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In This Issue

• The Monkey Election College
• The Goshen, CT County Fair
• Freak Babies: Gotta Catch 'Em All
• Interview with author Louis Silverstein
• Animals, Placentae and You
• Letters to the Feditor
• 114th Street Rat Rock Exploration
• Bodacious the Rebel Bull
• Fed Arts Review: Columbia Unbecoming
• Mary Had a Little Lamb... with Potatoes
• John Jay Pet Deathmatch
• A Letter to the Columbia Gospel Choir
• DARE: 8 Ways to Say No
• Ice Bitch Comic
• Guide to Naming Suburban Housing Developments
• THEY WATCH

Matt Holden

Your typical fair-goer, except for the collared shirt.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in Connecticut. She hated it there and eventually moved to the big city, but not before her wicked father made her go to the county fair, which sucked big cock. That girl was me, and this is the story of that fateful day.

"Hey buddy, whaddaya say we go to the Goshen fair today? I'll buy you one of those big lollipops. There will be cows there! It'll be fun!"

I looked up from my disturbing graphic novel featuring sex and violence.

"I'm eighteen, Dad. I'm allergic to cows. And I don't like lollipops."

"Come on buddy, there are only so many of these nice Connecticut days left before you leave your dear old dad forever and go to the big polluted city."

Don't be a bitch...

"No." At least I tried.

"OK then, how about you come in the backyard and help me put the finishing touches on this here dangerous thingamajig I'm building out of nails and scrapwood? Or maybe watch the game?"

"You know what Dad, the fair sounds great."

And so I climbed into my father's mid-life-crisis-mobile of a truck and we drove... and drove... and drove. Then we drove some more.

An hour later, I climbed out of the truck and into a strange world of rich grassy countryside and poor urban planning. My father looked around with glee.

"This looks awesome, kiddo!"

The Goshen County Fair was like nothing I had expected. Contrary to the Rasputina song "State Fair," the carnies/fair dudes were not wearing "a baggy kind of overall" that "didn't really show it all"... maybe they do in big fancy state fairs, but these county fair guys left nothing to the imagination in their skintight Wrangler jeans and "hey kids, look at my junk" belt buckles. They were everywhere, pushing games, gadgets, and strange meats at me with each step I took.

"Hey buddy, you wanna try some ostrich? This nice man here says it's low-carb." My father had succumbed to their brainwashing. I had to think fast.

"Um... look, cows!" My dad's face lit up like the Hartford circus fire and we mosied on over to the cow tent, where a mooing, snorting, shitting world o' cows awaited us.

"Look at all the nice cows. See how each cow is different? Look, that one won a prize! Let's get a picture of you petting it!"

Now, normally I don't mind having my picture taken, but I was apparently allergic to everything at the fair, and my face had already turned red and itchy with a special sort of country-rash I had not experienced before and have yet to experience since. I did not particularly want to record this rash on film.

"No."

"Come on, kiddo! These cows are great!"

"I don't think the cow wants to be touched, Dad."

"Sure it does. It's a blue ribbon cow!"

He snapped a picture of my fearful reddening face and tentatively outstretched arm.

"That's just great!"

After that, we moved on to the pigpen where still worse trials awaited. The giant mom pig was suckling her squealing young, and everyone was crowding around saying things like "aw, aren't you cute" and "I could just eat you up! In fact...I think I will!" I looked in horror to where not ten feet away a van was serving up pulled-pork sandwiches by the pound. Needless to say, the smell and the irony were too much for this herbivore‘s stomach to take. My father, sensing my nausea, made a brilliant suggestion:

"You look hungry. Let's go get some beans!"

"The beans, they're... porky. Water--" was all I could muster. I proceeded past the fertile-looking country girls leaning suggestively against the port-o-potties to the water fountains. It was as if I had entered some parallel universe, and the Connecticut I'd grown up in no longer existed. The South had whupped us Yankees in the Civil War, and then proceeded to colonize us with their big hair, shitty music, love of meat, and excessive belt-bucklery.

When I came back, I noticed I'd stepped in cow-pie. Also, my dad had a schedule in his hand.

"You like music, right? Let's go down to the stage, they say this guy's big on the Connecticut scene, or whatever you kids call it!"

Now, music I like. I figured there might be some good local bands in Goshen County, what with the utter lack of anything else to do, until the twang of a steel guitar cut this thought short, along with any other thoughts that might have been lingering in my unattractively crowded head.

"This next song goes out to Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior. Remember kids, don't do drugs, and support our troops!" The song began, featuring many slides of the bottleneck and scary words of faith and love. Scarier yet was when, in a flash of realization, my pain twisted around itself and, through the power of the Lord, trans-hickified into beatific pleasure. That sly cowboy grin, that tilt of the hat, those suddenly attractive bumpy cowhand muscles, that sweet yodeling voice...suddenly I was singing along and clapping, tears of joy streaming down my face!

"This is so darn tooting good, Dad, thanks for bringing me!"

"See? I knew you'd like it."

"I just have one thing to ask you, though..."

"What's that, kiddo?"

"Well, I know we're s'posed to be proud of who we are and all, and gosh dang toot me if I'm not...but why'd our people have to go and kill Jesus? Also, do you think that singer would go out with me if I dyed my hair blonde?"

And you can bet sure as shit that got my Dad to remove us from the Goshen County Fair without even a sidelong glance in the direction of the tractor pull. He has since traded in his truck for a Mustang, switched from building things to restoring antique light fixtures, and the only place he ever tries to drag me is Abercrombie. Yuppie kayayay!