By Davida Gypsy Breier
As many of you already know, Carrie is looking for taillights for her '64 Dodge Dart. It was a hot Saturday afternoon, and we decided to drive over to the car show we had seen advertised earlier in the week. It was held at the still operational Bel Air Drive-in, in Churchville, MD. As we approached, there were cops directing traffic in both directions, and we realized what a big deal the car show was to the Churchville area. I pulled into the field, and as I rolled towards the woman collecting the entry fee, I felt my tires sink into the soft ground. I scurried onto the patches of straw laid down on the field, and paid the $5 a person entry fee. We parked, and naively plunged into redneck heaven...
I was so shell-shocked by the sights, sounds and smells, that a half-hour passed before I remembered I did a zine about cars. I spent the first half-hour afraid of this previously unknown, white trash car culture I found myself immersed in. In fear, Carrie and I were sticking close together...to the point of colliding every five seconds. In a moment of clarity, I realized I was duty-bound to report this fete I was an unwitting participant in. I quickly scrounged in my wallet, and found some of my business cards to start taking notes on. Thus, I will describe to you, dear reader, the atmosphere and denizens of the 1998 Churchville Car Show...
I soon realized there was a standard uniform to redneck culture. For the men it appeared to be no shirt, with an ample beer belly straining over their shorts. If a shirt was worn, it was most likely black, with a car design, Harley-Davidson logo, or declared their "Southern pride" with a Confederate flag. Airbrushed t-shirts were also the thing to be seen wearing this season. Accoutrements included tattoos, many of them of the homemade or prison varieties, and hats with either car or hunting themes. The hats of course sat upon the requisite mullot, with varying lengths of lanky hair cascading down their backs. The women, for the most part, wore tank tops, in either white or black, and short-shorts. Also optional were tight jeans, in either black or blue. For both sexes, a sunburn and dry hair was a must.
I assumed there would be cars and car parts for sale, for that is what we were seeking, but there were many other objects for sale. The bathroom sink for sale at first surprised me. By the time I saw the second one, a few rows later, I knew to expect fiberglass plumbing fixtures at car shows. There were baby clothes, deer antlers, beef jerky, gen-u-ine electroplated jewelry, the Blue Ridge Jet Spray (for the kitchen sink of course), t-shirts and cheap plastic toys. I also saw boxes of Playboys and various misogynist stickers for the pick-up, harkening back to the good ol' days, when women knew their place.
There was of course, car paraphernalia and related car toys, including "Wolf Whistles" to apply to your vehicle, so as to annoy people with your leering calls from even further away. At one stand, they had a sign advertising fuzzy dice with the sign, "Fathers day is all most here. $3.00". There were stickers for sale, proclaiming hatred for different makes of cars, as well as other sayings that were about as tasteful as Vienna sausages. There were dream catchers hanging from many rearview mirrors and for sale. How have they become a symbol of white trash culture?
As we wandered through the rows of cars, we heard singing coming from the Grandstand. There was some mention of Elvis, but it was rather garbled. We found ourselves by the stage and realized there was karaoke going on...worst yet, there was a karoke contest going on. I realized there was a group of people dressed and singing songs from "Grease," and it took much self-control not to roll in the mud in hysterics. They were far too serious about the whole thing not to laugh. Alas, Danny now has a mullot and lost his rhythm, and Kenicky has a huge beer belly. Rizzo was portrayed by a woman wearing a lemon yellow sweater who wasn't all that convincing as the school slut.
During one of the slow, "romantic" songs, I watched a couple near the stage, the woman wearing a tight black t-shirt, tight black jeans and a black brimmed hat with a white lacy band, dirty dancing. He jerkily sidestepped, periodically colliding against her hip and groin. I was sure the smirk I couldn't remove from my face if I tried (and believe me, I tried), was going to get us both killed.
Adjacent to the stage, were two badly abused cars. We saw people whacking at them with sledgehammers and realized that they were paying $1 for the pleasure. The echo of "What the hell?" in my head, was replaced with "Why the hell?" We stood there mesmerized by kids, not even old enough to drive, handing over their allowance money to beat a Chevrolet Spirit and Celebrity to death. There was an older woman swaying to the karoke singers, holding a red rose standing there. We assumed she was one of the kids' mothers, until she handed over her dollar, and swung at the car. She missed twice, before connecting with a dull "ding". Things had gotten too bizarre, and we thought it best to leave.
We walked to the end of the field where the much advertised pony rides were being held...by "Cowboys for Christ." Enough said. Now, with all that said, I have to admit that I had a great time. I was in a chipper mood, and happily scribbled observations and watched the festivities with great curiosity. I also learned that this is the social life for some of my neighbors, who zoom up and down my road (I recognized their cars). I also got to experience massive car lust, something I don't do very often. I got to fantasize, "If I had money, what car would I like to have?" We walked back out to my van, hoping with its assortment of bumper stickers, that it was still in one piece. We passed a row of bikers, one wearing a white supremacy shirt along the way. When I got to my van, I kissed it. Alas, we didn't find the taillights for Carrie's Dart. There's always next year.