Observation, looking out my window toward Sawdust Days

I do not know where all these people live. Surely they can't all be from Oshkosh. Or Wisconsin. Because there are a million.

OK, a few hundred, in my sight.

But where are these people the other 364 days of the year? It's crazy. It's loud. It smells weird. It crowds the streets and makes people bad drivers: "Oooh, honey! Look! A parking space!" a man will say to his wife, pointing at a slab of concrete others like to call a "sidewalk." Luckily, I do not have to drive, so it's all good to me. So if the rain holds out 'til after the fireworks, I'll be a happy camper.

Now, if only that man outside would put a shirt on. Please, sir? Or at least move from the sidewalk, out of my field of vision.