Not a big fan of Halloween, I’ll admit that. But lest the Grinch in me take over completely, I consented to dispense the obligatory candy on trick-or-treat night in the fair City of Norwich.

Largely, the kiddies and adults who came by were a cordial group, staging the perfunctory ritual (basically extortion with costumes) with grace and mirth.

But then …

Seriously, kids, an essential component to the trick-or-treat custom is actually saying “trick or treat.” I was surprised by how many of the little urchins simply thrust their bags in my face and never uttered a word.

Oh yeah, and I’m not buying the “This is for Susie back home” scam with two bags. One kid, one handful of candy. Nice try.

Lastly, I’d offer one more piece of advice for successful trick-or-treating. Wear a $&^#! costume! If you’re old enough to be cool with going door to door begging for candy wearing what you wore to school that day, you’re too freakin’ old to go trick-or-treating. Only the fear of retaliation with the aforementioned “trick” kept me from giving these little miscreants what Charlie Brown always got … a rock.

Friday afternoon as I left the office, the sun was shining, and I had only one goal in my mind, finding a great pumpkin. With Halloween only days away, I wanted to carve the perfect pumpkin to set on my front porch. Maybe it’s because this is my first Halloween as a mom, or maybe I just felt especially in the Halloween spirit this year, but my goal was set, and I was determined.

After picking up the baby at daycare, we drove to the nearest farm stand, only to be informed, they had no pumpkins. The flood had washed out most of their crop, and the only pumpkin left was about the size of a gourd. I was informed that I could get a pretty good deal on the shrunken half pumpkin, but since there was no chance I could carve it without using a hypodermic needle and a toothpick, I passed.

We kept driving, the next farm stand came into view. I pulled up, optimistic that this time the perfect pumpkin was waiting for us, but I heard a similar story from a similar man. This time not even an acorn sized pumpkin was offered.

My heart sunk. Fine, I thought, I’ll get a grocery store pumpkin. I drove back into Norwich, and took a slightly more cranky baby into Wal-Mart. We bought candy, and a couple more decorations, but when I looked for pumpkins, none could be found. The cashier informed me, they had probably run out. With no more pumpkin carving ambition, I scooped up my very grumpy baby and headed home.

My great pumpkin search is over. I will admit defeat, but I must ask, where have all the pumpkins gone?

I take great pleasure in watching people squirm. It’s fun to get someone going, to tell them their biggest fears have come true, to play on their emotions, to watch the panic fill their eyes – the blood draw from their face. And just when they are about to break – you let them know it was all a joke.

I’m almost jealous that I don’t get to feel their relief when it’s over, but scrambling their brains was pretty satisfying.

So I can understand where YIRN was coming from.

YIRN (a group of four traveling brothers, Yakov, Ivan, Rostov, Nicholai), had always been a bunch of merry pranksters. They sent me fake lottery tickets a couple years ago for April Fool’s Day – “Redeem $25,000 prize at Joe Mama’s House.” The only person more hurt than me was Millie – I had promised her a new PT Cruiser.

But in time, YIRN had outgrown fake lotto’s and whoopee cushions, and had darker desires.

The boys had done pretty good betting on wildfires that summer (they picked the spread), and decided that a new challenge – a new joke was in order. A joke that would take on a life of its own.

It didn’t help that they’d been spent the final weeks of August on a steady diet of Mountain Dew and Zingers, watching “SAW” and “Trading Places” simultaneously.

“Let’s unleash a plague,” Yackov said. “It’ll be great.”

“A plague’s no good,” Nicholai responded. “It won’t be funny if they don’t live to see that it was just for fun.”

They scoured their minds, mulling over idea after idea in that cramped hotel room in Sioux City.

Finally, just when they were going to call it quits and go back to Ontario, Rostov, the smallest brother said, “I think I got it.”
—
“What’s the only thing we see everyday that makes people madder than spit, but they can’t do nothing about it?” the small one asked.

“Crime?”
“No.”
“George Bush?”
“No.”
“Shopping Carts?”
“Warmer.”
“Dancing With the Stars?”
“Um…no”
“OK come on we give up, what is it?”

“Power lines,” Rostov announced with pride. “Power lines are everywhere, we all use them, but everyone hates them – people will do anything to stop them.”

