Rivers and Streams.

Perhaps we don't all appreciate the rivers as much as we should. When I was coming up I didn't have a lot of connections to them. Sure, I was near enough to the Delaware to realize its importance, but in an immediate sense the only river I was aware of was the one that flowed down the street at the bottom of my hill. It happened so rarely that I was always mesmerized when a flood cascaded waters down the surrounding hills and on to Sumner Avenue. I felt sometimes that I might be compelled to grab an inner-tube and float right down to the Little Lehigh. There was something about the idea of being borne along in the stream that fascinated me. I wasn't scared, but I did have a healthy respect.

When I got a bit older my Dad planned a white water trip for the family. I don't remember where we went, but I think it was in the Poconos and I believe the river-guide company was called Scotty's Tours. Somehow industry had discovered a way to harness that river and create some fairly exciting rapids. We opted for tubes instead of rafts, and that seemed like the proper decision in retrospect. I remember that at one point there was a white wolf traversing the riverbank and keeping an eye on me. He seemed to follow me for miles, but being just a kid I'm sure I lacked the kind of accurate perspective that could delimit the actual physical space covered. Then upon exiting the water, I got assaulted by a stinging insect. It didn't ruin my day or the memory of it.

It was a long time before I had a similarly intense experience on a river, and when it happened it was on the Lower Yough. I was about to get married and my friends wanted to do something unconventional for me. At first there was some animated discussion about whether we should take a structured trip or simply go down by ourselves. Fortunately we rallied to the former. Our six-man boat went down immediately before Dimple Rock, and we were swept underneath. My helmet scraped along its bottom, leaving scuff marks on the yellow plastic. I was the first to emerge, and thus was unable to grab the tow line that was thrown parallel to the spot I surfaced. I took a deep breath and went down the next 100 yards on my back.

Eventually I reached the gateway to the next set of rapids, where a little man in a kayak told me to swim to the bank ("as if" I "had a pair"). It was a bit jarring to be shocked out of my reverie with those words. But I responded well enough that he asked me to grab our raft as it made its way to me. I muscled it to the side and lit a necessary cigarette. My mates were shuckin' and jivin' on dry land as I smoked. When they reached my spot I thought we'd be able to decompress a bit, but an unexpected occurrence arose. It turns out that the raft behind us had also capsized, and one of its inhabitants was unconscious in the water. Kayak-guy was in a panic and needed our help. We jumped in and piloted our hapless vessel directly to the middle of the deluge and plucked our target right out of the water.

We went from zero to hero in the space of about ten minutes. Safely back among the weeds, we were thanked profusely for our timely efficiency and performance. Likely we saved that particular flotilla a bucketload of liability dollars. They invited us to their clubhouse- a micro brewpub ostensibly owned by the operators of our earlier tour. I would make return visits to that drinking hole over the years, but I stayed out of the Lower Yough for awhile. We got banged up on the rock chutes instead. While I'm not anxious to have a repeat performance of that last adventure, I'm certain to seek out rivers throughout my life. There are many more tales I could tell, but they are downstream and for now I'll leave you here in the tall weeds.

An Art Hotel?!

This morning on the radio I heard a segment about a hotel in Louisville, KY that features contemporary art as the bedrock of its amenities package. I resolved to check out the Internet for more information whenever I got the chance. I used to have a friend who loved to stay at a place in Toronto that had rooms customized by individual local and regional artists. I loved that idea when I first heard about it. It's difficult for art to find its way in the marketplace (especially stuff created in the last couple decades), and its integration in lodging seemed like a unique but appropriate marriage. How many times have you commented on the generic and bland wall furnishings in the rooms that you've stayed in over the years?

Instead of being surrounded by the typical designs aimed at the lowest common denominator, how would you like to sleep beneath an original painting produced by an actual struggling artist? There are plenty of places that you could patronize that make every effort to achieve complete anonymity. Why must depersonalization be such a large part of the hospitality industry? Do people really want to travel to a destination only to be sheltered in an environment that is completely interchangeable with anyplace else? Well, I know for a fact that there is a demographic that appreciates local and unique flavors. There are genuinely curious and adventuresome folk that seek experiences during their vacations that they can't find anywhere else.

Based on these criteria I thought I might like to visit the 21c Hotel/Museum in Louisville. The city is approximately 335 miles from Pittsburgh, and it's one of the few major destinations within a day's drive that I haven't yet visited. I've never even made an extended stop in Kentucky, and I'm hard-pressed to remember an occasion I had to drive through it. As far as Louisville is concerned, I only have a single association with the city- the Kentucky Derby. While I enjoy the idea of horseracing, I can't see myself traveling to that mess. But if I can find things to enjoy about Buffalo, Erie, and Cleveland, I'm sure I could find some amusement in a mid-size town in Kentucky. With a little bit of research ahead of time, I'd probably enjoy myself.

