cmaxwell

Thirty miles away from Ann Arbor, the most progressive city in the Midwest (maybe, or at least so its residents think; Madison more likely is much more), and its art fairs, where pretentious and badly dressed suburbanites compete for outrageously priced faux "art" (and a few pieces of excellent art) is the backwater village of Manchester, as Middle American as you can get. It's a half-hour drive from blue to red America. And there tonight they had the 50-somethingth annual Chicken Broil, the town's claim to fame.

On this evening, and annually at the broil, some 14,000 chickens are barbecued and served to farmers and villagers and people who come from (supposedly, last year) 29 states and 12 foreign countries). The chickens are roasted in these long brick-lined charcoal pits that look like crematoria. Smoke fills the air. Brawny lads on each side of the pit lift the grills (a pair of which pin the chickens) and turn them over and pull them down.

The grilled chicken halfs and put into big pots and wheeled on dollies to serving tables. You get a paper plate, the chicken, special recipe cole slaw (the tastiest part of an otherwise tasteless meal), a bland dinner roll, two radishes, and a bag of chips.
Sit down on folding chairs at long tables in the sun and listen to a band of five old men (three horn players, a drummer, and an accordion player) play very old songs like "The Mexican Hat Dance," many of which were not written for trumpet, trombone, and flugelhorn or whatever the fuck it is they are playing. The most recent song they play is "Tiny Bubbles." Two groups of women singing barbershop harmonies stroll among the people standing inline for food and sing tunes like "It's a Grand Old Flag." A line of young volunteers grate cabbages over a trough.
I think of all those live animals that are skewered and cooked and I wonder what would happen if the chickens took over and had the World's Largest Human Broil.