Head, Heart, Hands, Health. 4-H Stories, Part One: No Mony Mony, Ever.

Standard language warning, it is me, after all.

Do I need to explain 4-H to people?  I have no idea if this is a commonly understood thing anymore, or if it was and is the near-sole province of farm communities.

"TURN IT OFF!!! RIGHT NOW!!!"
The words boomed shrilly across the exhibitor's hall on that late June night as the County Extension Agent, Ann, stomped toward the PA system, looking for all the world like she was preparing to commit murders.  Ann was normally smiling and working to get various kids' attention and participation in activities and conversations, her enthusiasm for these things seeming to me to be a little over the top, but wow, was she mad right then.  The cause of her sudden rage?  The first 4 seconds of this:

Sure, it's a lazy, one note bass line, but Ann's anger seemed like an overreaction to sloppy songwriting

The county fair was to begin the next day, and I was one of 50 or so teens putting the finishing touches on our respective 4-H clubs' booths.  I was one of only a few boys in our club, and my model rockets looked a tad odd next to sewing, baking, and decorating projects.  I could have joined another club, one whose focus was on livestock and shop-type projects, but my club met at the school next to home, which was too convenient to pass up.  Anyway, the real draw of 4-H at the time was the free admission to the county fair, as well as the week of 4-H camp later in the summer.  An evening of hanging crepe paper and cardboard cutouts of cheerful farm people was a reasonable trade-off, plus I got to meet the girls from the other clubs this way.  I had just finished 7th grade, so the girls were definitely a bonus.

Blue ribbons hung, projects displayed, decorations in place, most of us were just hanging around at that point, talking and listening to the music someone was playing through the building's PA system.  Heads turned and jaws dropped at Ann's outburst, though a few of the older kids' faces showed a recognition that added to everyone else's confusion.  She tore open the door to the booth holding the PA system and yanked plugs out of the wall in a frenzy.  Seriously, what the hell does she have against "Mony Mony"?

Scott was kind enough to fill us in.  Scott was an older kid of the mid/late-80's prototypical fashion, a red-headed, crew-cut/mullet sporting, Sammy Haggar tank top wearing, football playing, hugely muscled monster of a guy who always, in the short time I spent around him, had the look of impending mischief in his eyes.  Seeing our looks of shock and confusion, he waved us over.  "Oh my god, you guys don't know about Mony Mony, do you?"  If Scott thought this story was good, then it had to be worth hearing.  A few of us gathered around him, outside the exhibitor's hall next to the Italian Sausage stand, to learn a bit of Putnam County 4-H history.  These days, when I hear Mony Mony, I remember the scent of fennel and onions as we heard Scott's tale.

Wow, this picture makes me hungry.

It turns out that the county extension service had, a couple years prior, put on a youth dance at the fair, spearheaded by Ann's predecessor.  I think the idea was to get more kids involved in the fair and 4-H, or maybe it was just to have a party.  It was held in the 4-H exhibitor's hall, just a free-form gathering that provided music and a place for teens to be for a few hours.  The dance was well-attended, and the kids were having a good time.  It had all the makings of the first installment of a new county fair institution, until the DJ played Mony Mony while the general PA microphone, located in the same hall, was live.

If you don't know about the Mony Mony chant (it's 30+ years old at this point so it may have faded into obscurity for some) take a moment to Google it, then imagine it being broadcast over the fairgrounds' loudspeakers for all to hear.  Wait, that doesn't quite capture it.  To get the full impact, imagine that you are a parent or grandparent, out for an evening at the county fair, which is the premiere family event of the year back home.  As you're walking the midway with your younger children, schlepping a bag of cotton candy, two goldfish in plastic bags, a couple wooden canes from the ring toss, and a half-eaten candy apple, you suddenly hear, too loudly to be ignored, dozens of kids gleefully shouting "HEY, HEY WHAT?  GET LAID, GET FUCKED!!!"  The words are tinny and distorted as they blast from the crap speakers that all fairgrounds use, but they're clear enough for you to know that something has just gone very wrong.  The PA broadcast the entire first verse before someone turned the microphone and the music off, which works out to three runs through the chant, more than enough for all involved.

Amen, Mrs. Lovejoy, Amen.

Mony Mony cost the last extension agent her job.  Imagine putting that on a resume/application.  I can't say that I blamed Ann for her reaction once I knew the story behind it.  It didn't stop it from being funny to us, or stop us from laughing that much louder when Mony Mony was played at other parties.  Those who knew the story would shout a modified chant to the song when we were around each other, the kind of stupid inside joke that falls completely flat if you aren't in on it.  "Hey, hey what, drink milk, read the bible" doesn't rhyme, and it's really not funny at all.  We'd get odd looks from other people for not dropping F-bombs, but we felt it was their loss for not knowing the back story.  It was cute, a weird coda to a weird story.

Say it with me: I pledge my Head to clearer thinking, my Heart to greater loyalty, my Hands to larger service, and my Health to better living, for my Club, my Community, my Country, and my World.  More weird little stories to come.