Harry’s Place Arts

Last weekend I spent a thrilling day at the San Diego county fair with about a hundred thousand other folks. I would like to share this snapshot of Americana so that it may give the rest of the world some insight into this complex and diverse nation.

Having been to Disneyland, Sea World and Burger King I can confirm that Americans have a curious capacity for standing in line. When it comes to queuing for the privilege of paying hundreds of dollars to become part of a giant human organism, Americans are the market leaders. They form neat lines hundreds of feet long shuffling toward the promised land overflowing with milk and honey derived products on a stick.

I parked my Honda Civic in a 2 mile wide dust bowl surrounded on all sides by towering monster trucks and trudged in a thickening clot of cowboy hats, beer bellies and big hair toward the gathering crowd at the entrance to the fairgrounds. Standing among these big people is a lot like migrating with wild buffalo. It is a irresistible force that drives you forward toward the Taser equiped rent-a-cop standing beside the metal detector.

On reaching the front of the line I flashed my Wonka Ticket and passed through the security checkpoints into a mysterious network of livestock halls, cholesterol filling stations and carnival rides. Pressing in on all sides were thousands of people streaming inexorably toward the food concessions. And I could see why they were in a hurry to line up at that trough. Who could resist the lure of chicken fried frog legs, deep fried Twinkies, battered and fried Oreo cookies and the grand daddy of all carnival foods - the double bacon cheeseburger on a Krispy Kreme donut fried in corn batter and placed on a stick! I kid you not!

Picture if you will a sea of obesity gobbling twice-fried food, washed down with flat soft drinks, in a huge dining area directly over a series of leaky sewerage manhole covers. A rich and complex odor wafted up from beneath the tables matching the dustbins in pungency with an extra fecile quality that is hard to describe. Apparently it is catnip to the average fair goer who seemingly did not spend a moment sans a fried item on a stick.

All the while, the flatulent smell of frightened cattle, sheep, pigs, llamas, chickens, dogs and lord knows what else hung as a pall over the entire fair ground. I have to assume that this is the farm smell that people hearken back to. I prefer city living if this is the case.

Traveling through the exhibits, I stopped to rest my weary feet and watched a 40 minute presentation on traditional spinning. What a treat seeing two octogenarians turn llama hair into thread. I was riveted. I also spent some time in the Fresh Veal hall filled with baby cows. Now that I have met veal and petted it, I have a deeper appreciation for it and will be sure to stop by the fresh meat department at my local supermarket to say hi.

One can not go to a county fair without bearing witness to some of the intense competition for which they are known. I missed all of the giant fruit and vegetable events and almost all the animal ones but I did catch what appeared to be bull dressage. Competitors led their bulls into a ring and walked around in tightening circles until the bulls became incensed. Then they stopped in a line and a woman in a blue jacket walked among them staring up the bulls tails and patting their sides. All the while, the agri-athletes leading these impressive animals scratched their charges testicles with a long stick. I am not sure why they would do that but the bulls did appear to remain calm. After the inspection was concluded one or two people burst into tears and the group was led out of the arena. No winner was ever announced but I was sharp enough to figure out the losers.

By this time I was growing weary and only the anticipation of the pig racing kept me pushing forward through the tide of humanity washing back toward the food court. And let me tell you, the pig racing was no disappointment. A frenzied crowd packed the bleachers around the pig race track. When the four “porcine powerhouses” of closed track racing were announced everyone paused their eating. When the gates snapped open and the pigs took to the track everyone stood, emitting a thunderous cheer. Knowing which pig won was irrelevant but the sight of four little pigs running as fast as their little trotters would carry them touched me deeply. I can only imagine how long the line at the battered pork chop on a stick stall must have been after that thrilling contest.

I decided to make my way back to my car but who could resist a walk through the retail shopping halls en route? It was there that I found the FEDERATION OF REPUBLICAN WOMEN. Being 80 and angry does not seem like fare for a fair that attracts a bewildering number of ‘foreigners’ (who speak mostly Spanish). Out of curiosity I hung around waiting for them to say something Republican. They did not oblige. I have to assume their husbands denied them permission to speak.

The other stalls were wholly unremarkable sporting the usual collection of home fitness equipment, bedroom sets, kitchen gadgets and the like. Although the products were by and large the same old crap, the hucksterism is alive and well. Snake oil salesmen were offloading their wares in huge quantities with middle America fishing for their credit card each time someone demonstrated a knife that cut through cans, a wall mounted fish tank, a miraculous carpet cleaning chemical and so on ad infinitum.

On my way out I cut through an exhibit featuring American automakers. There, on display, was American automotive ingenuity laid bare. A whole range of 4, 6 and 8 cylinder cars that run on corn! What a fantastic idea to take a staple food product that feeds much of the worlds poor and use it to power a Chrysler mini-van! I felt the urge to run back inside to the FEDERATION OF REPUBLICAN WOMEN and give them all a hug.