It wasn't hard to find the 21C site. As soon as I did, I realized that its offerings were on a scale that I hadn't anticipated. Apparently a non-profit entity controls the art display operations separately from the hotel. It bills itself as "North America's first museum dedicated solely to collecting and exhibiting contemporary art of the 21st century". It's not limited to American art, but rather includes work from a variety of international sources. From the website, I found it rather difficult to determine to what degree the art itself is incorporated into the accomodations. It seems as if there are galleries simply attached to the hotel, with a few pieces scattered about the public spaces of the building.

One thing that quickly becomes obvious is that the 21c is a luxury spot. Its Spring rates exceed $200 a night (and progress to $800 at the upper reaches). The 91 rooms do seem well appointed- with flatscreen television, minibars, iPods, poster art, silver mint julep cups, and "500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets imported from Italy crowning the exquisite bedding". If that's not enough, you can avail yourself of their in-house spa, or high-priced luxury dining restaurant. "After all", as they explain in a description of their Got Art? Package, "being a starving artist is so passé". Of course that means that I probably won't ever be crashing at the 21c. Maybe I can book a night in the stables at the Churchill Downs?

Buffalo and the Albright-Knox Art Gallery.

Note: Sorry this post appears a bit out of context in relation to the last couple of weeks of this blog. Obviously my attentions have been diverted by recent national events. I've been sitting on this account of my trip for awhile, waiting for an opportunity to slip it into the stream. I suppose the timing is a bit arbitrary... but after all, it is the weekend.


From the postings I've written regarding my recent trip to Western NY, it would be hard to guess that I spent a lot of time in Buffalo. That's mainly because I occupied myself with driving around the city, rather than journeying to specific pre-planned destinations. I did check out what are supposed to be the "hip" neighborhoods around town. Allentown was small and slightly gritty, appealing to younger hipsters. One inhabitant pointed me toward Elmwood and told me it was walkable from Allen Street. While this is technically true, I don't recommend it. The blocks are long and once you reach the first stretch of businesses, you are likely to be tired. Take the car instead. You'll find parking.

Elmwood is like any other gentrified urban enclave. It's got the swank restaurants, bars, coffee shops, boutiques, and upscale art galleries you might expect to find in any similar area. Interestingly, residential blocks are interspersed among the component commercial districts, so the Village seems to stretch on and on. And it has the Albright-Knox Art Gallery, which I had identified as one of the few essential stops on my trip. The place is much more properly referred to as a museum. It's large and housed in a building with classic Beaux arts architecture. It also has a number of permanent and temporary exhibitions, with many galleries to mount them in. Plus the admission fee is $10, no matter how late in the day you happen to arrive.

The focus of the Albright-Knox collection is clearly post WW-II abstract expressionism. This isn't a particular interest of mine, so I wandered through the representative offerings quickly. There is also a smattering of stuff comprising a survey of late 18th and early-20th century art history. I guess every museum worth its salt needs a Monet, a Picasso, a Dali, etc. The first floor happened to feature an exhibition of Pop art as well... which obviously constituted no novelty for an art fan from Pittsburgh. Additionally, there's a small selection of photos along a narrow hallway to represent the Gallery's longstanding interest in the medium (apparently the Albright-Knox was on of the first institutions to hold a "Photographic Pictorial Exhibition").

On the second floor I found a substantial grouping of works from the Op Art movement of the 1960's. The curator of Op Art Revisited traces its development to the square paintings of the German Josef Albers in the 30's. Later abstract painters like Richard Anuszkiewicz, Bridget Riley, Julian Stanczak, and Victor Vasarely were inspired by Albers to explore the use of parallel lines, concentric circles, and electric colors to create the visual effects of movement and afterimage. Despite the fact that critics wrote off Op Art as a dead end, contemporary artists have re-engaged many of its ideas with the advent of computers and digital technology. At any rate, the stuff is a lot of fun to look at (and its there until January 25, 2009).

Other temporary exhibits included REMIX: Recent Acquisitions. Works on Paper and Works on Paper: The Natalie and Irving Forman Collection. Of the latter, I can only describe my distinct lack of interest. It was predominantly minimalism of the abstract conceptual variety. But I enjoyed the former show for its variety and timeliness. Many of the artists chosen for display are younger than I am. Standouts included Robert Brinker, Lisa Yuskavage and Peregrine Honig. Overall I was impressed at the size and scope of the Albright-Knox, and I certainly recommend a visit. It will be interesting to see what Heather Pesanti (former CMA assistant curator) will do with the place.

Herschel Carrousel Factory Museum, North Tonawanda, NY.

