SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | If You Need to Hold a Family Meeting, Please Get Out of the Middle of the Street

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors.

I am not an expert. Which immediately makes me more qualified than the family of seven that stopped directly in front of me at the Minnesota State Fair to discuss whether everybody still wanted cheese curds.

Friends, the Minnesota State Fair covers 322 acres. Three hundred and twenty-two! That is an enormous amount of land. There are livestock barns, exhibit halls, food plazas, outdoor stages, wooden benches, open lawns, and entire tranquil sections of the fairgrounds where a reasonable family could gather to discuss its cheese-related intentions without disrupting interstate commerce. Yet every single person who needs to halt physical progress chooses the exact twelve square inches immediately in front of my shoes.

I went to the State Fair expecting massive crowds. I am not unreasonable. You cannot attend Minnesota's largest annual gathering and become offended because Minnesota actually showed up. I expected children, grandparents, double strollers, red wagons, wheelchairs, electric scooters, teenagers, politicians, farmers, tourists, people carrying free plastic yardsticks, people eating deep-fried items on sticks, and people attempting to read paper maps while simultaneously walking in the exact opposite direction of their destination. I expected at least one gentleman wearing shorts that should have remained a private legal matter between himself and his immediate family.

What I did not expect was to discover that approximately half the population has forgotten that a walkway is intended for walking.

This realization arrived before lunch. Larry was with me, which should have been my first mistake. We were moving along smoothly with the dense crowd when Larry suddenly came to a complete stop. No warning, no reduction in walking speed, no brake lights, and zero directional signals. One moment he was walking briskly; the next moment he became permanent municipal infrastructure.

I walked directly into the back of his shirt.

"Larry!" I yelled. "What?" "Why did you stop?" "I thought I saw somebody." "So?" "I was trying to see if it was him." "Then pull over!" He looked at me, genuinely bewildered. "Pull over?" "Yes!" "Don, we're walking." "Then use your shoulders as turn signals!"

Friends, this is the root of the problem. Human beings fully understand traffic rules when they are surrounded by two tons of solid steel. Put those exact same people into comfortable walking shoes, and suddenly civilization collapses into anarchy. Nobody driving down a four-lane highway reaches a busy intersection, stops diagonally across both lanes, and says, "Everybody wait, Brenda thinks she left her sunglasses at the lemonade stand." You would be arrested! At the State Fair, however, this is considered normal family communication.

There are people walking four abreast at approximately the speed of continental drift. There are people who stop dead in their tracks because they smelled roasted corn. There are groups of eight who form a complete human circle in the middle of active pedestrian lanes because apparently their discussion about visiting the Grandstand requires a full constitutional convention.

Then there are the map people. I support cartography; maps are useful tools. But if you intend to unfold an official document roughly the dimensions of a bedsheet, please do not do it while continuing to move forward. Pull over, study the document, locate your position, determine your destination, and reenter active traffic only when you are emotionally prepared. Instead, people open the map while in motion and immediately reduce their walking speed by ninety-three percent. The person behind them nearly perishes.

Larry told me I was exaggerating, so I informed him that I had begun drafting an official Minnesota State Fair Pedestrian Code.

"Of course you have," he sighed.

Rule One is simple: slow traffic must keep to the far right. Rule Two: any family group walking four abreast must maintain minimum forward momentum or obtain an official oversized-load highway permit. Rule Three: if your party needs to debate food choices, you must exit the main traffic lane and relocate to a designated conference facility. Rule Four: anyone planning a sudden stop must first raise one arm in the air.

"Like a bicycle hand signal?" Larry asked. "Exactly." "Nobody will know what it means." "They'll learn after the first citation." "You can't issue citations, Don." "Watch me."

Rule Five concerns strollers. I have nothing against strollers; children have short legs and I understand the logistics. But some modern strollers are no longer strollers; they are full-sized recreational vehicles. I saw one on Thursday equipped with dual storage compartments, insulated cup holders, UV sun canopies, heavy-duty suspension, and enough cargo capacity to support a three-day wilderness expedition into the Boundary Waters. The toddler inside had far better accommodations than I did. I was walking around carrying a water bottle under one arm and a paper bag of something Larry insisted we needed under the other, while this toddler rolled past me reclining beneath a canopy like a visiting international diplomat. I firmly believe the stroller had built-in Wi-Fi. I stepped aside immediately; I respect superior military equipment.

The fairgoers MinneapoliMedia spoke with on opening day actually raised this exact issue. Longtime visitors described the severe friction created when people stop unexpectedly in crowded walkways, particularly for guests using wheelchairs or crutches, and for families pushing heavy wagons. One veteran fairgoer suggested establishing designated walking lanes and designated standing areas.

