More from Branson (Pt. 5)

Vlogging from Branson, MO (Pt. 3)

Vlogging from Branson, MO (Pt. 4)

Vlogging from Branson, MO (Pt. 2)

Entertained and entertaining

Sequined blazers abound in Branson, Missouri, where yesterday we finally had the chance to see some of the live entertainment that has made the city famous. In the afternoon we caught a performance by Yakov “In Soviet Union, car drives you” Smirnoff. You remember him, of course; he’s the guy who came to America with no money, speaking no English, and went on to live the American dream and achieve great success in movies like The Money Pit and Moscow on the Hudson. He was probably funnier before he got his Master’s in Psychology (he presented a prolonged segment involving magnets and diagrams of the human brain to describe the problems that men and women have communicating with each other and making each other laugh). He could probably also do without some of the musical numbers, though it was a delight to watch Yakov strip off his shiny costume in “Red to Reneck,” revealing tight blue jeans, a flannel shirt and an orange hunting hat that made him look exactly like all of the kids who hang out at the Cactus Club. After the show I called my very handsome, successful friend and future Senator Ted, who grew up in Fayetteville, Arkansas, to tell him that I had finally found myself in the Ozarks. “Oh yeah?” he asked. “Does that Asian violin-playing guy still have a show there? He’s been there forever.” Ted, of course, was talking about Shoji Tabuchi. And after a Friday fish-fry at Waxy O’Shea’s, that is exactly who we were going to see. Shoji plays at the gorgeously retro Shoji Tabuchi theater (there’s a billiard table in the men’s restroom!) where we were graciously greeted and seated although we had arrived almost 30 minutes late. Shoji, of course, came to America with no money, speaking no English, with the stars of country fiddle songs in his eyes. And of course, he went on to achieve great success playing showbiz standards, golden oldies and the Orange Blossom Special for buses of elderly tourists. He was, to my great surprise, very entertaining; it was like the Japanese Lawrence Welk Show, complete with a bandstand, hammy dance numbers, gratuitous flying dancers and mop-topped Shoji telling hokey ill-timed jokes. We felt like the most special people in Branson when he dedicated the Beer Barrel Polka to “people from Wisconsin.” That’s us! It was a spangled, streamer-popping, obscenely loud pyrotechnics (the man seated next to me actually exclaimed, “Gee whiz!”), shiny-sequined-blazer overload. Luckily, we found the most not-kistchy bar in America afterward, quiet and pretty Rocky’s, which was a respite from all of the noise and light shows that we’ve lived through in Branson. The bartender was still in hair and make-up from her ’60s revue that afternoon; Gordy and Debbie (read more about them on Matt’s blog) sang karaoke. We drank and told bad jokes and talked about what Yakov Smirnoff does in his free time (he just started working with a personal trainer, has a dog named Happy and […]

Vlogging from Branson, MO (Yakov Smirnoff not included)

No day but today

We just woke up after about 12 hours of much-needed sleep. Today holds the following promises: Yakov Smirnoff: Shoji Tabuchi: A visit to Rocky’s, where Branson’s “young up-and-comers” go for fun on Friday nights, and finding a liquor store so we can take part in some good, honest, down-to-business vice: You’ll be hearing from us (we might even go out and find ourselves a firewire cable so we can share the 60 minutes plus of uproarious video we’ve been shooting, mostly in the middle of the night when we are delirious). If I had my way we’d go to the lake today and sit quietly and come to terms with things, but Matt wants today to be funnier than yesterday. Also, it’s supposed to storm.

The mayor and the cowboy

Branson was absurdly hot and sunny today, and it is absurd that we are still awake; I think we’re pushing 36 hours at this point. Even more absurdly, I haven’t had any coffee since breakfast: We spent the early afternoon browsing historic downtown Branson, which is lined with flea markets, antique rummage stores, “bazaars,” diners and a few out of place boutiques, including a five-and-dime that claims to be “just like the old times,” shown here in this ridiculous portrait: After a beer at Waxy O’Shea’s (which sounds like a hiccup from a computerized generic-Irish-bar-name generator) we cruised the 76, Branson’s strip of country gospel barns, mini golf courses and kitschy museums, on our way to Celebration City, a picturesque amusement park replete with fountains, bumper cars, an arcade and doo-wop music. Where, among other very important and interesting things, we rode a killer wooden coaster, saw a performance by some Ultimate Dogs (who were adorable, but mostly just good at catching frisbees), and MET THE MAYOR OF BRANSON, the lovely Raeanne Presley. Lovely, who are we kidding? She is a total babe, and very charming, and has a gorgeous accent, and is well dressed. Okay, I’ll admit it: it’s love. Mayor Presley, by the way, is the wife of one of the members of the Presleys’ Country Jubilee, Branson’s original live show and the family dynasty that has made Branson into the live country music capital of the world. Suspicious, disingenuous or just plain confusing? Maybe it would be … anywhere but here. As we were driving home, the blaring sun finally sinking and the ice cream parlors all shutting down for the night, I saw what looked like a real (and really stunning) Missourah cowboy cross the street in muddy jeans, a white shirt and the sassy cowboy hats I keep seeing for sale on the street (which, by the way, look terrific on me): We shared a glance and my heart fluttered. Branson, I might be wrong, but against my more pedestrian expectations, you might be out for my heart.

