Column: Sure it’s kitsch, but it is Fort Mill kitsch

Last year at this time sat a conglomeration of crispy batter covered in whipped cream and chocolate on a paper plate, and it wasn’t a funnel cake. It was my wife’s order of deep fried strawberries. She loved them. I took a bite as the Journey cover band was screeching, “Any way you want it, that’s the way you need it, any way you want it” and I thought to myself that I had my taste of fried fruit for a year, and I hustled over to grab a smoky, tangy pork sandwich from the 521 BBQ stand.

We were taking in the sights and sounds of the S.C. Strawberry Festival.

This year’s version of the fest just passed and I’m sure it was another eclectic mix of fairground meets chic, refined meets rough around the edges and 80s cover bands meet downhome bluegrass pickers. I’ve always liked a good festival. I have a routine. I survey the food offerings, often more than one time, and like a dog show judge picking a winner, I pace up and down the line of offerings until I make my decision and then take a beeline to satisfy my taste buds. Then after I’ve filled my belly with an exotic fried creation, a bun filled with a mound of smoked meat, a starch transformed into something unrecognizable and a frosty beverage, I make my way to the vendors lining the curving asphalt path.

Last year, my wife bought a bag containing a solution that transformed wine into slush when put into the freezer. Take that, Slurpee lovers! I went a more traditional route and sought out the dip vendor and took home several packets of different combinations of dried seasonings and imitation bacon bits.

After walking the gauntlet of people peddling their goods, we usually people-watch to the dulcet sounds of some band from years gone by. Maybe it is The Outfield, Gin Blossoms, or A-Ha. Put a bunch of 80s videos on shuffle, and whoever is singing the third song, call them up and book them. I’m assuming this is the methodology the festival committee uses.

As the food settles and the bags we are carrying get heavy, we wander over to the makeshift ring that’s been constructed and watch people smaller, and probably weaker than me posing as professional wrestlers. I’m assuming they are grappling under the esteemed banner of the GYWF. For those not on the wrasslin’ circuit, that’s the Greater York Wrestling Federation, where the 175-pound guy nicknamed The Crusher eerily resembled the pizza delivery guy I ordered from last week.

For some reason I like this.

It’s like going to the fair without having to deal with creepy carnies, livestock wading in manure and rickety rides going 80 mph that were “constructed” in 20 minutes. Sure, the festival has kitsch, but it is Fort Mill kitsch.

This story was originally published May 11, 2016 at 9:26 AM with the headline "Column: Sure it’s kitsch, but it is Fort Mill kitsch."