Adjusting my thick glasses and dropping my half-Chinese Austin Powers accent, I futilely try to defend myself… — Harmon Leon

Closer to showtime, the jovial crowd now arrives in droves. Laughing. Smiling. Until they hear the melodic sounds of “This Land Is Fagland,” being sung by small children. With the most vigor, even the tiniest join in, big smiles, swaying their heads like it were the Barney the Dinosaur song. The chubby, red-haired girl actually jumps while singing—she's that happy.

Looking at the time, I can't believe the irony. Expecting a huge reaction, I announce, “Hey everyone, it's 4:20!” No one cares. No one looks up. On a pot farm, it's always 4:20.

I'm stunned. Is this a trick to steal my shoes? Thirty-year carnie vet Wayne-o is offering me, me, a corn dog. I think I've officially been accepted as a fellow carny! We all want acceptance, and maybe that's the allure of the carny life—no matter how big of a freak you are in the outside world, if you work hard enough, you can be accepted as a carny.