Anyway, the fair was its usual self. Same table full of toys, same table full of various homemade goods, same table full of live goldfish in plastic bags. The had a big White Elephant room in case anyone wanted to buy old, used, sleeveless record albums, and like every other one of these church fairs in history, there was a big counter full of the most eclectic cupcakes imaginable, for a quarter a pop.
But, like I said when I wrote about the fair in 2004, the real reason everyone comes here is for the RAFFLES. Half of the church space is allocated to table after table of baskets stuffed with prizes. After buying long strands of single tickets from the lady with the can, you browse the aisles, choose your desired prize, drop a ticket or two into its associated ticket bag and hope for the best.
There are a few catches. The best prizes — things like portable DVD players and iPods — call for more expensive “red” tickets. Then there’s “green” tickets, for a number of gigantic baskets full of God knows what, put together by local schools. Then there’s “yellow” tickets. Ah, yellow tickets. Say you like that basket full of DVDs. Say it’s under the yellow ticket umbrella. You can’t just play for that one basket. With yellow ticket prizes, the associated bags correspond with three or four different prize baskets. You could win the basket full of DVDs, yes, but you could also win something like I got in 2004: A basket stuffed with plastic coffee mugs and a book by Bill Cosby.
I’m not going to tell you what we spent. I will tell you that we spent way too much. I didn’t count the total amount of tickets for the various prize categories that we went through, but writing my name and phone number on the back of each proved a long and arduous enough journey to give my writin’ hand a cramp so hardcore that I think it may warrant a hospital stay come tomorrow. We played, we stayed, we played some more, and then we went home.
I’ve been at this game long enough to know the drill. By 9 or 9:30, one way or another, I’d know for sure if I’d won or lost. If I received no calls by then, life sucked. Seated with my hand firmly clenched around the phone, I ate fingernails and air, pleading with deities I usually curse, and for what? Well, the box of board games looked nice, but I really wanted the big wicker basket full of high-end liquor. I’d almost given up all hope, but at around a a quarter after nine, the phone rang. This year, we won not one basket, but two!
And…it happened again. There were roughly 75 different prizes, and we got the worst two. What the fuck?
First up was a basket full of art stuff, and admittedly, it’s one of the ones we wanted. Granted, it wasn’t one of the ones we really wanted, but it was one of the smaller prizes we spent some tickets on, just to cover our bases and increase our chances. But good God. We’re still not entirely sure if this stuff was new or not. For one, everything was balls out generic, unless “Water Colour” is a brand name I haven’t yet been introduced to. Second, everything was mashed to bits. There’s this box full of what was once 24 pastel sticks and is now 240 pastel crumbs. The topper was a membership card to some art center, “worth 75 bucks.” We weren’t particularly interested in art classes, but hey, “worth 75 bucks.” Turns out the “membership” only means that we’re now proud members of the facility’s e-newsletter, and we can get 10% off at the art supply store next to it. Nevermind the fact that I don’t even paint…this just sucked.
And then, the big finale. A tiny basket with two candles, bath salts and a gift card for a facial at some spa 40 minutes away. WAH WAH WAH WAH.
I don’t understand it. I studied each and every basket in the church, and I swear, this basket WAS NOT THERE. Perhaps it was just too small and insignificant to catch, but I doubt it. Running theory is that I really won a television, and some religious shit switched the names backstage so he could watch 7th Heaven reruns in style. I DON’T EVEN HAVE A BATHTUB GOD DAMN IT.
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Ah BC CLARK, I too am an Okie. Growing up my parents owned and operated 2 jewlery stores, and we were taught to loathe that jingle and all it stood for. Now that they sold the family business, I sing it every year with an evil glint in my eye.