Friends, that may be the most sensible public policy proposal I have heard all year. Designated walking lanes and standing areas! Order could be restored to civilization by lunchtime. We already understand this concept everywhere else: highways have passing lanes, airports have moving walkways, swimming pools have lap lanes, and grocery stores have aisles. The Minnesota State Fair features hundreds of thousands of human beings simultaneously pursuing hot corn dogs; surely this environment deserves professional traffic engineering.

Larry suggested painting directional arrows directly on the asphalt. I told him not to become overly ambitious. That is precisely how government bureaucracy expands: first there are arrows, then warning signs, then oversight committees, and eventually somebody receives a four-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-dollar consulting contract to determine whether Minnesotans naturally walk clockwise around cheese curd stands. By 2031, we would have an official Department of Fairground Pedestrian Mobility, and Larry would somehow end up as deputy commissioner. I withdrew the proposal on the spot.

Besides, there were other structural marvels to observe. The most obvious new addition this year is the giant America Wheel, rising 230 feet above the North End. Two hundred and thirty feet! Apparently, the previous observation wheel was deemed insufficiently enormous. Minnesota looked at a perfectly respectable giant ferris wheel and asked, "Can we get something tall enough to see what Wisconsin is doing?"

The new wheel is 75 feet taller than the previous ride and features 45 fully enclosed gondolas. Larry immediately wanted to ride it.

"LOGGERHEAD NO," I said. "Why not, Don?" "I don't need to inspect Minnesota from two hundred and thirty feet in the air." "You'd get a fantastic panoramic view." "I already know what is down here, Larry." "It's fully enclosed!" "Enclosing it does not alter the altitude." "You're scared." "I am appropriately informed."

This is the exact same Larry who refused to climb my eight-foot aluminum ladder last spring because, according to him, "the angle didn’t feel structural." Now he wants to ascend twenty-three stories into the sky simply because somebody attached the ladder to a rotating circle. I reminded him of his ladder policy.

"That's completely different," he argued. "How?" "The gondolas are enclosed." "So your primary objection to falling was improper ventilation?"

He went silent, and I considered that a complete rhetorical victory.

Opening day also featured the grand reopening of the historic Lee & Rose Warner Coliseum following a $24 million renovation, along with the new Summer Lakes Boat House and 36 official new foods. Thirty-six!

Friends, I have been attending the State Fair long enough to remember when food had simple names that clearly explained the item: corn dog, cheese curds, French fries, mini donuts. You heard the name and instantly understood the commercial transaction. Now we have entered the cinematic era of "The Fried and the Furious: Cubano Drift." That is a sandwich, apparently, though it sounds like Vin Diesel should be delivering it on a motorcycle.

There is also Pickle Pie, Longanisa Cheese Curd Lumpia, a Dubai Whoopie Pie, and Dockside Poppers. There is enough culinary experimentation to suggest that Minnesota has officially outlawed the phrase, "Maybe we shouldn't deep-fry that." I support culinary innovation within reasonable boundaries, but then somebody informed me about pickle-flavored lip gloss.

I understand pickles, and I understand lip gloss; I object to their merger. There are consumer products that do not need to become acquainted.

Larry called it a clever novelty. "Would you put pickle lip gloss on your face, Larry?" "No." "Then why are you defending it?" "Somebody else might enjoy it." "Somebody also invented lawn darts, Larry. Human creativity requires adult supervision."

He accused me of being closed-minded and told me to buy a tube. I told him to buy one first, and he declined. Exactly.

Later, we passed the Agriculture Horticulture Building, where public interest in the crop art exhibit was so dense that organizers had to move the waiting line outdoors along Judson Avenue just to manage interior congestion. Read that sentence again! Minnesota had to implement emergency highway-style crowd management because too many human beings wanted to view portraits made entirely out of agricultural seeds.

I say that with tremendous civic pride. Somewhere in another state, people are standing behind velvet ropes trying to gain entry to an exclusive nightclub. Minnesotans are standing in line along a curb because somebody rendered a portrait of Prince using individual flaxseeds. This is who we are; do not ever change.

However, nothing prepared me for the opening-day story of Rose and Mary Jane. They wanted to be the very first visitors through the entry gates when the fair opened at 7:00 a.m. on Thursday. Rose and Mary Jane arrived at 7:00 a.m. on Wednesday! Wednesday! Friends, they did not arrive early; they arrived yesterday! They camped outside for twenty-four full hours so they could be first into the fairgrounds.

I admire dedication, tradition, and enthusiasm, but there are strict limits to what I will endure to beat another human being to a corn dog. I asked Larry whether he would camp overnight outside the main gate.

"Absolutely not," he said.

For the first time all day, I felt genuine pride in his common sense. Then he added: "Unless Sweet Martha's was giving something away."

There it goes. I asked what they would have to offer for him to sleep on a sidewalk. "A year's supply of chocolate chip cookies." "Larry, a year's supply of cookies for you would bankrupt their corporation." He called that statement insulting; I called it sound actuarial science.