“How can we do that?” asked Ivan “Don’t we need steel, wires, technical plans, and land – and don’t we need…I mean we have a lot…like a billion dollars?”

“Nope, we got enough from them forest fires to cover everything we’ll be doing,” Rostov said.

“And what’s that?” the others asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“We have enough money to make everyone think we have all that stuff. In fact, after doing some quick math, I’m pretty sure we have enough money to make people think we have 200 miles worth of all that stuff.”

They worked out the plan right there, and to their surprise it was pretty simple. Between the 5 of them they had just over a $1 million bucks, about $200k a piece. Just enough to buy a website, a couple technical advisors, some starving off-broadway actors, some laminated handouts and booklets from Kinko’s, some expensive(but not that expensive) environmental studies and finally, an office…but where?

“I heard people in upstate New York get worked up pretty easy, let’s pick on them,” said Ivan.

“Yeah uncle Rasputin lives there,” reminded Yackov. “He says that people don’t have a lot of money, and they pay high taxes on everything. They think all their money goes to New York City, because they control everything.”

“Yeah upstate and downstate don’t like each other,” said Ivan.

“I smell a little divide and conquer boys,” Nicholai said in a shady voice. “I think these people are primed for a good joke.”

And what a joke it was. The boys had their hired hands announce “plans” for “the project” just before April Fool’s Day, their favorite day. They hired actors trained by David Spade, the star of “Dickey Roberts: Child Actor,” to hold a series of public hearings along their “power line” route, and to be as surly and rude as was humanly possible. They devised that the power line would only be for downstate benefit, but it would use all upstate land and resources. The people became enraged. The boys thought the prank could only carry on for a few more weeks and then they would have to give it up, but some unexpected events occurred that kept it alive.

This thing called the Public Service Commission said that they decided what power lines would be built in New York, and that all the boys needed to do was have their actors provide them with the fake studies and the fake plan. The boys didn’t see the harm, so they gave it a shot.

They never laughed so hard in their lives.

Thousands of citizens, along with communities, governments, politicians, and worked feverishly to raise money and spread the word to fight YIRN. The boys saw it all from a far and were impressed with how strong the people could be when they united against a common enemy. Too bad it was all a farce.

News reporters jumped on the wagon and wrote stories about the “power line” everyday. The battle got so big that property values along the fake route dropped because people began to believe it was all true, and no one wanted to live there. People spent everyday in fear because they were afraid they’d lose their homes, or get real sick because of the YIRN project, as it was known. The boys ate it up. The joke lived on, it grew stronger.

Even the Federal Government got involved. After politicians passed questionable laws against YIRN, and after the PSC said YIRN’s fake application was a fake, Washington said we needed YIRN, more than we knew, and that they would step in an approve the phony project for the benefit of National Security – they’d even give YIRN more money. It just wouldn’t die, it kept on coming back.

The boys got a little bit nervous at this point. They never expected the joke to live this long. People were abandoning their communities, and local economies plummeted. State government’s took on Washington over state’s rights, nearly going to war. It had grown to strong to control.

The boys feared that if the federal government stepped in, their identities would surely be revealed, after they had caused so much damage.

They decided they would come clean. They would tell the world they were hacks before they could be found out. They called the government and said they were ready to come clean. They would kill the joke themselves.

The voice on the other end laughed, “Come clean? Your in America.” “We don’t care who you are – as long as you have all the money,” the voice said. “You do have the money – don’t you?”

YIRN vanished not long after that. They haven’t been heard from since, and the power line has yet to be built. But some say the boys and the project are still out there…waiting…getting stronger.

There was one news story that reported a teenager said “YIRN” three times into the bathroom mirror, and a 400,000 volt direct current transmission line instantly appeared in his parent’s backyard, ruining their lawn and vinyl siding while providing cheap energy to their neighbors.

Sleep tight.

Pumpkin Fest will be kicking off tonight, and here at The Evening Sun, we couldn’t be more excited. While we were walking past the park today, headed to our once a week group lunch, we couldn’t help but notice the tents and scaffolding filling the park. That was all we needed to put us in the Pumpkin Fest mood.

Despite the weather, The Evening Sun crew plans to spend all weekend in the park. Jeff Genung, our managing editor, says it’s the best part of the whole year. Today we anxiously awaited the celebration.

