Ripped at the Head of the Lakes Fair in 2001

[Editor’s note: For this week’s essay we’ve once again pulled out a relic from the drunken compendium of Slim Goodbuzz, who served as Duluth’s “booze connoisseur” from 1999 to 2009. Twenty-five years ago the Sultan of Sot visited the Head of the Lakes Fair in Superior and composed this article for the Aug. 8, 2001 edition of the Ripsaw newspaper.]

Let me just start out by saying that I think the Head of the Lakes Fair is a friggin’ wonderland. You walk into the place and the first thing you see is a table with the most pathetic crap for sale that you’ll ever find. We’re talking fake flowers with a flashlight inside, used Matchbox cars, Dalmatian-print cowboy hats and battery-operated toy cigarettes that glow at the end. A little farther down, you’ll find your Christian comic books, your black-velvet paintings and your turquoise jewelry. Just beyond that is the corn. This is everything I stand for. It’s beautiful. So, you’ll have to understand how difficult it is for me to ignore all of these temptations when I first get to the place. I’m a professional journalist, and I’m here for you, my people. And you, my people, are looking to be informed, and you’re only really interested in certain information after all. That in mind, I head straight for the beer. And the smash-up derby.

The beer is MGD in a “stay cold” plastic bottle, and it costs $2.75. The smash-up derby is the greatest thing mankind has ever invented, and it is free. The two are inseparable.

But I have to say, I’m disappointed in the crowd. First of all, there are only about seven or eight mullets to be seen in my immediate vicinity. I was promised, by this very newspaper, that this was a “mullet-basking” event. Granted, the mullet directly in front of me is indeed a beautiful and fluffy mullet, and one would have to search long and hard to find a more perfect specimen. But the point is, this is the smash-up derby. I expect mullets to be prancing and pivoting in front of me like runway models, but it just ain’t happening.

My second problem with the crowd is, they’re just way too casual. They just seem unaware that there is pure entertainment going on in front of them. Dozens of big, meat-eating American cars are smashing into each other. The noise of screaming transmissions and crunching metal alone is more than I can handle. There’s steam and smoke everywhere. Guys in mini bulldozers keep driving out to push wrecked cars off the track. Yet, the crowd is sort of placid and well-behaved. Me, I’m on my feet screaming obscenities and wishing to God I had something to throw. These people are derelicts.

Then something happens to get everyone excited; apparently, this is what we’ve all been waiting for. One of the cars catches on fire. The emcee announces this casually at first, requesting that the drivers stop.

But they’re not stopping. And suddenly, the emcee is doing the best thing possible: He’s panicking. He’s speaking very clearly but intensely into the microphone, “YOUR ATTENTION: NUMBER 6 IS ON FIRE. WE HAVE A FIRE IN NUMBER 6. PLEASE STOP YOUR CARS. WE HAVE A FIRE. STOP. PLEASE.” Eventually, the drivers figure out what’s going on and stop. In pure fair-going form, everyone boos, and I’m right there with ’em, baby.

Now, the crowd is much more animated, cheering for their favorite cars. As for me, I’m certain from years of watching Happy Days that the winner is going to be whoever knows the Malachi Crunch. That in mind, I scan the cars for a pair of twin brothers who don’t look anything like each other, and for anyone who might suffice for Souptown’s version of Pinky Tuscadero.

But it doesn’t matter who wins the damn thing, and hell, I don’t even pay attention. As soon as it’s done, I’m out of there, aiming to check out the rest of the fairgrounds. In other words: I got the beer, I got the violence. Now what I need is to watch people spin around in circles inside huge cartoon bears. Also I want to eat some kind of bratwurst gizzard treat, and I want it on a stick.

I don’t find any bratwurst gizzard treat on a stick, but I find something even better: fish tacos. These things are disgusting, and I’m sucking ’em down like they’re sent from Heaven above. Making everything taste even better is the little kid standing next to me holding his stomach and crying. His mom asks him, very concerned, what’s wrong. He looks up at her in utter misery and whimpers, “mini donuts.” Time for me to get some more beer.

The beer tent is festive, as it should be. You can’t help but drink it up in these environs. Picking up my first tent-purchased beer of the evening, I notice the middle-aged biker broad a few picnic tables down, as she shows a freshly airbrushed T-shirt to her friend. Then she takes a 7-ounce swig out of a 12-ounce bottle. I think of the poor saps who brought their kids and are stuck in a tent full of rabbits and chickens. Me, I got my exhibit right here.