Post a Comment On: A Nod to Nothing

Ah...the smell of grease, meat, trash and Suave shampoo-washed swine. It must be the Minnesota State Fair. Second in size only to the state fair of Texas, which would presumably stage something smaller if it weren't for us encroaching on their claims to be the biggest in everything. I noticed this year that we took exceptionally fewer pictures of Eryn a.) just wandering around (and there was a record amount of complaint-free walking this year), b.) on rides (not even one of her on the giant slide, despite three rides), c.) eating things (and it was her first cheese curd). The honeymoon is over. At five, she's ceased to be attached to the end of our camera lens.

So I should start by refuting any idea that we didn't take any pictures of her. Here's the traditional photo, now in year six, same sign. Eryn's making a strong showing toward a decade at the fair.
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I don't know what a soy boy is, but it sounds like something in a creepy farmer-themed horror movie. I had an epic fail near this photo. I was in the line for the Little Farm Hands, wandering from station to station with Eryn, and near the pedal tractors a very attractive mother in tight jean shorts was trying to push and take a picture of her child at the same time, going into all sorts of bent over contortions. I realized that this was perhaps the best reason any father (and maybe some mothers) could have for going through the little farm hands line. I know I should be happy to do it just for Eryn, and I am, but it was exceedingly slow and hot, and this seemed like added compensation. So I got out my camera and actually snapped a picture - unobtrusively, mind you. And it didn't click! So I took a picture at the perfect moment, and my camera failed me. Phallic metaphor? Or perhaps my camera simply has a more evolved conscience than I do. Either way, you get a picture of a soy boy poster instead of a bent over blonde.
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Here's a picture of Eryn on the pedal tractors. Perhaps it will help you imagine a blonde in jean shorts nearby.
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This post is unique not because I touch a statue of Homer Simpson inappropriately, although I do.
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Rather, it's unique because Homer tries to touch me inappropriately. He's sort of a skeevy perv, or else he's convinced there's a moon waffle in my pants. Later, we were making bacon on the beach - covered in chocolate, like they do at the state fair.
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Pooteewheet wears a paper hat from the Newspaper Museum. She's not the first to be on Flickr in a newspaper hat, but she may be the only adult. Eryn kept trying to snatch it and crush it. It offended her almost as much as the bookmark with Chloepin, the clothes pin doll, on it.
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I got first place in the pet cow competition, but only because I cut off the head of my competition.
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We went in the Midwest Showmen's Association's display back in heritage village. It's a strange little corner of the fair with no one else in it, and there are many pictures of people from the 90s who have hair from the 60s. But the creepiest bit was that they didn't have duplicate pictures of some past presidents, so they'd cut out the water damaged portions and framed just the face, like some sort of weird, photoshop experience. Here's an example in Sheldon Shorter. I'm not entirely sure you weren't supposed to slide his almost 3-D photo under the broken five-cent peepshow stereoscope that was sitting there (not to be confused with a mutoscope).
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For my sister who always says, "I'm not a carpet." But it's not necessarily the woman who's Oriental, only the torture cabinet. Kyle accused me of checking out her breasts. The sad thing is, I was. The railing was sort of in the way and I thought, "She seems to have very large breasts." So I looked behind the railing just to confirm my suspicion. I don't think she minded.
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Eryn playing the bean bag game at Jack FM 104.1. She makes me listen to Jack in the car on the way home from school every weekday. It's her favorite. Their stand is in the furthest corner of the fairgrounds, coincidentally right next to the sign we always take her photo in front of. I'm not sure if it's fate, or subliminal advertising.
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