Thunderstruck: Carmada rolls into the Florida State Fair

In this place, 98Rock still reigns supreme, and you can get your lemonade deep-fried. We rolled up to unload crates of spray paint as strains of AC/DC floated across a muddy field.

Thun-DAH! Thun-DAH!
Thun-Dah-STRUCK!

Carmada had arrived at the Florida State Fair.

Anchored on a grassy patch inside the Fairmuda Triangle of Bear Show, Beer Tent, and Pig Races, my daily driver—a humble, dented Scion—was all wrapped and taped, ready to be transformed into art on wheels beneath a layer of Phoenix Orange paint.

James Oleson, the artist, also happens to be my steady sweetheart, so I rode along on this gig to help him at the merch table and drink in the sights, scents, and spectacle of fair life.

“He’s making a car!” a little girl in gymnastics uniform exclaimed, toddling past. Intent on the Bear Show, her parents didn’t notice. 

We couldn’t compete with those adorable grizzlies. But after the finale, a few curious wandered over to our corner, scratching their heads and looking sideways at my colorful vehicle, murmuring “Hmm … that’s different …” and “Such an artist!”

Beside the airbrushed caricatures, hand-painted signs and funhouse creatures, our splashy cars made a certain kind of sense. The fair has a way of stretching the familiar and encouraging surreal couplings, like the hamburger on a doughnut bun, or sculptures carved out of butter. Painting your car into a rolling dragon fits the carnival logic. Weird among the weird.

Passersby dropped a few bucks in our tip jar, chomping Long Dogs on a Stick as we handed out stoplight-green Carmada t-shirts. We got great advice on how to clean old, frosted-over headlights with Off! bug spray.

A friendly custodian named Calvin stopped to check our progress, while America’s Country Darlins (that’s Sally Ann and Sadie May, to be exact) rolled past with a red wagon trailing twanging banjo tunes.

The pig races were starting again soon, and Spamela Anderson was chomping at the bit.

Through the prism of time I saw my 15-year-old self, disaffected in combat boots, ripped jeans, and Violent Femmes tee, slinking along the midway between rows of Gator Bites and camouflage sun visors to cop an illicit cigarette behind a trailer. No matter what the barkers called out, she refused to let anyone guess her weight or birthday.

James flipped on a spotlight and painted into the evening, dusting my ride with shimmering scales. Along the midway, the sweet tang of caramel apples and kettle corn drew in eager customers. Just beyond, dizzying rides disgorged a fresh batch of stumbling, grinning passengers. Another night at the fairgrounds was in full swing.

This article appears in Feb 4-10, 2016.