Las Vegas Lite

Branson, Missouri is the lower midwest's attempted substitute for Las Vegas - minus the sex, booze, and gambling, all of which would interfere with the town's family-friendly identity. To call the city "world famous" would be a stretch, but it is a popular tourist destination for suburbanites in the surrounding area, and boasts a pretty impressive b-list of once popular entertainers from around the world, each housed in his or her own gloriously tacky theater.

Featured acts include Tony Orlando, the Osmonds, Paul Revere and the Raiders, the Platters, the Presleys, Todd Oliver and his talking dogs, and best of all Yakov Smirnoff. Smirnoff's theater is, hilariously, the most successful of them all, with the best location (on a hill above the freeway) and apparently sold-out crowds, even on a gray stormy day like this one.

I duck into a gas station, drenched in rain. Immediately I am ambushed by a woman standing just inside the door, brandishing a pamphlet at me and asking if I'd like to see a free show. The attendant behind the distant counter makes a silent "no" gesture, as if to assure me "you don't want to see any of the shows she's promoting, they're all terrible." But this attendant clearly doesn't know me - the worse the show, the more I want to see it, provided the price isn't any higher than Free.

Immediately after nodding yes, the woman bombards me with a series of questions, which she marks down on an official-looking form. What state am I from? California. What brings me to Branson? Curiosity. What shows would I most like to see? Yakov Smirnoff. Am I interested in becoming a part-time owner of a local property? No, unless that too is free. Have I ever been a part-time owner of a property in Branson? No...

Gradually the questions become increasingly focused on the timeshare angle and I suspect a trap. I assure the woman that I have no interest in buying anything or giving any contact info, and ask if my receipt of the free tickets is dependent on my answer. She assures me that I will get to see a show regardless of my answer, and holds out the form for my signature. I sign it Rodney Grahf.

"And... I just need your wife's signature, right down here..."

"Um, actually, I'm single..."

"Oooh. I'm sorry but this offer is only available for couples. Thanks for your time though!"

Now dry, I walk back out into the rain, grumbling silently at the woman for wasting my time. I wonder how many couples passing through are actually lured into her trap by the sweet scent of showbiz, and wonder if, had my life been different, I would now be begging whatever poor woman ended up my wife to sign her name, a Faustian bargain for Yakov Smirnoff tickets.

Above - the theater of Shoji Tabuchi, a japanese fiddler whose career apparently started right here in Branson. The fact that it settled down here, and will presumably die here is probably not any fault of Shoji's. Branson just doesn't seem to be a place with the starmaking potential of Las Vegas - and keep in mind that even in Vegas, that potential is very rarely realized.

Above - The golden stars of Hollywood: a fat Yul Brynner, a reanimated George Reeves, a cannibal Katherine Hepburn, and a hipster Adolph Hitler.

Above - the front of the apparently closed Waltzing Waters, a fountain-based light show set to classical music. I don't know if this show is successful or not, but if it is, it's proof that stoner culture is alive and well in Branson.

As someone who grew up with "Guitarzan" and "Ahab the Arab," it's particularly saddening to see the Ray Stevens theater up for sale. Sure, I haven't listened to the guy since I turned ten and discovered a world of music outside of "The Doctor Demento Radio Show" - but still, I can't see what makes him less appealing than any of the other showcased acts here.

I feel I must make a point to all who would mock Branson for being a particularly pathetic example of the Midwest, a region whose reputation takes all sorts of undeserved beatings especially back in snobbish California. While it's true Branson is an apparent lightning rod for tackiness, I've seen hit shows back home which were equally groanworthy. Mystery Restaurants in San Fransisco, for example, or "The Ten Tenors." No region of the country is free from this sort of silliness, and I for one am thankful for towns like this, which amplify this strangeness exponentially.

Excavation of the Honeymoon Suite

The Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania were once, I have read, a popular honeymoon destination. It's easy to see why. The scenery is pleasant (though somewhat short of breathtaking), and it is only a few hours from New York City and Philadelphia. While Paris and Hawaii might be nice for large-budgeted honeymoons, there is a large untapped market among frugal newlyweds. Some Pennsylvanian genius figured out a way to capitalize off of this fact, and started the trend of slowly filling the Poconos with cheaply decadent (read: tasteless and silly) "cabins" and "lodges." While this wave was in full motion through the seventies, humanity soon revised its standards of taste, and most of these buildings went out of fashion and of business. Repairs ceased, walls fell, and before long there was nothing left but crumbling, termite eaten wood structures. I have done a good deal of urban trespassing in my time, but these hollow halls (still reeking of imitation radiance) rank at the very top of the list.

