A Brief Stint at the New Jersey State Fair

The sounds of Howlin' Wolf accented our arrival to the Sussex County Fairgrounds. The parking attendants were halfway through high school and fully engulfed in a parking tragedy that caused a few to break down and cry.

"Pull up! Pull up!" said the frantic juvenile who signaled wildly at our car, "Hey man, can you pull up a few inches?"

"What? I'm about to hit the bumper," sternly muttered my pal Myron.

"Aww man...this is a mess...I'm sorry, this is a mess....just park there...John! Stop! No more."

As the young teen regretted taking the job of guiding cars to parking spots, we rolled up our windows and exited the car, heading straight towards the Port-O-Johns. The smell was horrific, far worse than hot garbage and rotten eggs combined. At first it was tolerable, but a couple of minutes later it had mutated into a brain-strangling smell, wafting up from the dark blue excrement abyss. It was in that moment when I realized I was finally back at the state fair. After all, the state fair is a congregation of strong odors, which curiously float up one's nostrils, and depending on the core makeup of the scent, completely overwhelm the senses, bringing about absolute vertigo.

Not all of the smells were bad though. Funnel cake has an endearing quality to it; one that seems to put the smellee at ease. It comes as a tremendous surprise that funnel cake incense has not yet taken the incense scene by storm. Then again, hospitals wouldn't be able to handle the influx of people who, out of severe scent-dementia, decided to ingest a bundle of funnel cake incense. No, not in this time period; the cost of getting your stomach pumped will guarantee a late retirement and the possible acquisition of another job. Nevertheless, our mission to hit up the New Jersey State Fair was one that began late at night-circa 8-o'clock. Work played a fairly large role in our late departure, but when work starts dictating your life, fun is on its death bed. We were all tired and mentally strange. The gears were not turning smoothly, and none of us were in sync. Myron wanted food. I wanted rides. My friends Mark and Briz wanted beer, and we all desperately needed to make the ten dollar admission worthwhile.

Considering that I was already a bit twisted on Pete's Wicked, I quickly scurried about, searching for a ride that would allow me to get my bearings and level out. A nasty storm was slowly creeping in, as lightning playfully danced in the sky behind the fair. The drive up was occasionally joined by droplets of rain that plopped heavily on the windshield, disappearing before the urge to turn around became strong. With different agendas, the group of four split into pairs of two. Me and Myron wandered aimlessly, completely mesmerized by the noises, smells, and flocks of people bouncing around in their own little worlds. Children hustled their parents out of money for rigged games that offered prizes of ill-fate, bound to retire in a muggy, cobweb filled attic. In our mindless jaunt that took us through the strip of food shacks and games, we stumbled across the World's Smallest Lady. "Only a buck?!" I excitedly yelped, "We must go."

Myron's face lit up and we hurried over to the quiet Haitian man at the entrance. We crept around a white, roofless box that housed the little lady. She was also Haitian and apparently ripped to the teats on some voodoo herb. Her eyes were squinty and she possessed a euphoric smile, making an odd gesture with her hands and mouth, followed by a thumbs up of approval. We smiled, returned the thumbs, and exited back into the madness that was the fair. Myron left for food, shortly after I purchased tickets to ride the Ferris wheel. Unfortunately, the lightning and slow building rain had caused the giant wheel to shut down. Unwilling to leave without riding high or pulling a few Gs, I made my way towards any large metal structure adorned with mind-tickling lights. Suddenly, I found myself in front of the Wild Claw, which was a massive metal claw with seats attached to the nails. Strapped in and eager for the machine to start spinning and flipping, I noticed I was surrounded by jailbait-underage girls who looked older, all staring at me. My eyes diligently combed the area for Chris Hansen of Dateline and his trusty camera crew. It's a setup, I thought.

"What's your name?" said the thin brunette to my left.

"Joe," I replied.

"Oh, so of course he talks to you," spouted another.

It had to be a sting operation, put together by Perverted Justice, Dateline NBC, and local law enforcement. What better place to catch predators? The state fair: a place brimming with young girls in revealing clothes and an atmosphere chaotic enough to allow creepy old men, lonely and looking for easy love a place to peep. I didn't want any part of it, none whatsoever. Just a fun ride and maybe some BBQ and funnel cake. Instead, I was surrounded by too-young girls who found me intriguing enough to talk about incontinently. Where were the girls of similar age? Was the Wild Claw too tame for them? This couldn't be.

The rain started to pour as the Wild Claw geared up. In minutes my mind excreted all the negative thoughts and enjoyed the speedy, smile-inducing rotations of the Wild Claw. With the ride coming to an end, I heard the faint sound of the MacGyver theme coming from my phone. The group wanted to return to the car, and after a fast forty minutes at the state fair, I found myself weaving through strollers and bodies, all headed for the exit. It was similar to a scene in an end-of-the-world themed film: fierce weather and crowds of people hurrying towards salvation. Oddly enough, the experience managed to bring back manic memories of fun and carefree behavior that I enjoyed many years back. I was a kid again, and certainly that is the essence of the state fair. It is a place for adults (young and old) to become over-stimulated to the point of innocent confusion.