Everyone has been busily working to put The Pumpkin Vine together, so once it and the paper had been finished for the day, it was time to kick back and work up some Pumpkin Fest spirit. We passed the day by carving pumpkins in the conference room. The pumpkin world record is going down if we have anything to say about it. The day is almost over, and we’ve succeeded in carving 12 pumpkins, (Jeff named the four he worked on.) We’ll be walking all of the pumpkins; including Bo bo, Squinty, Biffalo Buff and Stinky Steve, down to the park tonight.

So if you’re brave, take a chance on the weather and come join in the festivities, and don’t forget to bring your pumpkins.

It’s funny about the thoughts you have as you drive alone and stare blankly at the road laid out before you. As I drove my way back to the office after getting lost for approximately 25 miles today, I was on a mission to find pumpkins, which thanks to Pumpkin Fest are a rare commodity these days within 50 miles of Norwich. I was headed past Stanton’s, the local farm stand, where I thought it would be great if there were pumpkins left in the field so I could take the kids there later and they could pick their own.

Before getting anywhere near the farm stand I drove over the bridge between Sherburne and Norwich and out of the corner of my eye I spotted shoe, a helpless cloth and hard-soled running shoe placed ever-so-perfectly on the bridge. So as I saw the shoe, I experienced one of those moments people have when no one else is with them – they’re driving along and have the most insane thoughts imaginable. My first thought … Wow, did some guy jump off the bridge and lose a shoe? Then my second thought … Duh, Jill, if he jumped off the bridge then why are you worried about his shoe? Meanwhile I’m still driving along and as my head fills with some more crazy scenarios as to why a shoe was on the bridge, I forget why I chose to go through Sherburne in the first place. I drive by the pumpkin stand and still couldn’t really tell you if they had any good pumpkins to pick. Oh yeah, I really was paying attention to the road too!!

Well upon arrival back at the office, I shared my story of the misplaced sole and another reporter shared a story how one drunk night a shoe of theirs had gotten placed ever-so-carefully on the side of the road as well. So is this what happens normally? Is this the cause for all the misplaced shoes on the sides of the road? Do drunk people not like to wear shoes? I mean I have seen shoes in trees, at bus stops, in parking lots and other various places. My next question is when these people sober up, do they even remember they lost a shoe? What if it were expensive or one of their favorites? What’s one shoe to a person with two feet?

Astute evesun.com readers have no doubt noticed by now that we made a little change to the submission form on our online “30 Seconds” page this week.

When we went online with the new website this summer, it seemed logical to provide a text field for the comments, a little button to check “man” or “woman” and then a field to type in the town you’re from, following the conventions of the print edition of the column which made “Man from Norwich” part of the Chenango lexicon a decade ago.

Oh, but you Internet users are too clever for us! Instead of typing in your town, you quickly figured out that you could type anything you wanted in that little box! Like “Dear Abby” on crack, “Woman from Oxford” quickly devolved into “Woman from Time for a Change,” “Man from Mars,” “Man from Time for a New Topic,” “Woman from Getalongville,” “Woman from Merriam & Webster” … well, you get the point.

So now, we’ve given you a drop-down menu to choose your local hometown, or “Outside Chenango County.” This will force you to be clever within the message itself. So there.

And who the $&^% is Missy?

The St. Bart’s Spaghetti Supper – a fundraiser for the church – cleverly became a remote ad hoc outpost for the Lobster Fest last night, as Republican candidates apparently needed a place to crash in Chenango County this close to November – so far from the friendly confines of the August hob-knob. Not to say they did anything wrong meeting with the nearly 500 who came, in fact I was impressed.

I was impressed because it wasn’t a political event, and I still couldn’t help but think the democrats lost out, mainly because they weren’t there. Appearances count, no matter where. That’s what great about politics – you look bad in absence.

Is this need for political symmetry all in my head? Does Ricardo Mantalban have to take on William Shatner at Star Trek conventions to defend the Wrath of Khan? Does Shelley Long have to follow Kirstie Alley into Old Country Buffet to compete in public over who was better on Cheers? NO, they all live equally in has-beendom.

But our elected officials are indeed different. What allows me sleep at night is knowing that politicians probably don’t. They’re addicted to the spin, and they should be – because its matters.