I'm reminded of a favorite book of mine, David Macauley's "Motel of the Mysteries." In it, future archaeologists discover the ruins of a cheap motel, and in their attempts to analyze the lost culture mistake it for an elaborate tomb, attaching religious significance to commonplace objects like toilet bowls and televisions. This comes to mind for obvious reasons - digging through the wreckage of these ridiculous rooms, I can't help but concoct an elaborate prehistory of my own imagining.



Below: A toppled relic of the Cola Wars. Back in my youth these things were used to dispense flavored drugs. Now they only dispense insects.





Below: An exercise chamber, designed for the traditional honeymoon sport of basketball.









Below: All signs seem to indicate that the human race died partying.







I find the bedrooms. I suppose in this case "love chamber" is a more appropriate term. Everything about them, from the heart-shaped hot tubs to the round pancake bed, was once carefully plotted to increase romantic arousal and encourage intercourse among those who share a love of gaudiness.





Below: A scrawled warning on the wall, which we can assume came from the last member of this dying race. The mystery of how this culture met its demise has now been solved. I suppose, actually, that the solution was obvious.







Below: The front gates of Strickland, which we can assume was the Pocono kingdom's capitol city.



It's rumored that there are at least seven or eight abandoned resorts up here. It is unfortunate that I have found only two - although I'm pretty sure these are the largest. The second is pictured below: an accurate reconstruction of an ancient Roman honeymoon palace, patterned after a drawing on a Hallmark card.









I am digging through a room in this structure, patiently searching a cabinet of ancient supplies for the last plastic marquee letter I need to complete my name, when I hear two sets of footsteps approaching. I think about relocating to a distance further from the torn-down door, but decide instead to freeze, in avoidance of making another sound. The steps come closer and I know they are heading for this room, and here I stand, arms full of worthless-but-still-technically-stolen goods. I close my eyes and ready myself to be escorted towards the nearest police station. Is this where my long long voyage ends? With me being shipped back to California in a lead-lined prison truck? I unclench my eyes - if this is my fate I suppose I must accept it.

I open them just in time to see a head, two full feet closer to the ground than my own, poke around the corner and scream. "Oh shit!" his pre-pubescent voice cracks "There's a guy!" I am still instinctively motionless while his cohort screams "Run!" and the two of them speed away, sweating and glancing behind them. They must hear me laughing uncontrollably as they rapidly leave the premises, and I know that while for me this noise represents a feeling of good humor, for them it is just a noise to be echoed in their nightmares. I wonder in how many ghost stories to come will I play the monster's role, and what scary name they will concoct for me when telling their friends. "The Laughing Man?"











Scranton was never Pennsylvania's most populous city, but (I am told by some young, hip kids I befriend in a coffeeshop), it was at one point the most "happening" place in the whole Keystone state. It was originally the center of Pennsylvania's mining industry, and was a popular halfway point for trains running between New York and Philadelphia. Frank Sinatra and "all of those guys" used to hang out here, I am told. But gradually coal was replaced by newer fuels, the city's economy declined, jobs were lost, until a mining disaster finished nailing the coffin of Pennsylvania's coal industry. 80 people died in a hurricane, the railroads built a new line which bypassed the place completely, and the town died. I am walking through the streets of downtown at 7:00 on a Friday night, and signs of life are sparse. I pass by a music store, but I can't tell if it's closed for good, or just the night. A group of 5 suburban punkers loiter outside of an closed internet cafe, rebelliously trying to find something to keep them busy until it is safely past their curfew. Even the homeless have forsaken these streets - no money to be had here, in fact there doesn't even seem to be so much as a lucky nickel left haphazardly on the ground.

For the sake of irony, Scranton mantains the motto pictured below.

Standing In The Shadows of Nuclear Power

While Pennsylvania has an unusually high number of abandoned buildings (more than any other state, in my estimate), Frick's Lock is to my knowledge its only fully fledged Nuclear Ghost Town. Located about an hour northeast of Philadelphia, this already small town lost its population completely in the late eighties, after the construction of a towering nuclear plant just across the river. Perhaps the residents just didn't like the view, perhaps they were concerned about fallout (at least, a fallout in their property values), perhaps they were forced out by shady energy barons or vaporized in some well-covered accident.



Whatever the story, the actual reasons for the town's abandonment aren't half as impressive as what remains, a collection of ancient buildings (some dating back to the 1700's), overgrown but in surprisingly good shape after twenty years of neglect. Their classic New England mansion look has given the place a good reputation among ghost hunters, and it's easy to see why. As unlikely as it is that a place whose population never topped fifty would experience any kind of rare spiritual phenomena, these empty buildings retain all of that classic horror movie atmosphere, and the nearby reactor provides further fuel for a science fictionist's imagination.



