Staying out of the ditch: me and the county fair

I hate carnival rides. I hate nausea and disorientation and losing all my pocket change. If I want to spin or shake or fly around through the air, I’ll drive my car into a ditch.

As I stroll the fairgrounds, I sometimes find myself distracted by women, especially those who lack obvious facial tattoos. But giving in to such distractions raises an unavoidable issue: My wife. Being married means getting elbowed in the rib cage every time my head turns. If I want sore ribs, I’ll drive my car into a ditch.

I’m not thrilled by dime-toss games anymore. At one particular fair several years ago, my dead-eyelob shot won about a half-dozen of those cheap, paper-thin, beer-label drinking glasses. They were all broken within a month. If I want broken glass, I’ll drive my car into a ditch.

No, there’s only one thing about the Kern County Fair that interests me: Greasy food, spicy food, tangy food, sugary food. In general, food.

This is the one time of year when I try to justify dietary irresponsibility, the one time (well, except for Thanksgiving and six or eight other occasions) when I pretend I still have the metabolism of a 14-year-old.

Corn dogs on the main promenade, slathered with mustard. Mini-taco platters at the Mexican village, buried under an inch-thick layer of salsa. Egg rolls. Cinnamon rolls.

And, on the way back to the car, right after the annual family-of-four-in-the-photo-booth thing, the obligatory bag of caramel corn.

I don’t eat this way all the time.

Really. I wouldn’t be able to see the space bar on my keyboard if I were totally without shame.

But this is the fair: I can go back to eating responsibly next month. Fair food, to me, makes the whole two-week affair worthwhile.

What better enticements does the fair offer? Not all that much.

Let’s see: I enjoy going into the exhibition halls and watching pitchpersons with wireless headset mikes trying to sell non-stick pans and never-dull cutlery. (Warning: Never allow yourself to actually appear interested or you may become part of the presentation. I was once forced to comment publicly on the dust-attracting prowess of the Wonder Broom. Wow! It’s really amazing!)

I enjoy watching the joy-terror on the face of my pre-schooler as he circles around in a tiny helicopter at the breakneck speed of 3 mph. Even at this age, like his older sister before him, he is trying to perfect the art of appearing nonchalant while privately wondering about the credentials of the carny-in-charge.

I enjoy hearing the shrieks cascade down from the bungee jumping attraction, though I am smart enough to keep my distance. For one thing, I don’t want to get caught up in any dares. For another, I understand rudimentary intestinal chemistry: Eight beers plus a cone of soft-serve plus an order of nachos, churned violently, equals ... well, you get the picture.

That’s the beauty of the fair. You get to see things you don’t normally get to see (and probably wouldn’t otherwise care to see). Bodies flying through the air. Rows of stuffed Garfields. Rows of Metallica posters. Packs of fairgoers who actually own Metallica posters. Those L.A. deejays, Mark & Brian. People willing to stick objects up their nose in order to impress Mark & Brian.

I’m not normally interested in calf roping or steer wrestling, and I seem to be able to get through the entire year without viewing 90-pound zucchinis or sitting through cheerleading competitions. But I usually end up doing so during the fair’s run, if only because you might as well do something while the digestion process works its magic.

I should note that I’m very proud of my digestive system. But I’m no super-human: I have to draw the line somewhere.

A guy can’t process a chili burger in just any old place. That’s why I steer clear of the calf-birthing area. I have come to realize that the livestock pens are generally not goodplaces to enjoy fair cuisine. Nothing personal, kids: I have only the greatest admiration for the 4-H Club. I’ll support your endeavors 100 percent, as long as I can do so upwind.

Here, for the record, I would like to state my appreciation for farmers and ranchers, as well as 4-H’ers, carnies, metal-heads, deejays and the people who sell those white, 3-foot-long inflatable space shuttles.

Speaking of which, have you see people trying to lug those things around during the fair? Yikes. If I want a massive, white, inflatable thing smacking me in the face, I’ll drive my car into a ditch.

I wrote this in September 2000. My kids don't like to hang around me at the fair anymore, except for the time it takes to ask for and receive money. I have long since given up on trying to cram all four family members into a single photo booth.