The Gaggle Goes to The Fair

What would a trip to the fair be without a cocktail? Not quite the fair I remember from my childhood, trying desperately not to spend all of my money in the first hour I was there and getting giddy at the mere thought of being flipped upside down.

Friday evening found me sitting at T-man’s, flipping through the Halloween issue of Martha Stewart Living. I ooh-aah’ed at Martha’s ideas for post-prison Halloween décor and food. Pumpkin lobster bisque served in hollowed-out squash. Artificial ivy spray-painted black tacked against Turkey Hill while tattered lawn-and-garden Hefty bags billowed in the windows.

Buffy entered the front door and gave hugs all around.

“Do you have anything to snack on,” Buffy asks, and then reconsidered. “What am I thinking? There’s gonna be all that food there. Do you have anything to drink?”

“We have gin. And gin, and gin,” Hotass offered. “How about a gin and Sprite?”

I sipped my drink while I marveled at Martha’s pillar candles wrapped with gauze and safety-pinned.

“That Martha. She is so fucking clever.”

Halloween is a big deal because it is a time to stick shit in the chandeliers. Hotass was already discussing plans of sticking tree branches in the chandelier to create an ominous canopy of reaching arms. Last year, ravens perched above the dining room table and Styrofoam skulls grinned down in the kitchen.

The Chef and the Artist arrived, fresh from their honeymoon, just as T-man bounded down the stairs, fresh from a healthy poop generated by his newfound love of all things organic.

After a quick discussion about riding arrangements to the Fairgrounds…

“We might as well take one car and save on parking.”

“We can but I’m on call.”

…we loaded into two cars, three by three, passing through tree-lined neighborhoods with the windows down, sunroof open, and back window down. Buffy shouted “nice ass!” to boys as we passed. It was truly a great day to be alive.

We had yet to even pull into the parking lot before we spotted the beefy security guard we believed to be text-messaging his boyfriend, and the Christian Brothers University’s baseball team, directing cars into the spaces.

“Well, what’s the point of going in? All the rides are out here.”

Walking to the fairgrounds, these 30-something men transformed into giddy adolescent boys. I swear I saw somebody skip.

We purchased our tickets, and the never-ending debate of food-versus-thrills resumed.

“Do ya’ll wanna eat first?”

“Let’s ride something first so that nobody pukes fresh corn dog.”

We couldn’t argue that point, and dazzled by bells, buzzers, hawking carnies and flashing lights, we moved down the Midway toward the first remotely-thrilling ride we came upon. Chalk one up for thrills.

Two rides later, we were reminded that we were not adolescent boys. We might have been squealing schoolgirls, giggling about the prospect of being thrown out into the middle of Arkansas and how hot that guy would be if he had teeth.

Or we might have been 30-something men, painfully reminded throughout the evening as we passed hydro-massage tables and hot tubs in the exhibit hall that carnival rides jostled our bones in ways that we just weren’t cut out for anymore.

We headed to the restrooms.

“Is this the one where there’s a gloryhole?”

“No, that’s the one on the other side.”

“Whatever happened to the old troughs?

“Hey, your name is still written in my stall.”

We stood and wondered about our next direction. A young couple passed by, the man swilling beer from a bottle.

“Hey, where can we get beer?”

“Do ya’ll want to eat now?

“Since we’re here, we might as well ride the Zippin’ Pippin.”

Thrills, two. Food, zero.

“This was Elvis’ favorite ride. He used to rent out Libertyland and bring his…hey, where can we get roasted corn?”

It didn’t take long for the eating binge to begin. Hotass and I stopped for Pronto Pups, slathered in mustard. T-man disappeared for a roasted turkey leg. Buffy returned with a boat of French fries covered in cheese from a jar. We turned the corner, and Hotass and I pitched our sticks and napkins in the trash. Up ahead, we spied a place with roasted corn, gyros, butterfly fries and more goddamn turkey legs.

I have this incredible aversion to eating meat off a bone that I have to pick up with my hands. Not only am I afraid I’ll choke on a bone, but I just feel barbaric gnawing at meat and slinging grease and barbeque sauce on my face. Ribs are out of the question. As are fried chicken and turkey legs.

The Dynamic Duo got gyros and fries and Hotass got a roasted ear of corn, generously dipped in a butter-like sauce. I got butterfly fries, a spiral cut potato thinly sliced and deep-fried. A little ketchup and it was positively divine. And I started to feel the sludge moving through my veins.

We wandered a little further down, and like eyes first looking up on the face of God, we stopped, mesmerized by the prospect of deep-fried junk food. Yes, battered and deep-fried Twinkies, Oreos, Three Musketeers bars, Snickers bars, Milky Way bars, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. At least one of each was ordered and we placed the paper plate around, sampling and reveling in the decadence.

Food scored a comeback, trumping thrills for a good 30 minutes, while we ate our way around the Midway.

“Let’s go into the Creative Arts Building before it closes…hey, look, mounted police.”

Inside the Creative Arts Building, there wasn’t so much art as it was people selling “You As a Cartoon!” portraits and scented candles.

We did see a real-live black Republican who was recruiting people for the Dark Side. Forming our solid alliance as Jedi warriors bravely facing the rise of conservatism, we moved deftly through the crowd and away from the men offering the smiley-faced “Smile! Jesus Loves You!” stickers on behalf of the First Fundamental Church of God Hates Fags.

Preventing an ugly scene, Hotass also managed to navigate me away from the snake on the fish and wildlife table before we made our way back out to the Midway.

As we stood in line for the Ferris wheel, we spotted the panties. We stood as a group for at least 15 minutes, laughing hysterically as parents re-directed their children away from the raspberry-colored panties that lay crumpled in the middle of the Midway.

From high atop the Ferris wheel, we called the Pink Lady, just to let her know that we were high atop the Ferris wheel.

We roamed the entire fairgrounds, deciding if we should eat or if we should ride something else.

“How about the Himalaya? I always wanted to be guy who ran the Himalaya.”

“Do you wanna go faster?!?” the Artist howled in a crazed rock-star voice.

“Do you wanna go backwards?!?” HotAss howled back.

“Remind me before we leave I want to get one of those Fiddlesticks.”

“Oh, and I need to pick up some salt water taffy for Big Linda.”

We all paid our 25 cents to see the spider girl. It was the discounted rate as we all saw that it had been a dollar earlier in the night. We literally stood transfixed as we tried to figure out how this lady’s head seemed to grow from the spider sewn together from pieces of black shaggy fabric. Then, the Chef pointed the mirror out to us.

“You know, that would have been a lot more believable if the spider had looked more realistic.”

“Do ya’ll wanna go out tonight?”

“We’ve done the fair. We might as well do the freak show too.”