By Dave Ramser –
On July 30, I went to the Ventura County Fair and bounced around to Marshmello.
We were invited by a friend I’ll call Goldie. We met at our house, couldn’t find street parking and eventually paid a queen’s ransom to park a few blocks away.
Once inside the fairgrounds, we headed through the bright lights of what I call Food Alley toward the concert. We thought we were on our way in when the popo stopped us. No wristbands. They sent us back toward the exit through another gift-shop alley full of food.
Goldie had been to the Surf Rodeo bar on a previous night and said it was almost as good as being on the main dance floor. So we went inside, ordered drinks, and moved toward the middle of the bar.
The floor was covered in astroturf, probably left over from last year’s Dallas Cowboys training camp. It even had the hash marks to prove it.
Most of the crowd looked like they were in their twenties. I felt a little awkward. I wasn’t feeling the dance craze yet, and one drink hadn’t made me stupid enough to make a fool of myself.
Yet.
We swayed around, trying to find the rhythm, while groups of people danced in little circles around us. It reminded me of hacky sack, only with a lot more bouncing.
Behind us was a big Surf Rodeo mural and some TV screens showing weird clips from Blazing Saddles. I’m sure the references were lost on most of the kids. Embarrassingly, I knew the scene all too well—the cowboys trying to teach the railroad workers to sing and dance to “Camptown Races.”
Above the bar, we could see the concert lights and hear the crowd cheering. We couldn’t really hear the music, but every roar reminded us that we were missing something really fun on the other side of the wall.
I sipped my Jack and Sprite.
Just the one.
Even inside the saloon, there were little reminders that the fair was still going on around us. The colored lights of the Ferris wheel barely peeked over the walls. Every so often, the arm of a ride I’ll call the Double Helix swung into view, flipping its passengers head over heels about 200 feet in the air before disappearing again.
Eventually, we decided to move on. But as we were leaving, Goldie pushed us to try the concert entrance one more time. She was working on some kind of distraction in her head that might let us squeeze past the police.
That definitely didn’t happen.
But the officers again told us we needed wristbands, almost as if they were suggesting we might find some on the ground—or get them from people who were leaving.
And then it happened.
A few kids heading out took off their wristbands and handed them to us. Maybe somebody had done the same thing for them at another show. Whatever the reason, we happily took them.
I tucked mine underneath my watchband to make it look presentable. The police didn’t seem to care very much, and this time we got in.
We pushed past a horde of people heading out, and then the stadium opened up in front of us.
Beyond a sea of ravers, lasers cut through the fake fog, ocean air, and dust kicked up by thousands of people dancing. Giant screens showed liquid psychedelia. Fireballs blasted up from the stage.
And in the middle of everything was Marshmello, wearing — no surprise — a giant marshmallow head that completely hid his identity. He waved his arms, and thousands of people waved theirs right back.
We headed toward the lights.
We weren’t behind the Surf Rodeo wall anymore.
We were in it.
My energy shot up. Goldie, my wife, and I started bouncing and waving our hands, following Marshmello and everyone around us. It was total madness.
My white hair must have stood out, but by then I wasn’t thinking about it. I danced like I was 40 years younger and loved every minute of it.
The last song was “Happier.” The words came through: “I want to raise your spirits. I want to see you smile.”
And we did.
When the show ended, we joined thousands of other people walking past the animal pens and back through Food Alley. We were genuinely smiling and happy. It was one of those nights that surprises you with how much fun you’re still capable of having.
Thanks, Goldie, for making us try the gate one more time. And thanks, Marshmello, for reminding me to dance and have a blast.
Sometimes you find yourself on the wrong side of the wall.
Sometimes a kid hands you a wristband.
AUTHOR
Dave Ramser is a Ventura resident learning to pay closer attention to life, community, and the unexpected pleasures of his second act. Dave’s contact information is available upon request.
