Even as I stood there watching Megasaurus breathing fire and eating a car, I couldn’t help feeling a little bit disappointed, like I’d walked into Golden Corral instead of Old Country Buffet. Don’t get me wrong; it was spectacular, but I admit, I might need to recalibrate my awesome meter.

I was expecting utter depravity, a burnt rubber and diesel-fueled orgy of mechanical debauchery with a cast of rock star drivers and delirious fans. Instead, I was treated to an oddly sterile, family-friendly display of motorsport talent, sprinkled with the occasional pleasantly thrilling automotive excess.

“I kind of expected to see a bunch of dirt, and some jumps, a little more of a track, and less polished floor,” said Ben Fahey, a fan at the event. “The most interesting thing was probably the races that the kids have going on.”

Of course the first stop for any real information is at a concession stand. To paraphrase Frank Herbert, “He who controls the beer, controls the universe.” While I could still remember things, I got a concise, fact-based, rundown of what to expect.

“There’s the pit party, and kids get to go down and talk to the owners, the drivers. Then they do the freestyle. I think they got Mini Monster Trucks out there tonight – real kids driving out there. Then they’re going to have some monster-looking Megasaurus thing ripping a car apart,” said Paul Morschauser, a beer vendor at the event.

Morschauser is also an instructor at Madison Area Technical College. He has witnessed the preparation it takes at events like this.

“They practice, practice, and practice, lots of hours of practice in those trucks. There’s a lot of physical dexterity to drive one of those things. You got to make a lot of good decisions. Keeping in shape, not just physically, but mentally.”

Miscellaneous monster truck madness ensued, and while I struggled to repress my inner child, I kept my game face on and found a representational gaggle of audience members, a pleasant older couple with their young son and daughter.

“We’re here almost every year,” said the mother, dancing and wearing an LED-lit Mohawk. She first got into monster trucks through her husband Mike, a self-described “motor head.” Their children, Miles and McKenzie, looked adorable while their parents fielded my questions about monster truck leagues and history.

Finally, someone else had succinctly expressed what I had been feeling. But there was another culture clash here, not between liberal Madison and traveling red-state entertainers, but one of disparate expectations. I realized I was the one who hadn’t kept up with the times, whose understanding of “a good time” needed recalibration. I was an antiquarian, expecting a celebration worthy of a bygone era of pre-Disney-fied Times Square or seedy carnival freak shows when in reality, “SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY!” was now family time.

That’s not to say a spectacle involving flame-throwing car-eating dinosaurs and monster truck-driving 8 year olds isn’t outrageous. The entire premise of monster truck racing is predicated on mechanized excess, and I was more than happy to belly up to that trough. I just had to understand it was possible to dine respectably from this trough.