For the legends say, Screw Loose Bruce and reverse polarity. (Enterprise photo — Parker O’Brien)

I think T.S. Elliott’s best-known lines are They are, of course, his best-known because they seem the only ones anyone knows.

But poetic snottiness aside, last Saturday I couldn’t have cared less about how the world would end. The ending I cared about at that point was the Winter Carnival’s parade’s, because that also ended my involvement in Carnival. And so — at least for another year — my life was once again mine.

Don’t get me wrong. I had a great time, as I always do. But having organized (so to speak) and been in three Carnival events, I was beat. Likewise were my two fellow Brothers of the Bush, Jack Drury and Bruce Young, as we shlepped our way back to our vehicles at Hyde’s Fuel, Official Brothers of the Bush Parade Headquarters.

I didn’t know which of us was most tired, but we all had our reasons.

Jack had joined the Disease of the Month Club and had been, by his own description, In fact, Mr. Great Outdoors Hisself had been so sick he hadn’t even been able to leave his house ’till parade day.

Bruce didn’t know why he was wiped out, but I did. Aside from all the help he gave me with my three events, it was due to the deer antlers he’d affixed to his Devo Energy Dome. The antlers had caused a reverse polarity, so rather than energy from the universe flowing into his psyche and soul, the antlers were causing his energy to pour out into The Great Beyond … and beyond. The week before, when he’d told me about the antlers, I tried to warn him not to mess with Cosmic Forces, but did he listen?

And why I was bushed? If I’d asked My Brother The Doctor, he would’ve given me his standard canned diagnosis — I’m old. True though that might be, I was in no mood to hear it. Now a logical question: If he’s the medical equivalent of a one-trick pony, why do I continue to consult him? Why not get a second opinion every now and then? The answer’s obvious: While his shtick wears on me, the price is right.

Once our trio passed the Enterprise building, Jack and Bruce were leaving me in their slush. I kept putting one foot in front of the other, but as I did, I started to feel like I was in an MC Escher print: The more I walked, the farther away Hyde’s seemed.

In spite of my Escherian musings, I got back to my car, fired it up, and drove home. Once there, I crashed out in my chair, visions of Carnival 2025 in my head.

After Carnival, everyone asks everyone else what was their favorite event. This year, my favorites were the ones I worked on, because I couldn’t find the time, inclination or wherewithal to go to any of the others.

Because I wrote about my first event, The Blue Buns Wheel-a-Palooza, last week, I’ll take you on a misguided tour of my others.

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Where Yuks Better Than Bucks

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On Thursday in the Garagery was the maiden voyage of The Chucklehead Hoe-down, a joke-telling session. It wasn’t stand-up, storytelling, or personal anecdote, just family-friendly jokes, puns, knock-knocks and the like. In other words, Corn O’Plenty.

Since I’d never done such a thing before (and hadn’t heard of anyone else doing it), I was flying blind. I had no idea how it’d go, or if it’d even go at all. I expected maybe 10-15 peeps would make up the audience, it’d be over right after it began, and it’d be one more thing I could cross off next year’s Carnival to-do list. Much to my delight, I was wrong. We had about 50 peeps in the audience, 10 joke-tellers, and everyone hooted and hollered with glee.

We’d suggested folks could bring a food item for the local pantry, and we ended up with four full bags. They in turn were hauled off to the pantry by the ever-pleasant Laughing Ann Monroe.

The joke-tellers ran the gamut. We had guys and gals, young and old, old-time townies and first-time visitors from the ends of the empire (Syracuse). Their personalities ranged from the charmingly shy to the too-cool-for-words, and everything in between.

Adding a musical note of derision were Kyle Murray on snare drum (ta-dum-dum … chissh!) and Steve Erman sliding a mocking from time to time.

The MC duties were assumed by My Home Town’s equivalent of Larry, Curly and Moe — Three Dollar Bill Peer, Screw Loose Bruce Young, and last — and indeed least — yours truly. We kept the crowd laughing, though I don’t know whether with us or at us. Then again, when you’re the night’s designated fools, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is they laughed.

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A shaggy guy story

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My final Carnival event was The Gala Parade with The Brothers of the Bush’s — our 15th year in it. Our numbers were down due to a variety of reasons, like prior engagements, family obligations, extra work shifts, microbial maulings, and an extra-terrestrial abduction or two.

But what we lacked in numbers, we more than made up in joie de vivre, esprit de corps, je ne sais quoi, and all sorts of other things that can be described only en francais.

Leading the way with our custom crafted BoB sign were the father-and-son team of Bros John and Miles Gillette, parade stalwarts. As opposed to most of us, Miles is always thematic, this year doing his best Willie Nelson imitation.

They were followed by the truck. Mounted on its outside was our banner; snuggled inside were the father-mother-daughter combo of Tony Lawrence, Meg Risha, and Ramona Lawrence. Ramona, age 5, bubbled with excitement at the start, relishing her role as a candy-hander-outer. But by the time we got to the The Rock Shop, her labors had taken their toll. Still, she soldiered on, staying in the truck, waving and smiling at the crowd while Mom did the handouts.

Jarhead George Bryjak, a BoB hardcore, having never missed a parade, showed up as he always does — with enough Dollar Store candy to make the entire American Dental Association give him a standing ovation.

Then we had our Hell on Wheels duo — The Cosmic Kid and The Cheshire Cat. They rode circles around us, literally, the whole parade route. The Kid caught the most attention, atop Brain Greene’s creation — a bicycle version of the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine.

Finally, bringing up the rear (as well as dragging our own) were Bruce, Jack and me. Bruce showcased his Devo Anti-Energy Dome, Jack, his racking cough, and I was rockin’ mid-winter ADK Chic — in other words, swathed in 10 pounds of wool and shod in Kamik pack boots.

We may have marched low in numbers, we finished high in spirits — as we do every year.

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The iceberg effect

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And now an inner chapter of the Brothers of the Bush.

Tony Lawrence wasn’t originally scheduled to be with us. But he overheard me talking about not having ond and immediately volunteered his. The thing is, the truck guy isn’t a mere driver — he is the group’s Engineering Officer, and as such is the most important one among us. He fixes whatever breaks down, seizes up, slides apart, falls off, won’t stay up or won’t stay down, and anything else that goes awry.

So when the EO shows up at Hyde’s, his truck box has to be full of duct tape, baling wire, zip ties, tie downs, WD-40, superglue, a socket set, Vise Grips, Channel Locks, screwdrivers, pry bars, a hazmat suit and Geiger counter — you name it. And beyond that, he has to know how to USE them. Bro Tony fit the bill perfectly, plus he showed up with something else — an ear-to-ear smile and a genuine desire to do whatever he could for the group, and the parade.

Tony’s attitude is the one we all have and is how we do our thang every year — and have a hoot doing it.

And now an inner chapter of Carnival.

Winter Carnival is an example of The Iceberg Effect. That is, 90% of it is hidden. You’ll see Tony in the truck, but you won’t see him pick up and store our sign, figure out how to hang the banner, or do any of the myriad chores he either does, or is ready to do, just so we can diddy-bop our bad selves down Broadway.

Now think about putting on the whole Carnival. It’s easy, really. Just take our crew and multiply them by 500 or 1,000 or however many it takes, and — Voila! — you’ve got yourself 10 full days and nights of events of every kind and the most winter fun you can have with your boots on.