Broom Corn: Nothing Else Compares

It makes me very proud to report to the nine of you that I am now World Famous.

For what has to be the last 11 years or so, my good friend O’Hal has been lobbying me in an effort to convince me to march with the World Famous Lawn Rangers. For the uneducated, the following is the briefest of brief history lessons regarding the Lawn Rangers:

Twenty Five years ago, a handful (13) of Arcola area citizens decided it was time to be part of Arcola’s (IL) Famous Broom Corn Festival Parade, instead of hecklers and observers. They took a talent inventory and came to the conclusion that pushing mowers and twirling brooms was probably the best they could do. But they did it with gusto. Soon after, invitations to appear in other festival parades poured in and the Rangers went on tour. The rest is history.

Over 1,000 individuals have marched with the Rangers, drawing their members from ages 21 to 80 and from all walks of life. These lost souls come together bound only by a sense of humor and the great bond of “fellership”. Their ranks include their team press agent, noted Pulitzer Prize winning columnist, Dave Barry. Ranger Dave has appeared in 5 parades, written 5 columns featuring the Rangers, and sponsored a TV production starring himself and the Rangers. In addition to Ranger Dave’s fine work, the Rangers have appeared in specials by Bob Wallace of CBS Chicago, the Coors house video magazine, a production by Arcola’s own Van King for PM Magazine, and many local TV specials. The area press has also been kind to us with multiple fine stories on the adventures of the Rangers, as well as nice work by Ranger columnist, Tom Kacich.

Ranger Co-Founder Pat Monahan says it best “Never have so many done so much with so little”

But this short history does little justice to the phenomenon – it is one that I can now say must be experienced to be fully appreciated. As mentioned, O’Hal rode me good and hard the last decade or so about joining the ranks of the Rangers. “Are you coming to Arcola this year?” “The St. Patrick’s Day parade (downtown Chicago) should be a blast, maybe you should march.” “It’s Broom Corn time again.” “You won’t regret it.” Given that he is the son of one of the founding members and has marched in at least 40 parades, I truly believed that this was an experience not to be missed. Yet I always found some excuse why I could not participate; to be frank, these excuses were indeed like assholes – they all stunk. But for one reason or another I missed parade after parade after parade – and now I realized I missed out on a lot more than that.

As recently as this summer, O’Hal worked Arcola into the conversation again. “J, Broom Corn time is almost upon us – what say you?” Now, given that Michelle is expecting the spawn of my seed in November, this has given me much cause to reevaluate my priorities in life. After much soul-searching, I decided that, since I am not Hindu, I had to apply the “you only live once” corollary to this situation. So when O’Hal brought the subject up one fateful evening, I committed to marching in Broom Corn without haste. In almost an instant, I had convinced my brother Greg that it was imperative for him to join me on this quest for drunken madness. So it is with this spirit that I open the door and invite you to experience Amazing Arcola’s Broom Corn Festival 2005 with the World Famous Lawn Rangers:

• The first thing you must know about being a Lawn Ranger is the required gear: At minimum you are expected to sport a Lone Ranger mask, a hat (typically of the Western variety) and a lawn mower decorated in a manner that best suits your personality. If you choose to go nude after that, more power to you. Having secured a mower from my brother-in-law and being a big fan of Halloween, I chose a fake tombstone and pumpkin bucket filled with candy. I also make a trip to buy our masks at Party City, which was a depressing affair as Air Supply’s “Air that I breathe” boomed through the speakers, which of course made me wish that every bit of oxygen around me was sucked out of the building, causing me to die and sparing me from further exposure to Air Supply.

• Friday was spent trading emails and barbs with O’Hal in great anticipation of the good times to come. At one point we speculated whether the Amish Rake Fights would live up to their lofty expectations.

• On Saturday morning I arrive at Greg’s around 8:30. He has decorated his manual mower (the only one in the parade incidentally) with a sticker expressing his pride in being a Union member, as well as various flags saluting our heritage. We set out for adventure around 9:00, fueled my adrenaline and far too much coffee.

• As Arcola lies approximately 45 minutes south of Champaign, we head toward I-57. Ah, I-57 – it’s been much too long, old friend.

• Hunger strikes around 10:30 and we stop at the Gilman/Chatsworth exit for some McDonald’s. I am to the point where I only allow myself to indulge in this vice on road/plane trips. After dropping the kids off at the pool (thank you, coffee), I walk up to the register the instant the breakfast menu flips over to lunch, leaving Greg and I to order identical two cheeseburger meals. It should come as little surprise that shortly after passing Champaign, Greg experiences the always-mysterious Insta-Shit phenomenon. We stop at the Rest Area (whose stalls are strangely devoid of any calls for trucker love, I might add) so Greg can unload. I pop a couple of tablets of Pepto and we’re back on our way.

• After three easy hours of highway hypnosis, we arrive in Arcola, IL. Greg and I are lucky enough to have secured a room at the lovely Arcola Inn. Given the check-in procedure and general disinterest of our Indian clerk, Greg keenly notes that this is just the kind of place where a fugitive from justice could lam out for a few days with great ease. We instantly picture empty food containers, liquor bottles, and Juliette Lewis curled in the corner next to a broken coke mirror.

• Shortly thereafter we meet up with veteran Rangers John “Shak” Akalitis and O’Hal (and their ladies Jenny and Ann, respectively). The ladies go to freshen up while we four marchers get mentally prepared for the task that lies ahead.

• Around 12:30, as temperatures approach 90, we make our way to the Ranger tent, graciously hosted by Arcola resident Terrible Ted. We’re among the first to arrive and immediately head for the multiple kegs & bbq spread.

