Like most enduring religions, Catholicism has dropped its share of seriously bad shit on humanity over the last couple of millennia. The Inquisition. A stubbornly blind stance on birth control that's at least partially responsible for overpopulation and out-of-control poverty in various corners of the world. The Passion of The Christ (not bad as in "Jew-bashing," but bad as in, you know, "this movie kind of sucks").
Which is not to say that Catholicism is any worse than any other form of religion, or that religion in general is innately antithetical to the advancement of our species. Throughout history, organized spiritual movements have provided clarity, understanding, purpose and moral structure for many of the people they haven't ostracized, enslaved or killed. It's just that, as with everything else, there's definitely a trade-off.
The fact is, Catholicism is responsible for as much bloodshed, cultural division and backward thinking as any other long-running theological belief system.
But on the other hand, it's also to thank for some kick-ass fairs.
Late every year — when the season known as "fall" gives way to the season known as "winter" in other regions of this great nation — the nighttime temperature in the Bay area begins occasionally to drop low enough to allow us to break out those cool middle-weight jackets we bought for a song back in May. This is when the fairs begin to crop up in the strangest places, colorfully glaring oases cobbled together under cover of bland workday sameness.
You might be cruising home at twilight from a long day at the office, to crest an overpass and discover an improbable jumble of bright lights and spinning metal that wasn't there when you passed that morning. Or you could be stuck in midday weekend traffic on U.S. 19 when a gaggle of kids carrying large stuffed animals and smelling of powdered sugar and fried grease scampers across the horizon of your windshield, heading away from a particularly noisy church parking lot. However you discover it, it's always suddenly that you realize fair season has come.
And the realization always brings with it a yearning. To walk the beaten-down grass with a lover in the cool night-breeze. To be talked into getting into a rickety deathtrap. To gape at white trash. To gorge recklessly on unimaginably dangerous foodstuffs. To go completely broke with absolutely nothing to show for it except a searing gut-ache and a giant Spongebob Squarepants doll — just once, before the brief spring comes, turns to endless summer and the weekend festivals disappear again.
The Saint Paul Catholic School throws an annual Spring Festival that's traditionally considered one of the best weekend fairs of the season. In addition to its idyllic location — a beautifully tree-canopied old-school neighborhood just north of downtown St. Pete — the Spring Festival boasts live entertainment, creative homespun diversions for the younger kids, and a wider-than-average selection of munchies on top of the usual rides, funhouses and midway games. Also, it sports the cleanest, most litter-free ground of any fair held anywhere, ever.
Despite the parked cars lining every residential street around the school, I arrive on a Sunday to find a slightly subdued vibe. This is the last evening of the festival, which has been in full swing since Thursday, and there's a definite sense of things winding down. A varied crowd still wanders the concentric rings of attractions (heavy on couples pushing strollers and extremely young girls in extremely short shorts), but the rides run half-empty, and when one toddler escapes his mother's grasp, he's got plenty of room to move and few strange legs behind which to hide.
The food selection has been streamlined, as well, obviously due to earlier wanton gluttony; at most booths, at least a couple of menu options are run through by bold black lines. My jones for fried green tomatoes, building steadily since November, goes unsatisfied. I'm out of luck on the kabobs, gyro platter and homemade spring rolls, as well. A corn dog, a barbecued pork sandwich, a fried pickle, half a cream puff and an icy draft beer only go so far, you know. Curious and pretty sure I've still got a little room left, I wander over to a kiosk advertising Irish food, to discover my choices are a Rueben and that most Celtic of meals, a Cuban sandwich with black beans and yellow rice.
Thin crowd and truncated artery-clogging spread aside (that's what I get for waiting until Sunday), the Spring Festival ably caters to the rest of my mini-fair expectations. There's a plethora of games of chance and their corresponding dubious prizes; knock over something with something, and win a poster, 50 Cent or Jesus, your choice. Most of the classic G-force-manipulating rides are here, too, from the ones whose names seem to change with each carnival that rides into town — the Flying Bobs (a.k.a. The Avalanche), The Ultimate Survivor (more familiar to millions as The Moonwalk), The Tornado (which also goes by The Whistler) — to the ones that will always and forever be The Zipper, The Scrambler, The Giant Slide.
No Tilt-A-Whirl, though. What's up with that?
I don't ride the rides anymore. I gave it up when I got old and disheveled-looking enough for the carnies to start asking me if I knew where to get any acid, which was around the time I turned 17. (A word on the St. Paul Spring Festival's carnies: They're entirely too non-threatening. Oh, for the surly, glaring, tattooed, gasoline-drinking, dental-hygiene-ignorant itinerants of my Texas youth …) But I still like to listen to the exhilarated screams, to tilt my neck back and watch the various seats, and their various occupants, rotate heavenward.
And that's about as much religious significance as I care to attach to the whole thing. Beyond thanking the Catholic Church for the opportunity to have some fun, of course, and pointing out that the whole concept of festivals and fairs seems to have more in common with ancient pagan and Druidic seasonal practices than Judeo-Christian tradition.
Oh, and promising God that if he makes the hurting go away, I will never, ever, ever put half a cream puff on top of a fried pickle again.
Contact Scott Harrell at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Mar 25-31, 2004.