Don Henley Sucks

We couldn't get Lynyrd Skynyrd, but then again, none of us cared. Here's a hint, or maybe a nudge, perhaps even a wink wink to the State Fair folks: The Gear Daddies should play the Grandstand one of the last 3 nights at The Fair every year, and it shouldn't be as a replacement for some band that isn't even a band, or even the shadow of the band, or even 50% of the band that they're supposed to be.

This is a smoked walleye. It was caught in a Minnesota lake and it was gutted and grilled within 100 miles of where it was yanked unceremoniously from its habitat.

I'm a transplant to Minnesota, and I worship the State Fair. I find it to be the perfect period to my Summer sentence, and I scratch my head in bewilderment at those who fail to revel in its majestic beauty and terrible ugliness. Our hopes and our fears are sewn into the seams and pockets of this spectacle, and we gather, like sardines in a can, to hash this thing out until there's nothing left but a battalion of dumpsters, filled to the lid with the shattered equinox of what we think is "Minnesota."

As you're standing in the middle of a six or seven thousand member sea of humanity watching the 40-someting Gear Daddies play, you realize that they don't speak to who we are so much as they speak to who we hope we are. We want small town education and big city guts, and we pray every night that there's one or three things we can rely on when the sun comes up in the morning. We want to feel like the boss expects us, but we want him to understand that it's still August, and, incongruously, that there are ripe tomatoes on the vine. We want to get bombed Friday night and miraculously find our way home, safely. But we don't want to feel like a pussy getting there.

Here's the thing about the State Fair...about the Gear Daddies...about Minnesota...that you'll never understand, unless you have your ear to the ground Kemosabe. A) You want some friends. B) You want to spend time with your friends, exchanging ideas, lawnmowers, and recipes for smoked walleye. C) At some point, you hope and you pray that some rock solid gal who understands the finer points of paying the mortgage on time, when to plant the tomatoes, where the dogwoods should go in the backyard, and which belt to wear with which shoes, takes pity on you and makes your life worth living. Diablo Cody, THAT is what the State Fair is about; it's about the sweaty mess of 3 deep lines at the port-o-let at 10:01pm, and the men who love them. There is LIFE in this process and genuflection is mandatory.