"I have had it with these mothereffing steaks on these mothereffing sticks!"

I've experienced some disquieting things at the Tri-State Fair over the long years. Many of you may have heard the story of the mullet I once saw standing right in the middle of the Midway and eating something-on-a-stick. He wasn't the classiest of fellows to begin with, and the sea of gangsters, rednecks, and Caprock High School cheerleaders parted to give him a wide berth as he enjoyed his besticked meal, fat dribbling down his chin.

And then It Happened. The mullet cocked his head and looked up, shook like he was trying to maneuver something loose from the party end of his infamous hairstyle, and then looked down at the half-eaten remains on the stick. He shoved the sausage, snausage or whatever down the stick a ways so that the pointed end stuck out, and, to the horror of everyone on the Midway, he used that stick to clean – out – his – ear.

The worst was yet to come. When he was satisfied with his cleaning job, he smiled a toothless grin, shoved the foodstuff back up to the business end of the stick and he Went. On. Eating.

It was an apocalyptic horrorshow. All around that mullet, people passed out from the sight. Good citizens of the tri-state area ran away screaming in the night. And none who were there will ever forget what they saw on that dry September night.

Still – for reasons few can understand – I continued to attend the fair, even to look forward to it every year. Perhaps it is the writer in me; like Arthur Rimbaud, Hunter Thompson or Janette Oke, I feel compelled to explore the Edge, to see the most decadent, the ugliest, the most Republican side of humanity, to tickle the seamy underbelly of our worst natures.

Rimbaud died at 37. Those of us who live longer than he did go on to witness horrors he could not have dreamt of. At this fair, on this year, Spacedark, Jr. wanted to ride one of those hammer-type rides that spin you upside down into the sky. I agreed to ride the damn thing so that he could ride it. We waited in line and were strapped into our cage.

The ride was as hastily thrown together and as high-tech as one of the devices used to train the Mercury astronauts in the early, catch-up-with-the-Russkies-no-matter-who-has-to-die, years of the Space Race. Still, the experience wasn’t entirely without fun as we were hurled into the sky and turned upside down.

Until—in an instant—a tweenish girl behind (and, more to the point, above) us was screaming the words you never want to hear in such a situation: I just threw up! I just threw up!

And I look down at my hand, which was suddenly wet and sticky. I forgot the fact that I was being hurled around a rusted metal cage as I felt the back of my neck, my shirt and realize that all, all, were wet and sticky. Vomitus was raining down on us like acid rain, like radioactive fallout after a nuclear test, like the very fury of the very gods. I was wearing the “Save CBGB” shirt I had brought back from New York. It was a bitter irony: I was probably in a punk club (and much younger) the last time I was so remorselessly vomited on.

Some of you like to go to the fair for the food: the potatoes, the funnel cake. I can tell you, all such things lose their charm when they are raining down on you from above after being in someone’s stomach.

In an instant, the ride came to a screeching halt. The carnie who had been so friendly a moment ago as we boarded the ride suddenly was in a pisser. “Who puked?” he screamed. “YOU?!” he pointed at Spacedark, Jr. and me.

I shook my head and pointed behind me. The carnie yanked the frightened girl out of her seat and shove her off into eternal humiliation. I looked at him and asked if he had napkin or a paper towel, anything we could use to clean off. He just screamed at us, “YOU ALL HAVE TO GET OFF! I HAVE TO CLEAN IT UP!”

I tried again. “You know, we only got half a ride and we’re covered in vomit. Any chance of a refund of our tickets?”

“GET OFF THE RIDE! NOW!” the Carnie screamed, and apparently morphing into a horned demon from the depths of Hell is quite a painful process because he had a expression on his face like that occasioned by a sudden migraine headache accompanied by appendicitis and a kidney stone.

We left, found a restroom to clean up in and the art exhibits and spent another hour or so at the fair. But we were over it, and I doubt I'll go back to the fair any time soon.

spacedark