I spent most of Sunday at the Minnesota State Fair. Nearly twelve hours, in fact. Not by choice, mind you. I no longer choose to go to the fair. Not that I have anything against it, per se, but I am pretty sure that, fair-wise, I have experienced everything I need to experience.
Frankly, for me, the State Fair has lost its luster. I used to go every year -- sometimes two or three times a year. But now? Not so much. I believe that, if you've seen one cow, pig, horse, sheep, chicken, turkey, etc, you've seen them all.
I don't walk the midway. For one thing, the rides scare the guacamole out of me. I once rode the small roller coaster at Como Zoo, and screamed so loud after a couple of laps they stopped the thing and let me off before continuing. But also, if you ever find yourself there, take a look behind the rides. Near each one you will see a bucket of nuts, bolts, screws and washers. Then remember this: All of them were supposed to be on that ride. And, sure, it's fun to watch the carnies, wondering where they go during the winter and whether or not they get a pro-rated discount on dental supplies and services. But for the most part, I can do without the midway.
The food doesn't hold much appeal for me. I don't want to experiment with the latest deep-fried whatever. I have never tried cheese curds, and I have no plans to start. Ditto corn dogs, pronto pups (what, exactly, is the difference between them?), and all the rest.
And as for the people trying to sell their wares? I must admit, the guy selling the Ginzu knives -- or whatever they're called this year -- holds a strange fascination for me, and was always my favorite annual stop. I even bought a set one year. Loved them. Fifteen years later, I used one of them to cut through 1/4" thick steel plumbing under the kitchen sink. And it worked, too. Better than a hacksaw. Then I tested to see if it would still cut a tomato. Nope. It was destroyed. So, that summer, I took it back to the fair, waited for the guy to finish his spiel and round of selling, then told him the story and was awarded with a free new one. But other than that, there's really nothing I'm in the market to buy.
So, no, I don't go to the fair by choice. I go for work. I don't mind going -- it does, after all, tend to bring me a lot of business -- but I don't venture out to see the sights, either. I walk straight from the parking lot to our booth. At the end of the day, I go straight back to the car. In between, I may walk across the street to get a cheeseburger and a soda, or go next door for the restroom which, thankfully, features running water. But that's about it. Most years I work the fair three or four times. (I'll be there again Friday, Saturday and Monday, if you want to come out and see me.)
So, if it wasn't for work, I probably wouldn't go. But that doesn't prevent me from watching, and wondering where these people come from and, more importantly, who taught them to dress? For a lot of them, meaning a substantially higher percentage than one would see in a normal place, the fashion statement seems to be Urban Cowboy Chic. But, for some, it goes well beyond that.
A few years ago -- the last time I went to the fair voluntarily -- the group decided to go into the Fine Art building and, not wanting to spent up to an hour slowly shuffling through the crowd, looking at what passes for art and trying to stay conscious in the stifling heat, I told them I would wait for them outside. While they were inside, I had a chance to sit down and watch people going by -- one of my all-time favorite activities -- and something occurred to me. It's is kind of hard to explain, but here goes.
I started with a premise -- and tell me if you agree with this -- that a large percentage of people, prior to heading out for a day to be spent in public, will take at least a cursory glance in the mirror to make sure they look okay. Agreed? Even a very large percentage? Like, maybe 95 percent or more? For the sake of random and meaningless statistics, let's take 95 percent.
Now, as I sat watching people walk by, I started counting and figuring, and estimated that somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty percent -- one out of five -- could not have possibly looked in the mirror, or they would have immediately changed. Putting the numbers together, that tells me that, of the people who I think could not possibly have looked in the mirror before venturing out, three out of four -- which, based on fair attendance figures, works out to around 15,000 people a day -- did look in the mirror, and said, "This looks good!"
Trust me. It doesn't.
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