By choosing to stay home with family, play horseshoes, or do whatever local democrats did, they missed out on an opportunity.

But what if they didn’t really miss out? If St. Bart’s supper, a pretty low-key and wholesome event, was so easily taken over by politicians, what else could be? Were the democrats absent from St. Bart’s because they were at some 600+ Quilters Guild Convention? Will St. Bart’s be serving partisan pasta from now on? Can any place with 500+ breathing souls become a political junket? I bet if prisoners could vote their would be a Chocolate Pudding Fest in Sing Sing Maximum Security Prison every August, to raise hard and soft campaign cigarettes and garner votes among the Bright Orange states (in this case cell blocks).

But the more that I think about it, the dems were probably just out somewhere else, at some other normally unobtrusive event, with some other dumb reporter thinking republicans missed out.

Even though it’s in the heart of Florida, Gibtown U.S.A. can be a cold place when a carny’s love is left wanting. She was never meant for me anyway, and I was never meant for life on the road – I realize that now. Millie’s heart is in transit, and mine is broken back in Norwich, my career as a carnival worker headed for the by-and-by.

With no grand illusions for my return home, and with no hopes for new opportunities, I was shocked to find a blossoming and fresh cultural climate in my hometown. I knew then and I know now, this will be my second chance to make it in the bigtime.

This gig is a new twist on an old phenomenon, which involves some familiar faces. Admittedly, they are ones I never thought could escape the plight I had last witnessed them in.

They’ve captured lightning-in-a-bottle, and the heart and soul of Cortland Street has become all the rage. “Barry! Barry!” I called out when I first saw them, with no response from my old friend. He was tangled at the bottom of a glorious, yet delicate formation of carts, tumbled on top of each other, balancing an earthy yet vibrant mix of autumn colors, spinning wheels and torn plastic bags.
“Barry! Hey it’s me, remember? What are you doing? What is all this - it is amazing.”
“It’s not amazing,” Barry replied in a French accent as I approached. “It’s more than amazing. It’s ‘Cirque du Chariot.”
“Cirque du Chariot?, like Cirque du Soleil?”
“The name isn’t Barry either, not anymore” he said with disgust, as if I’d insulted him. “Je m’appelle Berét.”
“Like the funny French hat?”
“No! It’s like…nevermind, you wouldn’t understand,” he said.

How cruel could he be, this Berét? This wasn’t the old Barry I knew and loved, the cart who so poignantly told me his gut-wrenching tale – describing so well the story of so many sad and lonely steel-wheeled slaves. Had he really forgotten that I was the one who brought his problems to the forefront, the one who told the truth, the only one who cared? I was filled with sadness. An unusual amount of wetness began to build up on my face – I assumed it was from the tears and runny nose. It was when I went to wipe it off, that I realized he hadn’t forgotten me, he just didn’t recognize me.

—

It totally slipped my mind that I was wearing a bright orange ski mask, not an uncommon practice year round on Cortland Street, especially in the dead of fall. In the midst of the artistic wonderment I had completely forgotten that I was on my way to remove some loose change from nearby car (the requisition of an earlier debt still owed to me, but I don’t care to name names).

Berét’s elation upon my unveiling was a great relief, and his colleagues one-by-one uncoiled themselves and gathered to meet the man they said they had heard so much about.

“You inspired us,” they chimed. “We saw your stories about Barry, and..”
“Barry? I thought your name was Berét now?”
“Naw,” he said, with that broken cart smile I knew so well. “That’s just my stage name, I figured it was a fun and sensible play on words.”

Barry had never been so right. The carts explained how my article about their lifestyle gave them and other carts the courage to come out of hiding, to not be alone. All over the city carts popped up everywhere, and together they sang their songs on street corners and brought out fans where ever they were. With the new surge of confidence, critical acclaim for their talent, the carts decided to test the limits of their abilities. Their initial efforts did not go so well. They wrote a musical that was closed only one week after it opened, and their head shots were not catching the eye of local talent scouts.

After watching a PBS special on “Cirque du Soleil,” the extremely popular French performing arts company that travels the world, Barry saw how successful they were worldwide, performing tricks, singing songs, and tapping into the pulse of urban society. The same thing he and his friends were doing. And like the carts, Soleil was born on street corners, squares, and sidewalks, and Barry decided from now on the concrete would be the stage, studio, and inspiration of the starving shopping cart, and they would do it all on their own.

