The heat is on

It’s hot outside!

(How hot is it?)

It’s so hot that…

…the fiddler on the roof took his act to the penthouse pool.

…NFL players are locking themselves out of training camp.

…you’ll get slapped by a pickle for calling it “cool as a cucumber."

…Donna Summer is singing, “Lookin’ for some hot stuff baby this evenin.’ I need some hot stuff baby...oh, forget it, I’m going inside where it’s cool.”

Who let the dog days of summer out?

…the Good Humor man doesn’t even find it funny.

…lobsters would just as soon stay in the pot of boiling water.

…death row inmates aren’t being sent to the electric chair. They’re

being sent to the exercise yard instead.

…“America’s Got Talent” was won by a guy with a Super Soaker.

…Captain America turned his shield into a wok.

…weather forecasts now come with a McDonald’s coffee cup warning.

…sports fans are doing a modified, seated form of the wave called the low tide.

…drug addicts are snorting Freon.

...rapper Ice-T had to drop the “Ice” from his name.

…Civil War reenactors are staging the Battle of the Ole Naked Swimmin’ Hole, which never actually happened.

…truck drivers are pulling their trailers with convertibles.

…the president is proposing a new Cold War.

…chickens are seeking shelter in KFC buckets.

…the National Park Service has closed Mount Rushmore due to falling thousand-gallon drops of sweat.

…bank time and temperature signs have dropped the degrees and are posting “Don’t ask.”

…Burlington Coat Factory is selling two-piece thong parkas.

…Sasquatch got a crew cut.

…heat-seeking missiles can’t decide which of the 3.7 quadrillion targets to hit.

…Congress is adding a fan to the debt ceiling.

But they probably won’t get the bill passed before Aug. 2.

Fair-ness doctrine

Summers can be awfully boring in the Midwest. There’s not much to do besides watching corn grow and cows lactating.

Fortunately, we get a reprieve in July and August. We spend a week or two with a bunch of other people in a carnival atmosphere where there just happens to be lots of corn and lactating cows.

We call it a fair.

You've gotta have heart -- for now -- to eat fair food

California and Florida may have the Disney theme parks, but we here in farm country know a thing or two about amusement ourselves. In fact, long before millions of people began driving thousands of miles to magic kingdoms ruled by a round-eared rat, Midwest states already were introducing generations of Americans to the enchanted worlds of artery-blocking confections, lunch-losing rides and amateur-hour entertainment.

No need to thank us.

Fairs begin and end with eating. Remove the food vendors and the average fair could fit into an area roughly the size of Jiffy Lube.

The moment a fairgoer’s foot steps onto the fairgrounds, edible matter appears in his hands. When that is consumed, more edible matter instantly appears in its place. This continues uninterrupted until the fairgoer gets into his car to leave.

Fair foods are prepared one way, and one way only: deep-fried. No one knows exactly how this came to be, although I suspect it might have come from congressional lobbying efforts by the business development committee of the Open Heart Surgeons Association of America.

Step to the counter of any fair food vendor and you’ll hear a conversation that goes something like this:

VENDOR: Can I help you?

FAIRGOER: Yes. I’d like a deep-fried alpaca burger with chocolate-dipped bacon, molasses-soaked tomatoes and jelly bean-topped pickles; a deep-fried Fig Newton on a stick; and a large deep-fried Red Bull. Oh, and can I get the burger in a deep-fried wrapper and could you put it in a deep-fried bag?

VENDOR: Sure. Would you like the burger between two glazed doughnuts?

FAIRGOER: Are you kidding?!? That’s GROSS!!!

While it is true that fair rides are nowhere as sophisticated as Disney’s least high-tech attraction, it doesn’t cost a hundred bucks plus parking to spend the day spinning in a creaky Tilt-a-Whirl. You need only a 50-cent ride ticket. Or 10.

What fair rides lack in technological flair they more than make up in fright. Not because of the rides themselves, but because of the ride operators.

Carnies take you for a ride, and hopefully nothing else

Carnies are scary people with leathery tans, unpleasant aromas and half-smoked cigarettes stuck between their lips. They look like the same people who just days earlier were picking up garbage along the highway as part of a prison work release program. Now these same people are responsible for the lives of 8-year-olds on rides like the mini-motorcycles, which is one of the most dangerous of all midway attractions due to the fact that the motorcycles are equipped with annoying buzzers that the kids press the entire ride, pushing the carnie to the edge of serial killer.

Ride lengths vary greatly at fairs. For instance, if five or more people are waiting in line for the bumper cars the carnie will flip the power switch off after 35 seconds. That’s a problem, since it takes a full 34 seconds for a rider to figure out which direction to turn the steering wheel to get the car moving forward. Conversely, if there’s no line for the Scrambler you’re probably going to be whipped into unconsciousness while the carnie goes out back to smoke a carton of Marlboros.

Then there’s fair entertainment. It comes in various forms: clogging clubs, greased watermelon races, electricity safety demonstrations and performances by Elvis impersonators who, if the King were really alive and ended his self-imposed exile, would immediately lose their jobs and cause the nation’s unemployment rate to increase another 3 percent.

Among the myriad entertainment options, fairs could not exist without the Big Four: the queen contest, 4-H projects, livestock showing and tractors.