I have recently learned, many years after my visit, that high levels of vandalism (including the burning down of one of the houses) has forced county police to crack down on trespassing (the town is private property, owned, suspiciously, by an electric company). While I have plenty to say regarding the ridiculousness of this type of ticket (simply walking onto an unused property should not be a crime in itself, and it makes little sense to punish someone before any serious crime is committed), the truth is that the police are not the bad guys here. The blame lies exclusively on those so unimaginative that their only response to this potential wonderland is to destroy it - without them there would be no reason at all to police this place.



Still, completely shutting the town down seems counterproductive. Guided tours of the area are a service I would gladly pay for, and one which could probably fund a full-time security service, maybe some restoration of these beautiful buildings. While I would hate to see this place go in the direction of the campy, commercialized "Ghost Towns" that can be found all over western half of the country, it's an even bigger shame to see it go to waste completely, as vandalism and weather gradually wear it down to nothing.

Adventures in Eavesdropping, Part Two:

Overheard in a Target in Phoenix, AZ

A young girl, about 6 or so, is hanging on to the side of a cart pushed by her grandmother, who possesses an untraceable foreign accent. When grandma says "no" her mouth thrusts out into a large "O" shape as she nods her head negatively, her eyes mock-sternly fixed on the child. Through her serious mask a smile can clearly be seen.

Girl: Nana, can I have a Barbie?

Grandmother: (to the tune of the "Nanana" section of "Land of 1000 Dances") No, nonono-no, nonono-no nono-no nono-no. Nono-no-no!

Girl: Um, can I have Barbie's horsey?

Grandmother: (to the tune of the "Nanana" section of "Land of 1000 Dances") No, nonono-no, nonono-no nono-no nono-no. Nono-no-no!

Girl: (looking confused) Why are you doing that?

Grandmother: (to the tune of the "Nanana" section of "Land of 1000 Dances") No, nonono-no, nonono-no nono-no nono-no. Nono-no-no!

Girl: (getting scared) Nana... please stop talking like that!

Grandmother: (to the tune of the "Nanana" section of "Land of 1000 Dances") No, nonono-no, nonono-no nono-no nono-no. Nono-no-no!

Girl: (starting to cry) Nana... stop!

Adventures in Eavesdropping, Part One:

Overheard at the Devil's Tower, WY

A father and his 11-year-old son are circling the giant stone obelisk at roughly the same time as I, lagging slightly behind due to the child's short legs and shorter attention span. I try and pick up traces of their gripping conversation whenever I can get close enough.

Son: Hey dad... whatever happened to the pirates?

Father: I don't know... I think they went into the Bermuda triangle and nobody ever heard from them again.

Son: But dad, have we explored that WHOLE area?

Father: I think we've got it pretty much covered.




Son: ...and I don't know why they don't just USE that technology for something for the government. Why keep it a secret?

Father: Well, you have to understand, nobody knows if aliens are actually real, just yet.

Son: Nuh-uh, dad. In that book they had a picture of the government guys taking them out of their spaceship and putting them in a lab, and that's where they're keeping them all.

Father: Well, you know, I think most of what was in that book was just theories.

Son: Um, Dad? They had PICTURES.



Son (adopting a reflective, philosophical tone): For example, think about this road.

Father: This one we're on right now?

Son: (laser noises and sword motions) Yeah.

Father: Well, what about it?

Son: (more noises) Well... just think of this road that we're on.

Father: ...

Son: ... Just think about it for a minute.

Father: What am I supposed to be thinking?

Son: ...

Father: ...

Son: Hey, look, a squirrel!

My intent in listening is not in mockery of the child's overactive imagination - rather, I see in him a kindred spirit. I miss the naive excitability I had in my youth - although, judging from some of my choices, it's debatable whether I lost it at all. Nor do I laugh at his eagerness to believe fantastic stories about UFOs and Triangles. Believing outlandish stories is, after all, a tradition as old as this great tower itself.

Here Comes The Flood

I'm in Richmond, the capitol of Virginia and (for about four years) the capitol of the Confederate States of America. It's also the first southern city I've been to - and though many of my California colleagues have told me not to bother with the region, I have yet to see much difference between this and a similarly sized west coast city. The locals I've spoken to (all friendly) have given me a handful of recommendations, the most promising of which is a park built on historic Belle Island. An excitable college kid working in a comic book store tells me that the island was once home to the city center, and was burned down by Union forces after a decisive battle, with no purpose except to teach the Confederates a lesson.

