Come All to the Fair

Apparently, I've reached a whole new level of snootiness. In the last two weeks, I've been to two county fairs and the whole thing just escapes me. I'm looking at a sign that says "Kachunga and the Alligator Show," I wandered through the animal pens, I averted my eyes from the pie-eating contest, and decided I'd hold it rather than pee in their scary restroom with two year olds peering under the stall doors. If the "psychic" was reading palms instead of tarot cards I might be swayed.

I should applaud these people for growing and raising and creating things they're so proud of. I should be able to give them their moment to shine without rolling my eyes in derision. When did I become so jaded that I couldn't enjoy this? Is this what living in L.A. did to me?

The Weber County Fair at least had a band I wanted to see. We braved insane wind and air so thick with dust you couldn't see the mountains to see an acappella group called T-Minus Five. Five guys singing harmony made up for the fact that the beer was Coors and Bud Light. You know the band is singing for a conservative county fair crowd when they change the lyrics to Brown Eyed Girl from "making love in the green grass" to "making friends in the green grass." Chickens.

I wonder if they'd let a grownup have a free pony ride.
I wonder what kind of pie they ate for the contest.
I wonder what the psychic would see in my cards.
I wonder where that asian couple got all that cheap Michael Jackson stuff.
I wonder what that cat is going to do to his mistress for making him do "tricks" on a 95 degree day. (His trick tonight is going to be barfing on mom's pillow.)
I wonder when the alligator show is.

Ooh, I really wish I hadn't seen that guy's full moon as he stood up from that table to throw away his leftover funnel cake. . .