Everybody within the fairgrounds attends the queen contest except the carnies, who use the opportunity while no one’s around to switch from tobacco to marijuana. Hundreds of people pack into small, non-air conditioned livestock sale arenas to watch young women smile, say hello, wear sequined formal dresses of retina-burning shininess and answer important questions like “Do you think the ‘Twilight’ movies are instilling within young people a wrong image of vampires?”

The lucky girl who becomes queen is rewarded with a crown, sash, flowers and an opportunity that she’ll treasure for a lifetime: posing for pictures with the Grand Champion sow.

No trip to a fair is complete without a walk through the 4-H exhibit building, where 4-H members display the projects they’ve spent all year working on but didn’t actually get serious about finishing until a week before the fair. There are armoires made of Popsicle sticks; 200-pound zucchinis; watercolor paintings of what are either kittens or mountain lions; and powdery substances on plates that were once believed to be cookies.

4-Hers also raise animals and bring them to fairs for everyone to see. Cows, pigs, horses, sheep, chickens, goats, ducks and rabbits by the dozens are housed in barns, so that fairgoers can stroll through and take a quick glance before turning their gaze back to the ground so as to avoid stepping in poop.

Another tractor cleared for takeoff

For many fair visitors the tractor exhibit is a must-see. Farmers from near and far bring their antique machines to the fairgrounds in what could be described as the agricultural version of a classic car show. To the casual observer, the whole collection might look like the same tractor: two big back tires, two little front tires, an uncomfortable seat, and painted green. But to those in the know, the tractors could not be more dissimilar: two big back tires, two little front tires, uncomfortable seats, painted green and built in 1939. And that one in 1940. And the one over there in 1945.

Newer models compete in the fair tractor pull. Well, we Midwesterners assume they are newer since we've never seen anything like them on a farm. We also assume the tractors are capable of flight, given that they are long, sleek, jet engine-powered vehicles that reach for the sky while dragging 14,000 pounds of concrete blocks behind them.

We assume something else, too: That if the tractor wasn’t chained to all that weight it just might chart a course due southeast.

Right to Disney World.

Cursive, foiled again!

I have a confession to make. I’m a card-carrying member of Cursive Writers Anonymous. I’ve been in recovery since, oh, about junior high.

From the day teachers didn’t care whether I turned in papers in cursive or printed letters I’ve been phasing out the former from my skill set. Except when I’m required to provide a signature, which is just a corrupted version of cursive that isn’t supposed to be legible, anyway – ask any doctor or professional athlete – I’m strictly a print man.

Cursive was a write of passage

Cursive has never felt right to me. Cursive is beauty and art; print is plainness and functionality. And in the handwriting universe I’m less Monet and more Dogs Playing Poker.

Besides, Indiana is writing cursive off. Why shouldn’t I?

This past spring the Indiana Department of Education announced that it would no longer require schools to teach cursive, so that more time can be spent on typing instruction. More than 40 other states are ditching cursive for the keyboard, as well.

I’m not sure what I think about eliminating cursive from school curriculum. All I know is cursive never worked for me.

I remember those long, painful penmanship classes, where we started by tracing cursive letters and then moved to writing on wide-lined paper with dotted lines. Everything about that exercise set me up for failure: pencils as big around as storm sewer pipes; confusing rules about which parts of letters touch the top line and which parts go only as far as the dotted line; capital letters which look nothing at all like their printed equivalents; and sitting beside the girl in class whose cursive writing could be displayed in the National Archives next to the Declaration of Independence.

Whether they actually believed they could turn me into John Hancock or just wanted to get me to a C grade so they could pass me on to the schmo in the next class, my teachers agonized over my cursive writing.

“Steve, that’s not a capital F. That’s a capital T,” a teacher would say. “Do you know what you did wrong?”

“I didn’t print?” I’d say. Not really, but I wanted to.

“No, Miss Wallflower. Can you tell me?”

“Of course, Steve. You forgot to cross the F in the middle. Try to remember that next time, all right?”

“Okay, Miss Wallflower,” I’d answer, making a mental note to never again start a sentence with a F or T.

Eventually, I was handed off from teacher to teacher enough times that I reached the grade level where we traded the wide-lined paper for thin-lined notebook paper. It was a terrifying experience. I felt like a New York City apartment dweller dropped into the middle of an Amazon rainforest. Worse yet, we laid our pencils aside and picked up ink pens.

No more erasers?!? How was I going to expunge my numerous penmanship errors? I couldn’t rely on ink erasers – a satanic invention if ever there was one – because I discovered early on that they were of no use. After minutes of rubbing the grayish wedge against the page, disaster would strike. The moment ink began to disappear the eraser would tear through the paper, leaving me to hand in an assignment that was 30 percent wood pulp and 70 percent Scotch tape.

My handwriting analysis: It stinks

Over time I chose the alternative. I covered my mistakes in a thick layer of ink and accepted the consequences for failing to turn in a “clean” paper.

By high school my teachers ran up a white flag, allowing me to print all my assignments. Then, as a sophomore, I took a typing class, where I was introduced to Wite-Out – a heavenly invention if ever there was one. Years later the manual typewriter was replaced by the word processor and then the personal computer, which rendered corrective tape and liquid obsolete. I had arrived at the throne of God.

Today I’m about as far removed from cursive writing as Lindsey Lohan is from The Parent Trap. The photo accompanying this blog might be the most cursive writing I’ve done since George Bush was president (the first one), and it only took me 10 minutes and a Google search on what cursive letters look like.

So THAT’S a capital Q in cursive? And I thought I was writing the number 2.