The Authenticity Experiment, the Western Weekend Edition. As a kid, I went to Western Weekend in rural Marin County, in a town without a stoplight or a sit-down McDonald’s. I didn’t ride the Ferris Wheel because the swinging cars gave me crawl up and a fear that I’d flip out—literally and figuratively—and plummet to my death. Strangely, though, I did ride the Zipper, me alone in a car. A blue one, I think, but that…