First is the rumble down the middle, the kind of sound that you don't hear you just cringe from, as if you're a kingpin; this feeling in your teeth, it's the feeling of being center-stage at the local Ten-Pin-O-Rama, and you can feel every 16-pound Brunswick tooling with abandon down the alley.

This feels like bowling, but it isn't bowling.

Second is the clench between your ears, the pop that makes the world go quiet as you're suddenly deaf, a pressure that sucks all of the air in the country into your head. This is the feeling of narrowly missing being hit by lightning, but not escaping the tornado; this is arthritis in the pressure drop before the funnel cloud sucks off your skin.

This feels like a tornado, but this is no tornado.

Third is the rumble, and the clench, and they combine into a crecendo that sends you into one panicked destiny that you feel deep within your guts, driving you headlong. This is the consummation, the revelation, this cacophony as the light blares above your head would seem to be the sound of the Final Trump blowing.

But this is no tornado, or ten-pin strike, or trumpet.

This, this is the morning after Corn Fest.

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