When I was casting about for a place to stay during my time in Buffalo, I found a Microtel north of the city in a suburb called Tonawanda. It was relatively cheap and conveniently located, if very small. It did put me in close proximity to an attraction I wanted to see in North Tonawanda- the Herschel Carrousel Factory Museum. I definitely have a jones for old-time amusements. Whether it be traveling carnivals, fly-by-night circus companies, roadside attractions, or extinct amusement parks, I lament the passing of these traditional outlets for public play. Before the age of television and digital media, people pretty much had to engage the outside world to find their fun. Now these things are disappearing, seemingly forever.

There was a time when Western New York employed a lot of its denizens in the making of traditional carousels. Allan Herschel was a pioneer in the field. His firm originally made parts for steam engines, but on a trip to Coney Island he discovered and fell in love with a new adult diversion. He saw his very first merry-go-round. In 1873 he came back to the area north of Buffalo, and started an operation aimed at designing and manufacturing simple and elegant versions of the ride. Eventually he shipped his product throughout the United States, Canada and abroad. In 1915 he built the facility at 180 Thompson Street which currently houses a museum, as well as an original Herschel carousel from 1916.

I arrived at the place promptly at 10AM, only minutes ahead of a tour group of summer camp kids. This gave me enough time to get the lay of the land and organize my self-guided visit. I began with a quick look around the gift shop that stocks a good amount of classic memorabilia and trinkets centered (of course) around the carousel theme. I paid my $5 admission (that included a ride on the in-house classic carousel) and stepped into a room containing the Lockman collection. This exhibit documents the changes in style and manufacturing that occurred over the history of the carousel industry. It even includes an antique wooden bull, used as a strength-testing game at the now-defunct Erie Beach Amusement Park.

Then I walked around the partially-restored workshops abutting the gallery. There is a lot of information contrasting the labor-intensive production of wooden carousel horses to the modern day method that involves fiberglass. In addition, there's a section where contemporary hobbyists and craftsmen can come and use the old tools left from the factory. While I was browsing I met a retired minister from Ohio named Don Brewer. He's a former showman who once toured with the circus. We jawed for awhile about the sad decline of touring shows, and he showed me a bit of the wooden carving he was engaged in. It was great to talk to someone who was once actually part of the long-lost world that I am so enamored with.

I certainly felt like all the volunteers staffing the Museum appreciated my interest in the history of carousels and amusement parks. There will likely come a day when people forget the roots of the industry. I'm overwhelmingly grateful that there are enthusiasts willing to invest their time and energy in preserving this delightful part of our past. The opportunity to photograph an authentic operating carousel from the second decade of the 20th Century was amazing. In addition, displays describing other rides produced by Herschel and Co. were detailed and fascinating. This is another place I hope to eventually bring Baby E., once he is old enough to appreciate a ride on the carousel. I'll even cash in my wooden nickel when that time comes.

Bonus Trivia: The idea for the carousel is based upon the use of wooden horses that knights trained upon during medieval times. They even practiced with brass rings, attempting to spear them with a lance.

The Toy Town Museum, East Aurora, NY.

My second stop on the way into Buffalo was inspired by nostalgia. This is an appropriate motivation now that I am a father. I may have considered going to the Toy Town Museum on the campus of the Fisher-Price Corporation even if I didn't have a kid, but in that case I may have felt a bit too self-conscious to linger there. Until about a week ago I didn't know that the headquarters of that toy-making giant was in Western New York. But once I found out it was in East Aurora, a mere twenty minutes outside of Buffalo, I knew I had to make a visit. I was actually pretty excited when I pulled up to the parking lot, because the stuff that Fisher-Price made throughout the 70's definitely enriched my childhood.

The genesis of The Toy Town Museum was the annual ToyFest started by a group of locals who recognized the importance that toy-making played in their community. The knew they wanted to work toward establishing a permanent space to house a collection of vintage stuff, and decided to produce an annual commemorative reproduction of a different Fisher-Price toy from the past in order to raise funds for the museum. In 1987, their dreams were realized and they opened their facility. ToyFest still continues at the end of every August, and draws over 75,000 folks from the US and Canada each year. Meanwhile Toy Town features both permanent and temporary exhibits celebrating the world of play.

Right away I was captivated by the displays packed within the several small rooms in the place. I was drawn first to some of the oldest objects on display- tin curiosities that represented the first wave of mass-manufactured playthings in the world. They appeared to be hand-painted and thematically tied to the circus and traveling carnival. There were also a number of faded soft toys depicting cartoon-like jesters and clowns. At the center of the front room was a fairly large diorama of a turn-of-the-century carousel, complete with riders and a detailed ticket booth. This was certainly a one-of-a-kind display that astonished me with its realism and quality of craftsmanship.

