As if I could ever forget just how gritty and eclectic home state can be, last night was a definitely reminder. But before I start, you must know that I am obsessed with fairs, carnivals, festivals, whatever you prefer to call them. If you can buy fried goods from a trailer, ravage a turkey leg in public and then pay $5 to risk your life and dinner on duct taped machine, then I’m in redneck heaven.
So we began our Tontitown Grape Festival adventure with fried chicken, spaghetti and chicken ravioli from the Venesian Inn in Tontitown. The town, right outside of Springdale, was founded by Italian immigrants some 100-plus years ago and is home of my favorite family and yours, the Duggars (I’m sorry to report that we missed them by a few hours). After a hundred years of circling for a parking spot, Huzbo, Abbles, the Jetta and I found a spot off road in what seemed to be a ravine. Don’t worry, the Jetta survived with minimal damage. Must be those new fancy tires I forked over $250 last weekend.
The half busted lights of my favorite ride, the Gravitron, called to me, but the snaking lines of teenagers and snaggle-toothed meth heads reminded me that for this Pistol, that shipped had sailed somewhere around 10th grade. Nonetheless, Abbles and I managed to talk Huzbo into holding our purses for just one little ride. We should have known it wasn’t going to be as fulfilling as we’d hoped when we noticed our ride mates were under the age of 10. The only saving grace was that the ride was called the Hustler. Seriously. Even better, we passed another called Scat. You gotta appreciate Carnie humor.
Oh, and rest assured, Ladies, that glittery eye shadow is still cool. The classics always endure.