A quick tour of the internet proves this story to be quite false. The island certainly has its place in civil war history, but only as a prison camp. The north tried to capture it once, and failed - and that's about the most decisive event the island was part of. I am still curious to see it - not only am I intrigued by a city park built in the middle of a river, but I'm curious about where this kid's fascinating but fictional story may have come from.

Is it some deep-rooted southern pride, subconsciously crafting a story which attempts to cast the north in a less heroic role than history has?

Not likely. Probably, he simply heard the story and remembered it, solely because it was more exciting than the truth. I myself would prefer to believe it, only because the ruins of a city center would fascinate me even more than the ruins of a military prison. Any attempts by my mind to cast this guy as a "the south will rise again" touting proud southerner would just be due to my own pre-existing stereotypes of the south, which I will have to cast off if I intend to pass a fair judgement on this town.



I take one look at the bridge to the park, and am sold instantly. A walkway suspended by a towering overhead freeway, it's exactly the type of oddball architectural choice that I love most. And as if it weren't enough, the James River below is currently flooding, its now muddy waters high enough to swallow its smaller islands. The tops of trees can be seen poking out along the way, shaking as they resist the flow.





As I had hoped, there are a handful of ruins in the park, though they aren't the most impressive I've seen. I'm more fascinated by the people here - are they all flag-waving confederate sympathizers, here in remembrance of some fictitious military travesty?



Of course not. I've seen more of those Johnny Reb flags back home in California. The people here are just people in a park. There's a thirtysomething couple walking their dog, a cute hipster girl on a bicycle, some hyperactive young boys playing in the wreckage of what may have once been a stable. The same types of people you would find in Portland or Chicago, proving that the stereotype of southerners as loud, ignorant racists is just that, a stereotype. Perhaps it exists in some isolated cases, but to lump this entire corner of the country in with that due to some now-ancient history is foolish.



Crossing the bridge back, I look at Richmond's modern skyline, safe from the ugly ancient waters which rage beneath me. I consider using this scene as an extended metaphor - "water under the bridge" and all that - but I realize that it would be a pretty stupid literary device.. And besides, if it really is ancient history, why dwell on it? Better to just forget the whole thing, and move on.

South of the Border

The Carolina border, that is.

This place has quite an interesting story. Apparently, fireworks are legal in South Carolina, but not in North Carolina. Some wise entepreneur noticed a potential cashmaking opportunity, and began to transform a stretch of road just south of interstate 95 into a sort of "firework city," with various cheap restuarants and junk shops, which tourists from the north could also use to stock up on explosives.

Perhaps taking his cue from the countless ethnic stereotypes used as mascots by professional and college sports teams, this entepreneur created "Pedro," a lovable, wide-eyed Hispanic, complete with sombrero, poncho, and broken english skills. Pedro appears on at least 100 billboards along the adjacent freeway, most of them poking fun at his accent. For example: a sign with a giant hot dog on it, which reads "You never sausage a place! Everybody's a weiner with Pedro!"

The "town" itself is a sort of kiddie-Las-Vegas, with countless bright lights, neon signs, and cheap second-hand carnival rides. And of course, in keeping with the ethnic theme, there is a sombrero on just about everything. No fewer than three buildings are, in fact, shaped like giant sombreros - although, it is worth noting that none of the restuarants here appear to serve any form of Mexican food.





In addition to Mexican-themed gimmicks like "the Golf of Mexico" (a mini-golf course), and a few *attempted* Mexican-themed gimmicks ("the Monte Carlo Arcade" has sombreros all over it, despite the fact that the city of Monte Carlo is in Monaco, Europe) there are a large number of odd non-sequitur props, which have no visible connection to the town's theme. My guess is that most of the scenery in South of the Border is made up of leftovers from some other, long extinct tourist trap, and that the ownership has simply attached sombreros and ponchos wherever possible. Of course, not every animal has a sombrero that will fit its head, so we end up with some rather odd leftovers. The three-headed giraffe tunnel, for example:



The entire area is a grotesque (and hilarious) bastardization of Mexican culture, which I am sure would be faced with numerous lawsuits if it had opened in one of the more ethnically integrated parts of the country. The average American has a somewhat distorted view of our neighbors to the south - even in my right-on-the-border hometown of San Diego, Mexico continues to be thought of as the impoverished desert wasteland we know from period Western movies. Not the highly populated and diverse sub-tropical world which it more closely resembles.

And here, in a corner of the states where there is little Mexican-American presence, those stereotypes have been taken to a whole new level. It would be easy to be offended by this glitzy attraction's blatant ethnic ignorance - but it's even easier to laugh at it. Ignorance is, in a way, far funnier than accuracy. Seriously, how could I get mad at a place which claims to have "sometheeeng for every juan"?