I'll be at the State Fair on opening day, and I'll head right to the place where you get a yardstick.

It's not that I need a yardstick. I have several. (All from previous fairs.) Why would I need a yardstick? No one ever comes up you and says, "Excuse me, Mr. Stranger, but we were arguing about the length of the benches in the Seed Art room. My wife says they're 6 yards long, and I say they're 5, and we thought it would be one of those things you never settle. Can't measure it with those About-a-Foot-Longs, because they're obviously imprecise. But here you are with a big yardstick and everything. Can you help?"

"Sorry, I'm on my way to the Star Tribune stage, where I will be giving away lip balm. This year's flavor? It's 'The Metallic Aftertaste Reported by 2% of People Who've Had a Shingles Shot in the Last Month. If Symptoms Persist, Consult Your Physician.' Aw, just kidding. I can't tell you! You'll have to show up."

(Pause, cold stares.) "Well, I was taught a man shouldn't walk around with a conspicuous yardstick if he's not willing to use it for the common good. Good day to you, sir."

"If you catch me after the show, I might be able to help you measure some things. If you show up at the Strib stage, I'll be happy to engage in spirited debate about whether it's Seed Art or Crop Art. But I will not give you my yardstick. You have to get your own.

If I recall correctly, the folks who hand them out — free! — also would like to inform you about color-coded spray-painted marks on the sidewalk, so you have to listen to a little lesson. It's worth it. A man feels better walking around the fair with a yardstick. You can point it at things. You can lean against it, although not too hard. You can shoulder it like a rifle as you're watching someone make salsa in the grandstand. "Look at that, he's making salsa, we could do that. Think of the money we'd save!"

You can lean it against the inside of the bathroom stall to indicate occupancy status. You can set it on the fence outside the Old Mill before you go in, knowing it'll be there when you get out. (You can take it in the Old Mill and amuse the kids by pretending it's a paddle.)

I go to the fair on opening day and head straight to get my yardstick because I know they will be giving away yardsticks. There is no earthly reason why the utility-marking people give away yardsticks, but I am certain that they will, just as I am certain that there will be the Bratwurst Mit Kraut with its old booth that reminds us of a time before garish signage was the norm.

"You're nuts," you say. "This is silly. I can't relate, at all. Who cares about a yardstick? Now, the free thin rain ponchos, that's another matter. First stop. Forecast looks good, but you never can tell. Rain comes up, we'll be good, and you'll be out there all wet, measuring something."

I understand. And we'll both look ridiculous to the people who head directly for the 'CCO tote bags. We all have the one first thing.

So here we go. It's not the end of summer. It's the start of the fair. We have lots of summer left. Thirty-six inches' worth, at least.

James Lileks is a Star Tribune columnist. 

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