Cold and rainy, but at least the spiders at Samford can enjoy a drink. Winter is pushing its way in behind this little tantrum of a storm front. We need the rain, but not necessarily the chill. But this isn’t winter. The cold weather isn’t shouldering through, but rather sneaking through with a little nudge of the toe.
The cold air will be brushed aside again in a few days. It’ll be weeks before winter really arrives, but we don’t especially care for the reminders.
While working out this morning I missed a collect call pretending to be from the city jail. No one I know is there. Or no one would own up to it online. Of course, if you were in jail you couldn’t check Facebook. So if you were in jail, I apologize for not being able to answer the phone to bail you out.
If you’re still in jail there’s no need to apologize; you’re probably still not reading this.
Homecoming week at Samford. There’s an extra little bounce of happy in your step on campus. It can’t be helped. There’s an inflatable bull ride in the student center. There’s football and tailgating and plenty of free food for the students this weekend and more. And an inflatable bull ride.
I watched two people ride the bull. The horns were falling off, but so were the riders. Everyone was happy, watching their friends flung into the lawsuit minimizing safety of the airy cushioned walls.
I rode one of those bulls a few years ago at a mall with family. It was Christmas time and we spent the evening doing things like riding inflatable bulls. I figured I would be very good at this. I’ve seen rodeos on television, or snippets of them. I’ve heard tips on how to use your knees.
I lasted about as long as it took you to read that sentence. Other people did better. My grandmother rode the thing. She did very well. It was fun, and humbling. The bull we rode was in one of those empty mall stores, one of those places that looks fire-bombed without any shelves or commerce. The inflatable people were as temporary a tenant as you could have — they sold time on air, of all things — and may have rolled up shop as soon as we walked away as far as I know.
Inflatable operators are the modern carnival operators. You worry less about the bolts and bits and pieces of metal that couldn’t pass a yard rake’s stress test and more about whether that air blower will keep whirring for the 45 seconds you are involved. No one likes to talk about this, but it is always in the back of your mind. Is there a worse holiday tragedy — because inflatables only appear around holidays, birthdays and other celebrations — than drowning in a collapsing sea of rubber?
The inflatable bull on campus, though, was without incident. The horns wouldn’t stay in the fake animal’s fake head. One girl fell off, picked up one and put it back in place. She reached that point where she realized she’d been standing there too long and moved away. The next guy up rode a bull with one punk rock horn.
Somehow that improved the situation. None of this would be memorable if there was cranial symmetry. That the bull spun to his right and you could see a plastic horn, and then spin to his left and you’d see a big gaping hole made the whole thing silly and odd and perfect for a homecoming festivity.
I’m writing a mini-paper for a class, so I must get back to that. The 1939 World’s Fair will be along in a bit.
