So you, our loyal readers, may have noticed our recent laxness in posts.  The reason is that both (yes! both!) your fine editors are employed right now.  

First of all, don’t panic.  We want to assure you that this won’t last.  Even if we could conceivably hold down full-time jobs, we probably wouldn’t choose to do so.  But moreover, both of us are only temporarily employed.  
We swear to try to keep up with content as much as possible during this difficult period of income-earning.  In the meantime, you can learn all about my awesome job and pitiful income on the Rock the Vote Road Trip ‘08 official blog (incidentally written by the dear big brother of yours truly.)  

Keep well, keep reading, and for God’s sake, don’t let yourselves become employed.

Well, folks, I’m on my way to Dolly’s home.  Not Pigeon Forge, technically, but Nashville – where she first made it big.  

With the exception of a couple trips to Colonial Williamsburg, I’ve never really been to the South, and I’ve always worried a little about how the South and I might get along.  But then I pause, and realize that any state which produces a woman who chooses to wear this to a public library cannot be anything but wonderful.

When bad pop is good: Spin Doctors on Sesame Street.  Enjoy.  

When I think about what to post on this site, I spend a lot of time worrying about image.  Because, while you might think that posting a link doesn’t say absolutley everything about me, laying me out to public scrutiny and judgement, you would be wrong.  It says so right there in our manifesto.  And we are never wrong.

But the thing is, the time has come for me to expose myself.  For me to step out from behind my irritatingly high-handed attempt at cultural snobbery (like our pseudo-ironic celebration of pop-culture) and admit that there is nothing ironic.  I just have terrible, terrible taste.  And perhaps the worst is my addiction, my total, unstoppable dependence on this site to waste my time.  Please, don’t judge.  Or at least do so privately.

I love living in the UK for many, many reasons.  Too many, in fact, to bother listing them.  But the number one reason I love living in the UK is for the crazy news stories like this one.  And the fact that there is a cheese shop in this nation named “Cheese Please”.  Excuse me, I have to go watch some Wallace and Grommit now.

My first attempt at a liveblog failed for several reasons.  

Firstly, do you honestly think that someone on my income owns a device capable of live blogging?  Please. 

Secondly, I failed to post what I did write (in that up-to-date method of “scribbling on a pad of paper) for a full week after the event.  Apparently, the concepts a bit beyond me.

As I have mentioned before – both in 2/3 of my daily conversations and even here on this fine blog – I am a lover of State Fairs.   In fact, when discussing it not on a blog, I think the precise phrase I use is “this kind of shit.” 

Of all State Fairs, there is one that rules supreme, one whose glory goes uncapped, one which boldly dares to put on sticks what has never been fried before: the wonder, the glory, the sheer pig-headed American-fest known as the Minnesota State Fair. 

There are some, namely people from Wisconsin who would argue with me.  This is because people from Wisconsin are wrong.  One need look no further than to the fact that they regularly make cheese-wedge hats to see the truth of my accusation.  Besides, does the Wisconsin State Fair have a song?

The Fair Song

I think not.  (Actually, I could be wrong.  I am writing this in a car with no internet.  But still, even if I am 100% wrong about the song-thing I still stick to my guns on the cheese-hat point.) 

So to begin:

Labor Day, 2008

12.30 CDT: Sophie and I arrive in the huge auxillary parking lots near the U of M.  In a fit of brilliant planning, the RNC, registration for U of M and the last day of the State Fair are all occurring simultaneously. In addition, the Twin Cities have decided, presumably still drowning in guilt from the bridge collapse, to rebuild every major road in the capitol.  We were supposed to be here an hour ago.

12.40 CDT: On the shuttle to the Fair, Sophie suddenly decides she might not have actually locked the car.  When, five minutes later, we arrive at the fair, we awkwardly explain to the driver why we are not getting off the shuttle after all. 

12.50 CDT: The car was locked the whole time.  Sophie smokes a cigarette.  I force a smile and dream of cheese curds. 

1.15 CDT: We are watching newborn pigs suckle in the Miracle of Birth Barn, overhead a jumbo screen replays on a loop the previous afternoon’s birth of a calf.  I coo over the pigs, and Sophie (who, last I checked, has approximately 15 stuffed pigs in her room) squeals.  Then we both, simultaneously, make the poor decision of looking up to see what’s on the jumbo screen.