Still, Rose and Mary Jane made me reflect on why people continuously return to this concrete farm. MinneapoliMedia met four friends on opening day—John, Justine, Chloe, and Nikki—whose personal histories with the fair range from fourteen years to four decades. John remembered coming as a small child and being utterly overwhelmed by the bright colors, loud sounds, rich smells, and frantic energy.

That sounds entirely accurate. Your first State Fair is not something you fully comprehend; there is simply too much happening simultaneously. Every direction contains three secondary directions. You hear live music coming from a stage you cannot locate, something smells delicious until the wind shifts and you realize you are standing downwind from the swine barn, somebody walks past carrying a stuffed gorilla larger than your first apartment, one child is crying because he wants to ride the Ferris wheel, and another child is screaming because she actually rode it.

Then somebody hands you a hot paper bucket of food, and slowly, over years, you figure out how the institution operates. You establish personal traditions: you select a favorite entry gate, you identify the buildings that cannot be skipped, you determine which deep-fried item you will claim you are not buying this year right before buying it, and you learn which family members cannot be trusted with a map. You quickly discover that saying "I'll meet you by the Grandstand" is not a meeting plan, but an official invitation to permanent separation.

And yet, you return. That may be the most extraordinary part of the whole phenomenon. We complain constantly: traffic is congested, parking is expensive, food costs too much, our feet hurt, the weather is too hot, then it rains, then it becomes humid again, and somebody stops dead in their tracks directly in front of us. We spend nine hours trudging through massive crowds and return home carrying a wooden yardstick, a plastic tote bag, three pamphlets, severe indigestion, and zero memory of where we acquired half of it.

Then next August arrives. "Are you going to the Fair this year?" "Of course."

This is not ordinary consumer behavior; this is a deeply ingrained family tradition. When the fair was canceled in 2020 during the pandemic, longtime visitors felt a profound absence on their calendars. A drive-through food event offered a temporary taste, but eating food from inside a bucket in a running car could never replace what people actually missed: the dense crowds, the historic buildings, the livestock barns, the noise, the walking, and even, surprisingly, the people who stop in the middle of the walkway.

I hate admitting that last part, but after spending the entire afternoon complaining about pedestrian traffic, I began to understand something important. The walkways are congested precisely because people keep coming back. Some have attended for forty years, some for twenty, some for fourteen, and others arrived this week for the very first time. Parents bring their children, those children grow into adults, and they return with friends, spouses, children, and eventually grandchildren.

They look for familiar old landmarks, notice what has been updated, remember long-gone vendors, and argue about whether the mini donuts taste the way they used to. They point toward animal barns and tell somebody younger, "Your grandfather always insisted on coming here first." Every August, all of those individual family traditions collide on the exact same streets.

Sometimes the person who stopped directly in front of you is just plain inconsiderate; let us not become overly romantic about bad behavior. But sometimes somebody stopped because they unexpectedly spotted a high school friend they haven't seen in a decade. Sometimes a family has stopped to gather three generations for a group photograph, and sometimes an elderly visitor is moving slowly because the fairgrounds that once energized them at age ten now exhaust them differently at age seventy.

The crowd can be deeply frustrating because a crowd is made of human beings, and human beings are naturally terrible at walking in straight lines. But human beings are also the sole reason there is a State Fair worth attending. Buildings can be renovated, new deep-fried foods can be invented, a 230-foot wheel can alter the skyline, and historic coliseums can begin new chapters after seventy-five years. None of those physical structures creates tradition on its own; people do. They return year after year until a physical place becomes permanently woven into the calendar of their lives.

I thought about that as Larry and I finally shuffled toward the exit gates. The sun was setting, we had walked enough miles that my knees had begun communicating directly with central management, and families were still streaming around us. Children were carrying giant plush prizes, couples were sharing buckets of cookies, and live music echoed across the plazas. For once, I decided to stop complaining.

Perhaps this enormous, congested, noisy, occasionally impossible crowd was the entire point. Perhaps the inconvenience was living proof that human beings still desire to gather together in person. In an age where so much of daily life can be streamed, ordered, delivered, or experienced through a glowing glass screen, there is something profoundly worth protecting about hundreds of thousands of people choosing to physically show up in the exact same place, walk the exact same pavement, eat the exact same food, and build their own memories on top of everybody else's.

Maybe I had been far too hard on them.

Then Larry stopped dead in his tracks directly in front of me.

I walked straight into the back of his shirt. Again.

"LARRY!" I roared. "Wait, Don!" "What now?" "I think that's the guy I bought my snowblower from back in 2018." I stared at him in complete disbelief while he peered across the dense crowd. "His name is Dave," Larry added. "Of course his name is Dave!" "I haven't spoken to him in years." "Then go walk over there and see him!" "I'm trying to stand still to make sure it's really him." "Larry." "What?" "Pull over!"

Friends, forget every sentimental thing I just said about community and tradition. 

KEEP MOVING!

Until next time, Cranky DJ

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