Over the years we acquire a knowledge base that we use to formulate our opinions, make daily decisions and guide us in our daily lives. Sometimes this knowledge base can lead us astray, but when it does we tend to edit it and proceed on with our lives having learned something. Well last night I had was one of those moments when my knowledge not only lead me astray, it left me out in the cold. I had one of those BAD decision moments that wasn't somehow contradicted by that inner voice saying, "You KNOW you don't want to do this, think it over you shithead!" But before I get into the gory details of updating my life accumulated knowledge base I should preface with a little bit of history.
I've now lived in southern California for just over two and a half years. The entire time we've lived out here somehow we've avoiding making it to the Orange County fair, for whatever reason. It's not like we were avoiding it on purpose, in fact I'm sort of partial to fairs and all things fair related. Whether it be butter sculptures, combine derbies, figure 8 races, all you can drink milk trucks, mosaics made entirely of dried beans and corn kernels, the smell of the barns, prize winning giant pumpkins, and of course the food, fairs are a great microcosm of an America that we may sometimes forget--whether intentional or otherwise.
SO having grown up in Minnesota I've been to the Minnesota State Fair (aka Mecca) a number of times. I've had my glory days on the midway winning many an oversized Bart Simpson plush doll. I even had what I consider to be an historic run in the clown dunking game. I was young, lets say 10 or 11 years old, and my family had taken the afternoon to enjoy the great American culture orgy that is the Minnesota State Fair. Well being 10 or 11 and having all the confidence (hubris) in the world I considered myself to be a fairly enabled baseball player, particularly with regard to pitching. On this particular sunny afternoon we had just left the ring toss onto the top of the returnable coke bottle game with a small stuffed animal--I forget exactly what it was. Anyway, it doesn't matter, so as I said we were walking down the crowded midway, the throngs of overweight, fanny pack wearing mid-westerners shoulder to shoulder all, in unison, searching for their next batch of cheese curds.
Suddenly, like Moses parting the Red Sea, there stood the most beautiful carnival game of all time: the throw the baseball at the target to dunk the clown game. I had never actually seen one of these in person at this time in my life so this was a milestone achievement for me. They actually existed, much to the misfortune of clowns across the nation I'm sure. I then told my family to wait because this, and only this, was the reason I was put on this planet. I was destined to do this, I had wandered aimlessly through my ten (or eleven) years of life and all of it had lead up to this moment. It was a confluence of destiny, salty greasy foods, and baseballs to be thrown at targets to dunk clowns.
The wait in the line took what seemed like ages, but it was worth it. A small price to pay for the glory that was sure to follow. I was convinced that by successfully dunking this clown, some Major League Baseball scout would see me and sign me up to pitch in their starting rotation (a la Henry Rowengartner). A few more moments, and a few more people in front of me had thrown, and failed to hit the target, and before I knew it a crowd was beginning to gather. The crowd didn't bother me though, I figured if I was going to pitch for the Twins I had to get used to performing in front of a crowd.
The moment I was destined for was nearly here, I was "on deck" and the kid in front of me had two of his three throws left. He was about my same age but clearly didn't have the same baseball prowess of my (or at least that's how it played in my mind). The first of his remaining throws was an absolute duck, barely reaching the tarp covered backstop on the roll. To the right of the pitching area, perched upon a cantilevered beam over a 6 foot tall tank with a see through window, sat the clown. The clown's white face paint was dried and chipping and his black eye makeup ran down his face at one point but it was now dried leaving black streaks on his face that made him look more like a comic book superhero than a carnival clown. From the degree with which the make-up had dried on his face it was clear he hadn't been dunked in a while. The clown then began to barrage the kid with a torrent of trash talk.
"Does your husband play baseball? Come on ya little wimp is that the best you've got!" his G-rated tirade only censored by the fact that he knew there was very little chance this kid could actually dunk him.
His next toss was a strike right down the heart of the plate and it his the target.The crowd cheered and then quickly stopped when everyone realized although he hit the target he didn't hit it with enough velocity to actually push the lever far enough to trigger the dunk. Outraged the kid skulked away while the clown continued to insult his manhood (or maybe boyhood was the better term there).
So there it was. It was now my turn. I stepped up in line and handed the carny my $4 and he handed me a milk crate with three scuffed baseballs in it. I looked back to my family and began to notice the enormity of the crowd. In reality its difficult to say how many people there really were, suffice it to say though there were at least 30 people watching the clown dunking game. I took a deep breath, shot the clown a look which I meant to imply "You're going down you sonofabitch", however I have a hard time believing that's how he perceived it, set the basket of baseball down and removed a single ball.
I remember trying to focus on the task at hand, I must hit that target. My entire future depended upon this one throw, if I missed or made a fool of myself then the Twins' scouts would surely turn their interest to more pertinent things. I stood and addressed my target in the windup position. I then went through the motions, making sure not to trigger a balk (again to appease the scouts), and delivered. The ball left my hand with what felt like 100 mph (in reality 40, tops) and went screaming down the pitching area.
Thud.
The ball was just low. It ricocheted off the backstop. The clown then began to reign his insults and mockeries down upon me. I blocked them out the best that I could and went to grab my second ball. I looked back to the clown and can only remember seeing his gaping mouth move, but I can't remember what was coming out. The steady stream of insults blocked out by the pure adrenaline coursing through my body. I returned to set and began my routine to deliver my second pitch.
