How to see the great Arlington County Fair in 15 minutes: Park in the neigborhood by the highway on your way home from work. Cross the bridge and walk quickly past the ponies, through the food stands and inside to the info both. Pick up the T-shirt you won on Twitter. Do two aisles in the exhibition hall, checking out friend Rob's ribbon-winning Arlington honey (which by the way, dear reader, was your nickname in high school). Hustle back outside, down the midway, to the trailer that sells deep-fried Oreos. Watch the six Oreos drop into the fat and come out coated, ready for powdered sugaring. Start the deep-fried Oreos on your way back down the midway, fend off a sucker-less kid carnie, — "Don't you know how to throw?" "I know how to throw," jackass — pass the ponies again, exchange hellos with your local scoutmaster, cross the highway bridge, and return to your car, finishing your deep-fried Oreos. wiping powered sugar off your hands, face and pants.

I hope to return.

The honey:

The Oreo trailer:

The Oreos:

Everyone likes writing about the debut of trans fat-free deep-fried foods at the Indiana State Fair. Everyone likes mentioning the various foods taking the healthy plunge into the oils, including the ride of my beloved deep-fried Oreos. But no one can tell me how they taste. I want to know how the Oreos taste.

This drives me up the wall. Everyone, when they're not writing about deep-fried foods, loves to hear how deep-fried foods taste. They did what to it? How was it? You ate how many? But these questions go unanswered. With journalism's storied history of impartial fairness, we're lucky to get a lone quote from a sun-beat bystander who came to stand on that spot to eat, not talk. Today's Times story falls there. So do the NPR piece, the USA TODAY article, the Indianapolis Star visit, and a post in the Star's Deep Fried fair blog. All in all, I'm left hungry. The closest thing I can find to a first-person account of the Indiana foods are pictures on a blog, written by someone awesomely named Laura Biscotti.

Meanwhile, everyone has food critics on staff, but we send them to fancy restaurants. Believers in gastric fine-tuning, we value the critics' taste buds and stomachs and treat them accordingly. We don't send them to the fair to eat junk.

But we should. You know who eats junk? Lots of people. Millions. We should make the food critics eat the food of the masses, and I'm only thinking junk food for starters. I want to know what the new Cheerios tastes like, whether that fancy orange juice tastes like sunny Florida fresh-squeezed, and if those grill marks really show up on those crazy microwaveable paninis. I want an everyday version of McSweeney's Reviews of New Food based on actual buys from my grocer's freezer.

One of the best examples I've seen accompanies a Chicago Tribune scoop, when a reporter jumps in his car after tasting McDonald's new trans fat-free fries and races to a nearby franchise to attempt a comparison. As much as my mileage may vary from a lone taster's on this food or any other, I trust the reporting because it's delicious.

If you go to the Arlington County Fair, do not go at night. In a county of rising gang violence and hulking condo glut, the annual escape into country life is apparently a necessary evil. The fair keeps county workers from their families, requires keeping the lights on at county buildings, and makes the county put on a damn smile and pretend to be friendly for far too long.

As quickly as the grumpy fair workers kicked us out of the exhibition hall Friday night, minutes after they'd let us in, you could tell their speed … well, they were a bunch of jerks. The cops grimaced. The fair officials glared and said they had worked the whole day. That's what we got for wandering into the building at closing time. It was no "We have to close up now" but instead "You need to leave the building." Through the exit where no one had entered, to the dark side of the building where no one had been. But it was like we had broken into the building and spat in the 1st prize cucumber bread. And we would have been fine to go. If just one of the people inside had been friendly, the fair would've ended on a nice note. But in five minutes they ruined the whole night. And Allie's henna tattoo, which the artist was painting as they were glaring.

It's typical Arlington. Everything works until something doesn't, and then it's clearly your fault. The county doesn't deal well with people. Service is a pain, not a way of doing business. The county welcome wagon is a garage crawl for out-of-state plates, and you hope you can live the rest of your municipal life over the Web.

5 PEOPLE I WOULD RATHER FIGHT WITH AT THE COUNTY FAIR
1. The strong man. Because it would be a good story.
2. The pig-racing announcer guy. Because he lost me money.
3. The ferris wheel operator. Because his name isn't Ferris.
4. The alpaca. Because it fights crazy cartoon kangaroo style.
5. The deep-fried Oreo makers. Because they'd probably throw Oreos.

"The milk at the Minnesota State Fair is ice cold with a thick mustache-forming layer of foam on top, and you can drink as much of it as you'd like for a dollar."

There's a moral to the Slate story later, but it starts with food. Which may mean I didn't take the moral to heart, but all that milk could sure follow some deep-fried Oreos.

There was a milk-milking man at the county fair yesterday, and since this county was in the city maybe that's why he was talking to himself. Stuck between the Verizon booth (near the flea show) and the racing pigs, he had no customers, no visitors, and all the conversation he could handle. Apparently. No matter how much you love milk, you're not pulling fake cow teats with the most unnecessarily amused man at the fair. Or maybe it necessary. I don't know what I do if that job were mine. At least the pig-racing guy got to put on a show and take care of animals. The milk-milking man had a wood cow (both sides of one) with bags of milk hanging down between them all day under just a little roof all day at the country fair.

You saw everybody's tattoos and the thick covered cables running from wherever out into the middle of the park, with some people stepping over them and people like me stepping wherever and wondering what happened if you stepped on them too hard. Do they fuzz lose a hose or would you need heavy-duty cutters and some wood watt-eaters on hand? And everybody in the houses. Do they go out at night, with for once a fair in a city, just over the line but virtually there, do they stick around the RV roundup on the other side of the fence or do they find the subway and ride downtown? Trading what's normal to them for what's normal for everyone who's been watching and waiting for deep-fried Oreos?