Say cheese

We thought about turning around in Rockford, mostly because neither of us could really grasp the concept of driving to Branson, Missouri in the middle of the night for no good reason, but we prevailed. I drank liters of coffee and Matt consumed an entire four-pack of Red Bull. (He also picked up some really inadvisable “energy spray” at a gas station in southern Illinois.) St. Louis came and went in a heartbeat. The sunrise chased us through the low, rolling hills of lower Missouri. And here we are in muggy, disarming Branson, where breakfast is fast and cheap, the views are idyllic, and Yakov Smirnoff has his own theater. We’ve been up for almost 24 hours straight, but hey! Our hotel has an amazing view of Lake Taneycomo and we were greeted with a plate of cheese, fruit and crackers and a bottle of San Pellegino. Branson is onto something. Decked out in our magazine-insider finest (huge glasses, dark clothing), we’re about to grab a drink, naturally. Pictures, videos and hilarious exploits are to come (we have to find someplace in this sleepy outpost to find USB cables), so keep checking the site as we stumble around wondering what exactly it is we think we’re doing here.

The Big Dog Proved to be an Albatross

It’s over. Sooner or later, Hillary Clinton will suspend her campaign and throw her support behind Barack Obama. And when she does, it will be fairly obvious that a major part of her campaign’s failure was due to our nation’s 42nd president. Certainly, Bill Clinton’s efforts on her behalf left room for improvement though few would have predicted it would be so. President Clinton is widely perceived as the Democratic Party’s most effective campaigner in recent history. But, his missteps and flubs in support of Hillary’s campaign suggest that he ain’t so hot at being second fiddle. It may infuriate Hillary supporters that Bill proved to be such a liability but the irony is indisputable. Some who knew her in college and law school saw a remarkable woman with the potential to rise to the highest level of leadership. She spent decades holding her personal ambitions in check while assisting with his exceptional rise to power and she redefined the role of a political spouse. His ultimate retirement from the White House gave her a unique platform to launch her own political career. Yet this path proved to have its downside. Bill Clinton left office extraordinarily popular at home and abroad. But his years as president are not remembered nostalgically by everyone. You have to go back to FDR to find a Democrat who angered Republicans to the extent that Bill Clinton did. And, of course, the personal failings that, rightly or wrongly, lead to his impeachment were an embarrassment and disappointment to many Americans regardless of party. Clinton loyalists will argue that it is unfair to hang his difficulties, real and perceived, on Hillary. But how could you not? One of George W. Bush’s first acts as president was to completely renovate the Oval Office. The implication was that the shenanigans of the previous occupant required a housecleaning of epic proportions. Unfortunately, his legacy left a metaphorical stain on his wife’s presidential aspirations that proved fatal. But this should not be viewed as Hillary Clinton’s obituary. She has twice won election as New York’s junior senator and she has proved to be an effective and accomplished legislator. With the Democrats in charge of Congress and, hopefully, occupying the White House, Hillary Clinton should play a critical role to enact the policies she believes in. Many of her supporters, craving a woman president, feel this may have been the last, best chance they are likely to see in their lifetimes. But there are many, many women in the leadership pipeline and the taboo of a president in a pantsuit has been broken. Nancy Pelosi and Condoleeza Rice are among the top officeholders to ascend to the presidency should something happen to Bush and Cheney and both presidential candidates are expected to consider women as running mates. Women who established their political careers, at least partly, in the wake of their husband’s success often have asterisks attached to their legacies. Hillary Clinton has already demonstrated her exceptional talents in government and […]