I paused for just a moment to take a deep breath before starting the windup. I went through all the windup motions making sure to get a high leg kick this time. I pushed off of the pitching rubber and delivered my strike. The ball left my hand and I knew it wasn't a good one. About halfway down the pitching area it hit the ground and then rolled the rest of the way to the backstop. The crowd all made a slight giggle in unison, stopping themselves only once they remembered that a 10 year old kid delivered that hail Mary and would probably be scarred for life if the entire mob mocked him.
Again I took a deep breath, shot the clown another "You're dead" glance and strode up the pitchers mound to begin my windup. This was it, all my Major League hopes and dreams could be dashed by this singular pitch. I blocked that out and focused. This time I went through the windup with a quicker routine and then fired the ball down the pitching area.
DING!
The bell rung, the lever swung away from me, followed by a splash and the crowd erupted! I had hit the target. The shit talking clown had fallen into the lukewarm stagnant water tank, and it was by my hand. I can't imagine the size of the grin on my face at that point but I distinctly remember the crowd cheering wildly for me. It was like I had just closed out Game 7 and the Twins were once again World Champions. I found my family in the massive crowd and stood there waiting for a moment, getting pats on the back from complete strangers, and was expecting the scouts to come down and offer me my lifetime contract.
"Next!" the carny yelled as he took the $4 from the kid who was in line behind me. He shot me a glance and said dismissively, "Good job kid."
That was it, that was the end of my glory . There would be no contract, no Major Leagues for me, no post game interviews. It was one of those "glass-shattering" moments where suddenly you realize that you aren't living in The Wonder Years, you aren't the narrator or the main character of some formulaic primetime TV dramedy.
That was when I internally updated my lifetime knowledge base. Note to self: I am not Henry Rowengartner, and the Twins do not scout baseball talent down in Falcon Heights at the Clown Dunk Tank game. Oh well, I tasted greatness for a moment and then it was gone.
Flash forward to the present:
So as I was saying, before my tangent on shattered childhood dreams, up until now I have for whatever reason avoided attending the Orange County fair. Well tonight that streak would officially end.
We arrived at the fair just before dusk, after spending 45 minutes trying to park the car, and immediately headed for the food. Now when you're going to any fair it is important that you eat nothing or very little prior to entering the fairgrounds. The primary reason I bring this up is the fact that eating options at the fair aren't exactly healthy. Basically if its food they'll either deep fry it grill it or throw ice cream on top of it, charge you $7 for it, and you'll eat it--and love it (usually). After getting my obligatory yellow mustard covered corn dog out of the way we hit up the beer tent and started walking around with our $12 Stellas.
This fair was not so much different than any other I had previously been to, aside from the fact that there were live elephants at this one. We played a few games here and there, including the pitch speed game.
The pitch speed game basically consists of you paying $5 for 2 throws. Your first throw is for shits n' giggles, but your second throw you're supposed to guess the speed you're going to throw it. If you're right you win a prize, if not you lose. So naturally (due to the absence of dunk tank game) a friend and I decided to play this game. He went first, with his first pitch coming in right about 58 mph, on his next pitch he correctly guessed 57 mph and won his stuffed animal (a Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim apparel wearing bear).
Next it was my turn. My first throw topped out at 65 mph, so then I guessed 63 mph and threw, and I guessed correctly as well. So given that the prizes were fairly shitty I chose the same Angels bear and we moved on to find some more fair fare. Drunk off of our recent winnings I decided it was time to tempt fate and elected to go with one of the more "exotic" food choices on this fateful evening.
Now this was one of those moments where had I accumulated a particular piece of information into my lifetime knowledge base that little voice in my head would have said, "WTF ARE YOU THINKING STOP RIGHT NOW." However, I didn't. So after waiting a moment to think about it and starring down the sign advertising this gastronomical nightmare I decided it could wait not longer. The time had come for a Breaded Deep Fried White Castle Slider Hamburger...Yeah.
So as I was ordering this artery clogging "delicacy" the girl working the register looked at me with wide eyes that said, "You're fucking kidding me, no one orders those!" I proceeded to give her my cash and a moment later, there it was: a deep fried ball of breading the size of my fist with a greasy onion broiled mini-hamburger embedded within. Given the relative disgustingness of this feat I'm going to omit any further description of this event and allow the following picture to sum it all up.
Although it may look like this hamburger is made from raw energy, I can assure that glow isn't the burger but rather the flash of a camera reflecting off of its greasy secretions. So now that I've done this, and lived to tell about it (at least so far its been a few hours) I can add this piece of knowledge to my lifetime knowledge base:*If it is disgusting by itself, battering it and deep frying it will not help it. Avoid at all costs.
One other side note from this OC Fair excursion. So the LONGTIME girlfriend was looking for mini-donuts to wrap up her cholesterol binge for the night. After quite a while of searching for them we were having no luck so she decided to ask someone who might know. Who might you ask would know the location of the mini-donuts? If I were to guess I'd say I donno maybe someone working the guest services desk or something along those lines. No, if you were with me on that guess then you are wrong. The person she asked was a short Orange County Deputy Officer. Yes, she asked a short COP where she could find the MINI DONUTS. Fortunately she wasn't thrown in jail for disorderly conduct and the cop actually played it off pretty well by saying, "What, just because I'm a short deputy I know where they are?" Turns out he didn't actually know where they were and he was just a mini-cop after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment