Tuesday, September 7, 2010

PA, we already know you hate us. Enough already.

We go to a Labor Day festival!

Or, we try to.

It's in a town about an hour away, so I get the address from the festival website and off we go.

"Are we going to be the only ones there?" the DNB says as we approach the festival grounds.

"Definitely not," I reply confidently. "I read an article that said yesterday's attendance was 20,000."

"Ok, because we're at the right address right now. And there's no festival."

I pull over. "Crap."

I look up the festival website on my phone. And realize that the address at the top of the page - the one I used - is the address of the county parks department, which is SPONSORING the festival. Which is in a completely different town. Let me draw you a picture.

We're not about to give up now, so we figure out a new correct address and continue driving. When we arrive at the right place, we know it's the right place because there are cars for miles in both directions. After we enter the park where the festival is being held, the DNB gets antsy with the traffic.

"Let's just park in that parking lot," he suggests, in what later I realize is the WORST IDEA EVER. "We can just walk up to wherever the festival is."

Let it me known that my consent was UNINFORMED. I park, and we start walking. It quickly becomes apparent that the whole thing would have been a much better idea HAD THE DNB EVER BEEN THERE BEFORE. Then he might have known that not only was our parking spot NOWHERE NEAR THE FESTIVAL, but the parking lot was at the bottom of a small mountain. The festival, of course, had to be at the top.

Our path pretty much becomes the Trail of Tears.

We finally, finally get to the top. It takes about 2 minutes to figure out that no way is this festival worth ANY of what we had been through to get there. First, I apparently missed the fact that the festival is called the "Laborers United Celebration" not because it's Labor Day, necessarily, but because it's a Union event. This is not, you might say, our "scene."

We walk by the main stage, where a Teamster/Union/Organized Person is telling the assembled crowd that "America is the only country with a middle class." The DNB and I glance at each other. "What about Canada?" I whisper. "They copy everything."

[Turns out, my good buddy Wikipedia tells me that "In February 2009, The Economist announced that over half the world's population now belongs to the middle class, as a result of rapid growth in emerging countries."]

Past the main stage, we find the "craft" portion. One enterprising woman has a whole booth of shadeless lamps she's made by shoving lamp sticks through stuffed animals. Look! It's a teddy bear lamp! And here's Mickey Mouse with a cord coming out of his butt!

There's also what appears to be a giant yard sale going on in one corner. If you need 10,000 VHS tapes, mismatched coffee cups, or baby clothes (one bag for $1.00), this place has got you covered.

"Yeah, I think I'm ready to leave," I tell the DNB.

"It's too bad we spent less time actually here than we did getting here," he says sadly as we begin our trek back down the mountain.

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