Yesterday Peter and I had the occasion to attend “The Big E,” New England’s equivalent to a state fair.  All five of the New England states were represented and wow, was it 207 zip codes worth of crazy.

Among the attractions was typical state, ahem, fare, like livestock and quilting-bee winners and lovely produce.  Then there were rides (it cost exactly 14 dollars for me to relive the childhood experience of riding the tilt-a-whirl and ferris wheel once; 14 dollars, no joke) and brightly lit neon signs promising food from around proud New England and the world.  Brooke Hogan, Hulk Hogan’s daughter, also performed.  I think that makes her a carnie.

Then there were other . . . things.  Things that might be normal for a fair, but that I had not expected.  Like a girl dressed as a bride, riding a horse dressed as a groom (He had a top hat and tails.  Ha.  Yes.  Tails.), jumping around a ring in time to “Can’t Buy me Love.” After she was finished, (still on top of the horse), she threw her arms around the animal and yelled, “I love you so much!” Then she threw the bouquet she had been holding to her friend.  Frightened by the implications of this, I quickly grabbed Peter and we walked away.

The scene at this fair was not unlike a Hieronymus Bosch painting.  People were undulating in and through excess.  There were wails and anger and oil-on-velvet renderings.  There were horrible mechanical devices that I am sure were meant to entertain children, but succeeded in producing a convincing soundtrack for the apocalypse.  The metal and manure and fried-food smell lingered together as one, rising up to form a cacophonous cloud of sensation. 

But, nonetheless, I was glad to have gone.  If only for the pictures!  And it was good to walk around the madness with Peter, who is a good one with whom to sip cider through a straw. 

Further photo-documentation of our trip can be found here.  Hopefully you’ll feel like you know what it’s like to be there from the pictures.  Then you can spare yourselves a trip.  Because I know the Bible says we know not the day nor the hour of Jesus’ return.  But when you hear the angels peddling their dulcet tones at the Big E carnival, you know that the Eschaton is indeed nigh.