Bizarre Bazaar

I drove by a neighborhood church advertising its fall carnival today and it gave me a flashback of how sometimes these events are more bizarre than bazaar.

It was back in 1980 or 1981. My family lived in north Florida, where our church was throwing a bazaar complete with games, prizes and fun for the whole family. The organizers even planned to "broadcast" some music from a new 8-track system and asked parishoners to bring in their favorite tapes.

We'd been to events like this before. No one ever brought any decent music, meaning we kids were subjected to the tortures of 10-12 straight hours of christian and gospel music. My sister and I lobbied for Mom to be a trailblazer and bring some current music. She was pretty hip, so we didn't have to do much talking. She chose two of the hottest soundtracks of the time - Saturday Night Fever and Urban Cowboy - pretty ballsy selections to bring to a church party.

I knew Mom wouldn't approve, but I snuck my KISS Destroyer tape along anyway, hoping to crank "Detroit Rock City" and "Shout It Out Loud" to get the congregation rockin', then slow it down with "Beth."

The lady running the music booth, who I'll call DJ, was a nutjob censor who probably spent her spare time burning books. DJ ignored Mom's two contributions to the music selection and seemed to be content just showcasing her own gospel music collection.

After hearing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" for the 13th time, I finally decided to make my move. I went over to DJ and unveiled my KISS 8-track and begged her to play it. I almost got down on my knees, but we were outside church, not inside.

"I will not disrespect the church grounds by playing this filth," DJ snapped. "Do you know what KISS stands for? It's an acronym for Kids In Satan's Service. If you keep listening to this garbage, you'll end up being a devil worshipper!"

I attended the Catholic elementary school on the church's grounds and was somewhat of a hellion, but I was hardly the satanist Paul Stanley, Gene Simmons, Ace Frehley and Peter Criss had enlisted me to be. I just liked their rock and roll music.

Mom overheard part of DJ's devil worshipping speech and told her that she needed to start mixing up the music a bit and playing the other parishoners' tapes. OK, maybe not KISS, but only because they were too loud, not because they wore makeup, leather and platform boots. A couple of other mothers chimed in and agreed it was time to shake some booty like John Travolta.

Once Saturday Night Fever started playing, the place started rocking. People were strutting around the place to "Stayin' Alive." Kids were asking the priests and nuns to dance. It was getting really fun. Other people got some balls and went out to their cars and brought in their favorite 8-tracks too.

Things were hopping. I won a wonderful carrot cake during the cakewalk to the tune of "Jive Talking" by the Bee Gees. Take that, DJ! People wanted to hear the Saturday Night Fever 8-track in its entirety again, so put that fucking Jim Nabors tape down, bee-yotch!

People were dying to hear Urban Cowboy next. Parents and kids were two-stepping and square dancing on the basketball court having a great time. But then all hell broke loose, and The Charlie Daniels Band song "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" was playing.

DJ tried to make it through the song, even though it tells the tale of a kid named Johnny who bets his soul he can kick the devil's ass in a fiddle-playing contest. The crowd was boot scootin' to the beat until near the end of the song, when Charlie Daniels utters the ever-famous "Devil, come on back if you ever wanna try again, I done told you once you son-of-a-bitch, I'm the best that's ever been!"

At that point, DJ screamed and yanked the tape out of the player. She just went fucking Footloose on my Mom. She threw the 8-track tape at her and publicly chastised her for bringing an 8-track with profanity on it at a church event that involved "God's children." Except me. I was a KISS devil baby.

DJ ranted and raved and pretty much said Charlie Daniels was the anti-Christ for saying "son-of-a-bitch" in that song. He was also "going to hell for glorifying gambling and potentially giving his soul to Satan." She looked at me when she said Charlie Daniels was "10 times worse than KISS." DJ probably had an acronym for The Charlie Daniels Band, too, but I was afraid to open that can of worms. Before her holier than thou tirade was over, she might have even threatened to outlaw dancing in the entire county.

I didn't get it. I heard them read the word "ass" straight from the bible in church once, but DJ didn't snatch the good book away from the priest and bitch him out. Ass was way worse than son-of-a-bitch in my book.

Mom was totally embarassed, but my friends thought she was the coolest lady ever because she made DJ play the "son-of-a-bitch" tape at church. You could hear a pin drop at the bazaar now, so DJ tried to save face after going psycho in front of the whole congregation by getting the party rocking again.

"No worries, my people, I will now only play the current music without all of the filth that foul-mouthed redneck Charlie Daniels and his devil band call music," she said hysterically, almost crying. "I promise from here on out with God as my witness, I will play nothing but clean music with clean language for good clean fun."

The next tape she put in was Blondie. Let's just say the tide was about to get pretty fucking high for DJ, and she wasn't wearing capri pants. The second or third song to play was "Rapture." This made my dirty little friends and I laugh because we knew the lyrics for this song included the words "finger fucking." DJ was totally clueless when Debbie Harry sang that part, prancing around like she was auditioning for American Bandstand. She mistook our cheering and laughing for her choice of music and idiotic energy. But the real source of our amusement was the fact she flipped out over "son-of-a-bitch," yet "finger fucking" didn't even warrant the blink of a fake eyelash.

The next tape she played was my friend's favorite. It was Tattoo You by The Rolling Stones. The second song to play was "Start Me Up." My friends and I laughed even harder because we knew the whole song was about getting laid. Even better, towards the end of the song, Mick Jagger would sing "You make a dead man come" not once, but twice!

DJ was clapping along and yelling for everyone to sing along. If only she knew all the words. "Start me up!" she squeaked. "Yeah, wooooo!" She was more annoying than some 13-year-old from Buffalo making a request on MTV's TRL.

After the bazaar, Mom went to retrieve her Saturday Night Fever 8-track. DJ scolded her to be more careful what music she brought next time and to screen it for profanity. Mom was starting to feel bad again, so I decided it was time to speak up.

"Don't worry, ma," I said. "Your 8-track just said 'son-of-a-bitch.' She played shit later that talked about finger fucking and making some corpse come. She's just pissed because your Urban Cowboy 8-track wasn't dirty enough for her."

DJ almost fainted. Seriously. After Mom picked her jaw off the sidewalk, she dragged me away from the area, telling me that "11-year-old boys don't talk like that." I felt bad because I thought I had embarassed her again.

When we got in the car, I thought Mom was going to give me a good ass-chewing. Instead, she started laughing and thanked me for having such a good ear and pointing out what the lyrics to those songs were. However, she told me I shouldn't use those words or sing those verses aloud, especially around DJ.

Then Mom put in my KISS tape and cranked "Shout It Out Loud" for the drive home.