From porcine to popular, with a future

PETER BUFFA

It’s just not fair.

Wait. What am I thinking?

Of course it’s fair, the 112th to be exact, at the Orange County

Fairgrounds.

One hundred twelve years is a long time. Ask anybody who’s lived

that long.

The first Orange County Fair was held in 1890. The world was a

very different place in 1890. Life was hard. You know the expression,

“First you’re born. Life is hard. Then you die”? That started in

1890.

People drank water that came out of faucets.

They ate carbohydrates like it was nothing.

There was no sunscreen.

Cellphones were the size of giant zucchini.

Food had to be brought in from San Bernardino or San Diego and it

was full of trans-fatty acids.

Most people just didn’t eat.

It was a hard-knock life I tell you, and that first Orange County

Fair was no different.

There was only one food booth and it served gruel. Even then, no

one knew what gruel was -- they just ate it. There were no pig races

because they only had one pig. Speaking of which, I had a scare when

I went to the fair’s website to check out this year’s offerings.

For a moment, I couldn’t find the event that is, in my opinion,

the fair’s raison d’etre: the All Alaskan Racing Pigs.

Is there a more fulfilling way to spend part of a summer’s day

than watching six little pigs in their own little numbered vests run

like the wind, sort of, cheered on by a frenzied crowd? I say there

is not. Then, with a few clicks of the mouse, I found the pigs.

By the way, I finally found out what “All Alaskan” means. The

little porkers are, in fact, based in the way-up-there state and make

their home at the Alaska State Fairgrounds, just outside of

Anchorage.

They started traveling to other fairs in 1988 and quickly became

wildly popular. Today, there are a number of porcine racing teams at

work on any given day at state and county fairs across the land. Know

what they’re racing for? Love? Money? Our undying admiration? Please.

They do it for something much more important. They race for Oreos.

They may be chubby, but they’re not stupid. The finish line may mean

victory to you, but it means Oreos to a racing pig. But here’s the

question: Do they eat them as is, or split them open and lick the

creme first? I’ll try to find out by next year.

Do you know who we have to thank for this and all other fairs in

these United States? Elkanah Watson, that’s who.

I have no idea why his parents straddled him with that first name

either, but Elkanah was a farmer in the Berkshires in Massachusetts

who put together a modest exhibit of sheep outside Pittsfield in

1807.

A few people showed up the first year, a few more the second year,

and everyone had a fine time -- except the sheep, who resented being

put on display like so many sheep until someone reminded them that’s

what they were, after which they were OK with it.

In 1810, Watson added an exhibit of prize cattle, renamed it the

“Berkshire Cattle Show,” handed out a few prizes, and everyone loved

it -- except the sheep, who were still pouting. Watson founded the

Berkshire Agricultural Assn., and his brainchild became the first

agricultural fair in the country.

Every year I try to tell you how much there is to see and do at

the fair, and every year I fail miserably. There’s just no way to

explain or even mention everything the event has to offer, which is

exactly the point. It’s a buzzing, frenetic kaleidoscope of sights

and sounds and smells and tastes.

The fair isn’t a little bit of Americana. It’s every bit of

Americana, from the Demolition Derby to the concerts, from the

carnival rides to the cholesterol, from the pigs to the petunias,

from the blue ribbons for this, to the honorable mentions for that,

and it’s all so wonderfully quirky.

Here’s a line I found in the “Code of Conduct for Junior Livestock

Exhibitors”: “The use of, or possession of, firecrackers or bullwhips

will be grounds for immediate expulsion from the show.” Exactly how

does that work? A kid in 4-H spends months raising and grooming the

perfect goat, finally makes it to the fair, then starts lighting

firecrackers and lashing his goat with a bullwhip? How much of a

problem has that been?

Frankly, the people-watching alone is worth the price of

admission. If you start to fade, grab a drink, find a bench and just

enjoy the passing parade. Fairgoers come in every age, size and shape

you can imagine. And some you cannot.

There are the beautiful people and the, well, not so beautiful.

There are the XXLs and the XXXLs, usually busy trying to balance a

corn dog, crinkle fries, churros, and a Diet Coke.

And of course, watching the little kids -- eyes as big as saucers,

with no idea where to go next but desperate to get there -- would

make anyone’s day.

So there you have it. The Orange County Fair. You’ve got three

weeks to get there. Do not fail. It’s fun, it’s fattening, it’s

flaky, and it will last forever.

I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs

Sundays. He may be reached by e-mail at ptrb4@aol.com.