• While Greg and I have brought our own mowers, I am amazed at the array of mowers that are available to the general public. So creative, so unique, so much time on people’s hands. Shak and O’Hal quickly lay claim to their mowers, meaning the hardest part of the day is now complete.

• I am honored to meet the patriarch of the Rangers, Mr. Pat Monahan, as well as reacquaint w/John O’Halloran Sr. (AKA the Candyman). Given their status with the Rangers as well as the event we are about to participate in, this is the equivalent of hanging out with George Halas and Curly Lambeau at a Bear-Packer game.

• There happens to be a documentary being filmed about the Rangers. I start to feel that I am in the presence of greatness.

• Tom “Shakes” Powers arrives (another long-standing Ranger veteran), as does Jon “Nacho Man” Bruner, his wife Jen and their 8-month-old son Sam. Our clique for the day is hereby complete.

• It’s amazing how good cold beer tastes in the 90+ heat. I decide not to chance it with the bbq spread given the precariousness of my intestinal situation after ingesting my quarterly McDonald’s meal.

• Our picnic area is becoming quite full with Rangers and some family and friends. Later I will learn that 93 stout men marched with the Rangers that day.

• The festivities truly begin as we gear up for the march with the various “Ranger Reports” (i.e. excuses for hilarious vulgarity). Father Tourette leads us in benediction (“Goddammit, it’s great to be here!”) and several hilarious altar boy jokes. I quietly thank my parents for attending a parish free of child molesters.

• Next we have what can best be described as a cornucopia of dick and butt jokes. The donation to the gism bank. The guy who moons the crowd to music. The Champaign Ranger contingent, whose “report” consisted of holding out big, fake dicks and singing Chuck Berry’s “My Ding-a-Ling”. I assume by ding-a-ling, they meant penis. There was one brave gent who, I believe on an alcohol-fueled whim, decided to show the group how he could stick his testicles outside of his pants and pull them back in without touching them. Yes, the women and children were warned of the nature of the humor, but come on. On the upside, when I ran into him later and said “Hey, great trick with your balls” he seemed genuinely ashamed. Probably wasn’t such a good idea after all.

• Finally, the moment of truth – the parade. Now I must say that O’Hal had been warning me of the rigors of Ranger Rookie Camp, where I would learn my maneuvers and be subjected to brutal, humiliating hazing. Yet here we were marching two-wide towards the parade route (Greg being my partner) with nary a lesson to be had or insult to be absorbed. Thankfully, Shak and Bruner, who are marching ahead of us, give us a “here’s all you need to know” lesson – we learn to “Walk the Dog” (turn your mower toward the curb and move in a circle, followed by two sweeps of the broom) and do the “Cross and Toss” (man on the left crosses under the man on the right, brooms are tossed to your partner, followed by two sweeps of the broom). We are now sufficiently trained.

• Greg and I have our rookie mistakes (dropped brooms; walked the dog when we should have crossed and tossed), but we soon get in the flow.

• The crowd loves us – we get cheered every time we complete a maneuver. It helps that we bribe the crowd with candy and Mardi Gras beads (however, seeing as there are Amish in this community, we require no lewd “payment” for said beads).

• Downtown Arcola is strikingly similar to Main St USA at Disney – I make note of the various food stands along the route (pork chop on a stick; walleye sandwich) that we will no doubt hit later that night. My mouth waters, yet I remain on task like a dutiful Rookie.

• After about 40 minutes walking, crossing, tossing and sweating through the streets of Arcola, we have completed our journey – Greg and I have successfully completed our first Ranger march. O’Hal beams with bride as we head back to tent for more beer, more food and some unbelievably refreshing dips of our heads into a cooler full of ice water.

• One of the Champaign Rangers passes out on the lawn, and another one of his contingent jumps on top of him and they pretend to engage in coitus. Our clique sits in stunned horror.

• After bleeding the kegs dry, we head back to the hotel for some R&R before the evening’s events. A catnap, a few beers and cold shower later we are all ready for some more action. On to downtown Arcola!

• The pork chop on a stick proves to be everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more. Ditto the walleye sandwich that Greg inhales (Shak eats two). The others have opted for gyros, so I grab one of them for myself – great move on my part, I must say.

• Shakes, Greg and I go ahead to the beer tent – we secure our beer mugs for the evening (mine is from Broom Corn ’97) and ready ourselves for some crappy keg beer poured from dirty tap lines.

• We fill up on beer, meet up with the rest of the group in the tent and listen to the smooth sounds of Captain Rat and the Blind Ribbits. They fit your typical small town festival band stereotype: they played lots of cheesy-yet-fun oldies covers and talked to the crowd and amongst each other way more than they actually sang.

• The beers are going down like nobody’s business, which could spell trouble. I quickly forget to heed the warnings about the perils of drinking crappy keg beer from dirty tap lines.

• I quickly forget a lot more as we all grow exceedingly inebriated by the minute.

• The last photo I snapped is time stamped at 11:02 PM. Two hours magically pass, and at 1:00 AM, Arcola veteran Shakes escorts Arcola novices Greg and J back to the Arcola Inn. Greg passes out immediately upon entering the room. For all intents and purposes, I have already passed out on the walk back.

• At 4:30 I wake up and take out my contacts. Greg wakes up shortly thereafter and places his contacts directly into the sink.

• At 7:30, I understand why I’ve been warned against drinking keg beer out of dirty tap lines. I coax one more hour of sleep out of my pounding head.

• We wake up, stumble about, shower, and head north about 9:00 or so, leaving behind one of the best times we’ve ever had.

With that, all I can say is – Broom Corn 2006!!!!