1.20 CDT: Beers now in hand we stop shaking and decide we are strong enough to move on the Oink Barn.  Once there, I steal an “I visited the Oink Barn!” paper crown, Sophie reminds me that these are for 10 year-olds, but I point out that if they are for ten year olds, then why are they so damn big?  They are clearly for adult heads. 

1.35 CDT: Halfway through my first batch of deep fried cheese curds, I realize why paper crowns for ten-year-olds might be so damn big. 

Minnesota is, technically, the healthiest state in the Union.  (It is also one of the best educated and has a low crime rate, but the natural modesty of Midwesterners combined with the taciturn nature of Scandinavians keep them from pointing these things out.  The fact that it’s also one of the coldest keeps strangers from finding these things out.)  But all this corn-fed, rosy-cheeked good health is put on hold for the Fair, where, instead, Minnesotans apply their ingenuity to finding out how many things can be put on sticks. 

1.45 CDT: Sophie and I exit the Cattle Barn. Sophie wanted to stay to see the cows milked, I, on the other hand, like to think that milk grows in plastic gallons.  It took me long enough to get back to eggs after seeing one squeezed out a chicken’s rear, and I need to get calcium somewhere.  I begin to count things on sticks: deep fried scotch eggs on a stick (the Scots would be proud, I’m sure), deep fried snickers on a stick, pizza on a stick, deep fried pizza on a stick, and the crowing glory: hot dish on a stick.  For those who have never had hot dish, it is difficult to explain.  Minnesotans have a propensity to cook everything in casserole dishes.  All deserts, for instance, are served only in bar form.  Hot dish is pretty much leftovers in a casserole dish, meat, mashed potatoes, often gravy.  I don’t know whether I’m intrigued or frightened by finding out how you make this stay on a stick.  I decide it’s best left to the imagination. 

2.00 CDT: We are joined by Sophie’s friend Nicole, a Minnesota native who hasn’t been the fair since she was 13.  She is a on a mission for the haunted house. 

2.15 CDT: We pass a booth advertising fresh corn and pies, “ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ON A STICK!” screams a painted sandwich board out front.  The booth is empty.  The one employee is munching a corn dog from a neighboring stall.   Next to the booth is the DFL (Democratic Farmer Laborer) party booth, plastered with Al Franken paraphernalia.  I ask for a bumper sticker.  “I’m sorry,” the girl behind the counter says, putting aside her cotton candy, “nothing sticky is allowed at the Fair.” 

2.30 CDT: Another round of beers consumed, we find the Haunted House.  A perfectly placid group of eight-year-olds is exiting, and a few teenagers laugh derisively as they come out.  We go in confident of our own nerves. 

2.45 CDT: Shaking, breathless and having wet ourselves just a little, we head pale-faced for the car.   Minnesotans are outstanding courageous people.  

At least for a bit.  First, my heartfelt apologies to our dear readers, not least for lying through our teeth.  Because while Kaks and I may be under-employed, we are not, technically (or even untechnically) speaking un-employed.  So I have been on a two week hiatus.  The first week was spent at the DNC, the second sleeping off the DNC – interrupted only on a nightly basis to wake up at prime time and shake my fist at the television.  

But now I’m off politics.  Actually, I’m lying again.  I’m totally on politics.  But this blog ain’t the place for them, so I will sign off politicking here because all is just a-okay, since there’s obviously nothing about this that makes me nervous.  

Okay.  Fine.  You got me.  It’s totally photoshopped.

But it’s the fact that, even for a second, you thought it might be real that makes me nervous.

Star Wars.  Rick Astley.  Tokyo.  What more can you ask for?

tokyotimes.org

Um, yeah…That’s a Pomeranian in a kimono.  I mean, to each his own, I guess.  TokyoTimes.org had an interesting post on all the new accessories one can now purchase for pooches in Japan.  Jezebel picked up on the story and elaborated.  I’m all for dogs.  I love dogs.  I cannot wait to get my own place that’s large enough for me to get my own dog/reclaim my dog from my parents.  But if I ever dress my dog up in a kimono (I mean, aside from the fact that I can never see myself owning a small dog and hence the kimono would have to be large enough for a small child anyway…), will someone please stage an intervention?  Though I’d totally feed my dog dog-cookies.

The more I look at this picture, the scarier it gets.  I think it’s smiling at me one second and then trying to hypnotize me the next.  Or maybe it’s just pleading because it’s poor little front legs look so uncomfortable…