Cream Pickle Pups

They're only the greatest, most crave-vanquishing fairground snack ever invented. Duh.

Yesterday, Jonny and I went to Taste of Minnesota to see Al Jardine perform with his "Beach Boyz Bastard Band, Not Affiliated With the Actual Beach Boys, But Featuring an Original Member." Truthfully, I love Al-- as O.G. Beach Boys go, he's the amiable leprauchan in a group full of litigious crabapples. And as Jonny put it yesterday as we trucked down the midway: "We'll go see any vaguely Beach Boys-related thing that appears within a 50-mile radius."

First, of course, we had to chow. You know I have nine stomachs.

I started by sampling the usual Minne-satanic fair fare. Cheese curds. A fried Snickers bar oozing sweet high-temp goo in a nougaty panto of Pele. Jonny had a pork chop on a stick. I went for a gyro. Finally, we were stuffed. But then I spotted something else, something revolutionary: The Cream Pickle Pup.

This is a large dill pickle, filled with cream cheese, batter-dipped, and deep fried. It improbably manages to combine the best elements of a jalapeno popper and a cake donut. Tart, salty, mellow, sweet, pillowy, cheesy, crunchy. I went into an ecstatic trance. I'm not sure how they get the dairy inside the pickle (a giant syringe?) but it is GOOD. It has supplanted the fried Snickers as my favorite vice. The only way they could improve the Pup would be to serve it with a beer back.

So we had about two more hours before Al and his mishmash of musician friends were scheduled to take to the stage. We decided to watch David Cassidy's set on the Strib stage. There were SCADS of well-aged Keith Partridge groupies, including a chick with an elaborate sign that read "I Think I Love You!" You'd think if you were trying to pull a Partridge, you'd reference a less obvious single.

The band vamped for a few minutes, then the lithe, balding Cassidy strolled onstage with his axe. They launched into "Hush" by Deep Purple, confirming my earlier prediction that Cassidy would focus on non-Patridge-tainted classic rock chesnuts. Because when you think about it, most people only know only one or two Patridge Family songs. And nobody wants to hear the deep cuts, except maybe Go-Go Giddle Partridge, who is a genius.

And then, I shit you not-- Cassidy leans into the mic and shouts "Hello, Iowa!"

I immediately shrieked with glee at this awesome celeb gaffe, but Jon was all "He's joking!" But he so wasn't. If he'd been joking, he'd have said "Just kidding, Minnesota" or something to that effect. But he didn't. He just continued with some earnest patter about how he was so happy to be here. HE TOTALLY THOUGHT HE WAS IN IOWA.

Now, you groovier-than-thou New Yorkers are probably all "It was an honest mistake. All those flat states look the same (disco yawn)." Bullshit, man! I went to college in Iowa, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Minneapolis is no Iowa. Trust Cousin Diablo on this distinction.

Anyway, we quickly exited the Cassidy playpen and headed over to the Beach Boys stage to stake out front-row spots with the rest of the diehards. Then we saw Al! He looked alarmingly sun-damaged but still elfin. All the geeks bumrushed him for auographs, including me. I came prepared with a black Sharpie that we'd magically found that morning, and two CD sleeves. I courteously slid into line, even though Jonny was begging me to be more aggressive. Finally, I was next. The bitch in front of me asked to borrow my Sharpie and I obliged, seeing as I am so courteous. Al signed her stupid vintage magazine as she babbled at him about how long she'd been a fan. I gritted my teeth. Then, as the bitch handed me back my Sharpie, Al announced that it was showtime he couldn't sign anything else.

Now, I'm not an autograph hound by any means. But Jonny really wanted the CDs signed, and I blew it due to stupid, ignorant politesse. Lesson learned. Next time, that Sharpie is taking a fantastic voyage into someone's eyeball.

The show was good, by the way. Hope you all had a Fourth with plenty of relaxation and just enough pomp!