People congregated on porches and lawns morning, noon, and night, seemingly avoiding life’s day-to-day responsibilities to watch the carts perform. Acrobatics, dance numbers, sketch comedy, hypnotism, audience participation and circus acts brought the streets alive with laughter and shouting, calling for more and more. The show had gotten so big, that by the time I arrived, the only thing they lacked was a manager. And I must say, who better to “push” them over the top than me?

Oxford to Afton, Brussels to Beirut, we will see the world, and the pain and suffering that made them strong will now bring the happiness to audiences that so many carts never had, until now.

The weeks leading up to the November election are almost like Christmas morning in Chenango County, as the money starts falling out of the trees it grows on – in Albany, anyway. Even though the old hometown fared rather poorly when they rolled out the pork barrel this year, it’s a safe bet that a few of our favorite politicos will shake loose a dollar or two shortly before the polls open.

It’s also the time of year when we at the newspaper get called upon to attend these “press conferences” and take the dreaded check-passing photo. While I’m certainly happy, usually anyway, for the recipients of the much-needed manna from heaven, I can’t help feeling like a whore, used as a pawn in the re-election chess game and then discarded like yesterday’s news.

Pardon me; it’s late and my metaphors are mixing.

Self-centered journalist that I am, I often measure politicians by the frequency with which they visit me … the mountain coming to Mohammed, as it were. Our current group of incumbents have a pretty good track record when it comes to being responsive to the needs of the press via phone, but I’ll cast objectivity aside (since he’s getting out of the game anyway) for a moment and tell you the only politician who, in my 16 years at the paper, was a regular in-person visitor – Congressman Sherwood Boehlert. While I’ve had that slimy feeling after covering a lot of other public officials’ “news,” I’ve never once doubted the sincerity of Sherry Boehlert. Not only was he attentive to the needs of his constituency, but I also never felt used or manipulated by his frequent visits to our offices. He kept us informed, not to sway public opinion or buy our good press, but because he felt as accountable to us as he did to Mr. CEO and Joe Sixpack. He is a rare breed – a career politician who rose through the ranks but never lost sight of the needs and concerns of the people who put him in office. Whoever takes his place in Washington has enormous shoes to fill.

After reading the latest updates regarding Madonna’s personal life I feel the need to express my own thoughts. First, so what!! If the common individual adopted a baby from Malawi would every major news organization be involved in the process? Everyone feels it is in their job description to scrutinize, judge and analyze what celebrities do and don’t do meanwhile, what are these people doing?? you guessed it, I don’t know either. Are these judgmental bloodsucking individuals simply jealous, could it be! Madonna like other celebrities do seem to be jumping on the bandwagon to adopt children from poor countries but do we really know what she is thinking? Just because we have all seen her almost nude and wear cones on her breasts does this really classify us as “friends” or even experts? NO WRONG AGAIN!!

Ok.. Ok.. maybe I am being a little harsh but I really do not think people can relate to what conditions some of these children are accustom to. I know if I were to go there and see these parent-less, helpless children I too would want to take some of them home. The problem, I do not have the money to do such things like the celebrities do. Madonna like others that have adopted know they can provide for the children and when I say provide I mean in terms like if Madonna wanted to adopt 12 more children clothe, feed and give them all the luxuries including a full education she would only have to go get the money out of the little piggy bank with the words “for a rainy day” on it.

Eye of the Child, a Malawian advocacy group that is campaigning to stop the adoption saying “It’s not like selling property. It is about safeguarding the future of a human being who, because of age, cannot express an opinion.”

Well you know what, if the child dies within the next week he also will not be able to give an opinion.

Save the Children’s exploited children advisor Daniela Reale told CNN that the best place for a child was in their home country.

The problem with this one: If they remain there the price they will pay will be their lives. A villager from Malawi has said if it were not for the adoption they would have had to bury him, how’s that for a good enough reason. His home country is full of disease, mal-nutrition, lack of education and more ill-imaginable happenings than you or I want to discuss.

The question really at hand is whether exploiting a child to the media is worth saving a life. I would have to agree it is. Maybe some of these people yelling about good deeds and deciding which good deeds are in actuality bad ones should get off your high horse and think about what good deeds you have done to save lives this week!