Faster than the speed of time

I don’t know anyone who doesn’t waste at least a little thinking space over how much time speeds up as we age. The phenomenon has spawned numerous mathematical theories and countless arguments about physiology and environment that keep mathematicians and social scientists eternally butting heads in the halls of academia. In real life, the passage of time manifests itself as an increasingly kaleidoscopic sense of memory and the feeling that summer gets shorter every year. After all, when you’re six and you only have linear memories from maybe the last three years, an 11-week summer vacation is effectively 7% of your whole life. At 40, 7% is 145 weeks, or almost three years. That’s quite a difference. For ongoing, in-depth exploration of time acceleration theory, I suggest having a bunch of kids and spreading their ages out over as many years as you can. My sample is rather small for this model: I have five kids aged 10 to 18, with nieces and nephews expanding the data set to the ages of 5 to 21. My research has nothing to do with the kids’ perception of time, but with my own. I can’t keep up with how often these kids are metamorphosing, while my own growth has slowed to a barely evolutionary crawl. Two years ago my oldest daughter Alex was a high school junior looking forward to her 16th birthday, feeling like she had the world by the ass. This morning she probably got up early in the south side apartment she shares with her boyfriend, let the dog out and took the bus to her cashier job. She’s figuring herself out, and for now she just wants to work and live on her own. At this time in 2006, my son Harrison was having a hell of a time understanding that he wasn’t the center of the universe (partly my fault, for sure). Since then, he’s been through a slew of changes that could erode the emotional security of any man, but he seems more grounded than a lot of people I know, kid or adult. Savannah just reached the delightful age of 14, complete with all the age-appropriate trappings, and Jesse is starting to smell like puberty is not far off. But right now it’s Cassidy who amazes me the most. When I met Cass she was freshly 14, and the family member everyone was afraid of provoking. Known for her dark bursts of temper, she kept to herself a lot, painting her nails black and staring moodily into space for hours on end. As I was getting to know her siblings, I found some way to bond with each of them, but Cassidy was a pissed-off Cheshire Cat to me. I even lowered myself to her engagement style once or twice, to my great personal mortification. But in the thick of what I think back on as “the dark times,” Cass started sitting in the kitchen while I cooked, slicing vegetables for sauce and helping out […]

The wayward season

I spent the long weekend in Michigan in what felt like a state of convalescence, although I have nothing to heal from besides a drumming anxiety that had welled up for no good reason and a persistent homesickness that had been creeping on me for weeks. And the drinking. Yes, there’s that. Really, we all know it; I’ve been on a bender since February. Often my trips home involve non-stop action: long days with little kids and dogs, big family dinners, mad late-night drives to downtown Detroit, whiskey on the river gazing toward Canada, biking through the ghetto, dance parties in apartments, etc. This time, despite an international electronic music festival, several significant local rock showcases and a best friend in town from Baltimore, I did very little besides sit in the sun and play fetch with the dogs. The most adventurous endeavor I made was into a poison-ivy and mosquito-infested woods to retrieve my dog’s tennis ball and help my nephew climb out of a tree. The wildest time I had was in my best friend’s backyard with two bottles of wine, the dregs of some whiskey, tall candles and a computer full of music. We stayed up until dawn, catching up with each other and making sense of things. I didn’t go into the city at all. It was the closest I’ve come since graduating from high school to reliving the way I grew up: in the suburbs, antsy but anchored there, taken with the banal beauty of long lawns and long conversations, man-made ponds and dark, fresh skies. On Memorial Day, I thought about how lucky it is that I haven’t lost anyone to a war. In South Carolina this week, my cousin was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel in the US Air Force. He’s a careerist, trained at the Academy; he’s flown cargo planes all over the world, served in secret conflicts in Africa and Central Asia, trained Iraqi soldiers to fly fighter jets. He spent two years studying in Cairo and speaks fluent Arabic. He’s older than I am, but we’re a lot alike: similarly smart, loving and warm, passionate about ideas, interested in the way the world works and concerned with getting it right. But we’ve pursued drastically different paths in life, and we’ll come to drastically different understandings of the world we inhabit. I tend to think of him as a kind of 21st century Indiana Jones, dusty, ballsy, full of tricks and tales of narrow escapes, resigned to his very exciting fate. I know it’s a fiction, but I stack my life up to it and feel boring at best, an underachiever at worst. Then again, I know there are people who are stacking their lives up to the fictions that follow me around, too; the industrious days of the magazine editor, the glamorous nights of the big-city social ambassador. Those tall tales make me feel small, too, when the primary source of my life’s excitement of late has been driving too fast […]