One Saturday last January in downtown St. Paul, music blared from a boxy, white trailer parked by the side of the road. A blond dancer, clad like an L.A. clubber in a tight mini-dress and purple Ugg boots, stood on its roof, shaking her sequined booty. I cut through the Winter Carnival crowds and made a beeline toward her, dodging a pack of unicyclists and a truckload of cheering (or leering?) Vulcans. Why warm my mitten-clad hands with applause, when I could do the same with a bag of fresh-from-the-fryer... More >>>