It's our history, our heritage our fair. So you should go.

The Lovin' Spoonful summed up the difficulty of communicating disparate, cross-cultural experiences thus: "It's like trying to tell a stranger about rock 'n' roll." Never quite understood that, really. Seems easy: "Well, mister, it's a form of the blues, generally played on amplified instruments, using the verse-verse-chorus format to communicate a message, primarily romantic, but occasionally social." Not that hard.

But explaining the fair is more difficult; it's a hundred thousand things to as many people. Where to start? How do you explain the fair to someone who long ago shut their ears to its glories? Try this:

One day at the Grandstand I had a good laugh watching a lady sell fake snow. To Minnesotans. It was actually cold snow, too. If it lost its fluff, a spritz brought it back to life. Yes, that's what we need here: ersatz zombie snow. Because we so sorely lack the real thing. Did she spend the off season in Newcastle, selling make-your-own-coal kits?

Oh, what they won't sell you. Hey, how about a Sham Wow to sweep up the snow when I'm done? And maybe a vibrating massage chair that makes its own jerky?

The next day I was in a happy perfect state, with one corn dog under the belt, a fine cup of fair coffee in my veins; it was 73 degrees, sunny, and I found myself back at the snow booth.

I bought a box.

That's the fair. You never think you'll have alligator on a stick, until you do; you never think you'll be the person who carried a Miracle Mop for six hours until you finally realize that this probably is the last mop you'll ever need. (It goes well with the Last Knife You'll Ever Need, available at the Ag-Hort building.) We're a cautious tribe, we Minnesotans, and it may take half a decade before we try this or do that, but we will. The fair is the land of decent temptations. A Lutheran Vegas.

This is not a universally held belief, alas. Some people don't like the Fair, and unapologetic boosters give them hives. I DON'T GO, OKAY? LEAVE ME ALONE. Princess Kay comes to them in their dreams, alive, in butter form, crooking a finger: come with meeee, come with meee. They wake in a state of discontent, vaguely convinced they should be able to tell why those apples got the blue ribbon, irritated they they should be expected to care. It's a slo-mo rube mob, they say. It smells! I don't want to park on someone's lawn and eat elephant ears, OKAY?

No. No, it's not okay. Let's look at a few objections, and dismiss them.

THE PEOPLE! Could you be more specific? SOME OF THEM ARE OBVIOUSLY NOT MEMBERS OF MY CLASS. Granted. That's why it's the "Great Minnesota Get-Together," not the "Carefully Selected Ectomorph Parade of the Highlights of the IKEA Demographic." But for heaven's sake, it's not a convention of half-naked exhibitionistic hairy-backed lumpkins, like the Jersey Shore.

IT'S EXPENSIVE! Eleven dollars is one and a half movies. Nearly everything else is free, and you can stay all day. You can bring your own food, or stand outside the Mini-Donut places that have three-bags-for-ten-bucks deals. People will pay you to take them off their hands after two bags.

IT SMELLS! Well, if you breathe, sure, but nothing's keeping you from strapping on a tank of O2 before you head into the barns. Or the Beer Garden. (Two words, incidentally, that belong together like honey and sand.) The aroma of the barn is actually the natural perfume of the world before soap changed everyone's expectations, so think of it as a history lesson.

If you're still unconvinced, consider this: Reports of the famous Fair Rash, which strikes from ankle to knee and makes you feel like you're wading in a pit of fire ants -- well, it's way down this year.

So what's stopping you?

jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/buzz