I also saw a huge erector set, a 12-room doll-house with all the trimmings, a small collection of Pez dispensers, and two miniature battlefields re-enacting famous battles from the Revolutionary and Civil Wars. The temporary exhibit included toys made from television and movie characters. A case of Desi and Lucy-inspired masks and dolls may have been the most intrinsically-creepy spectacle in the entire place. And there was an entire room filled (a bit incongruously perhaps) with Harley-Davidson toys and memorabilia. But the most lovingly-displayed objects were those in The Fisher-Price Archive Collection. Basically it encompassed a selection of products made by the company since its inception in 1931. Studying these things could give a cultural anthropology student enough fodder for a Master's thesis.

But my favorite elements of The Toy Town Museum were the few glass-fronted cases of the "Original" Little People sets, many of which I had when I was a tyke. Anyone in their 30's must have had at least some experience playing with these. They were a ubiquitous part of my childhood. They had the castle (complete with horse-back knight), the Sesame Street block, the gas station, the town square, the traveling circus, the suburban home, the airplane, a hospital, the farm, and several notable individual figures. I was in my glory taking macro shots of these scenes. I was simultaneously happy to see them again, and sad that they are no longer in production. Still I bet that there are enough floating around to supply a little town for E. some day.

My visit to Lily Dale.

The path to Buffalo from Pittsburgh is simple and without traffic congestion. You get on 79N and pick up 90E around Erie. It's a fairly uneventful drive that brings you up the western border of New York state. Along the way you pass the access points to the Chataqua Institution, as well cut right through the Seneca Nation. If you look hard enough you can find places along the way that are worth making a few short detours. In my online explorations I read about Lily Dale, a spiritualist community next to the little village of Cassadaga. This assembly (also referred to as the "City of Light") , established in 1879, bills itself as the world's largest center for spiritual development. While that may or may not be true, it seems certain to concentrate the most mediums into one small lake-front settlement.

The origins of the Modern Spiritualist Movement start with the Fox sisters (Kate, Leah and Margaret). In 1848, these Hydesville, NY inhabitants reported the existence of spirits living within their house. They devised a system of knocks and raps to communicate with one presence that they referred to initially as "Mr. Splitfoot" (a nickname for the devil). Soon the neighbors got in on the act, and became convinced that someone had been murdered in the house. The youngest Fox sisters were sent to live in Rochester, and the spirits followed them. There a Quaker couple (Amy and Isaac Post) befriended them and spread the word among their people. That's how the Movement became entwined with radical social causes like abolition, equal rights, and temperance.

Anyway the Fox sisters went on to a long career of being involved with many of the important social figures of their day. They also found fame for conducting séances. There was plenty of controversy as many others began to discover their own abilities to speak with the spirit world. Ultimately the famous siblings set in to squabbling with each other, and they met ignoble ends. But to this day they serve as symbols for Spiritualism. In 1916, the cottage that first revealed its secrets to the Fox family was moved from Hydesville to Lily Dale, where the Spiritualists of America held their annual camp meetings. From that point on the community grew steadily. The Fox cottage was destroyed by fire in 1955, but Lily Dale continued to prosper.

Nowadays Lily Dale has a sort of cottage industry revolving around contact with the spirit world. They have a full program of summer workshops in topics as diverse as astrology, paranormal investigation, listening to the "inner voice", past-life regression, channeling the "higher mind", spoon bending, intuitive medicine, Reiki, Falun Dafa, using sweat lodges, and the "fourth direction". There's also a gift shop, a chapel, a forest temple, a meditation labyrinth, a museum and several eateries. Apparently people journey there from all over the world, and they have accommodations for travelers. You can also make day visits, but you must pay $10 to pass through their front gate.

To my eyes Lily Dale appeared to be like any other retirement community in the country, except for the proliferation of shingles hanging from the bungalows advertising the services of the individual mediums residing there. I didn't stick around for any of the workshops or rituals as I had a lot on my itinerary, and only a limited amount of time to look around. The grounds are peaceful and offer plenty of opportunities for contemplation. You are free to walk around unmolested. People greet you amiably, but no one proselytizes. The highlight of my short stop was the "fairy trail" in the words, wherein folks had constructed little temples incorporating small statues of angels, fairies, gnomes, and other pop culture detritus. Great photo opportunity!

Why Buffalo?

The question certainly begs to be asked... why did I choose to go to Buffalo? That's a perfectly understandable question. Like many other Rust Belt cities (like Cleveland and our own 'Burgh), Buffalo has a bit of a bad rap. The problem is that many of the people who choose to talk shit on the city have never even visited (boy, where did I hear that one before?). What did I know about Buffalo? I knew that the Bills played there. I knew it was on Lake Erie. And I got what I thought was a representative look at the place by watching Vincent Gallo's Buffalo 66. In fact that's one of my favorite films of all time. So why wouldn't I want to compare the real thing to Gallo's cinematic representation of it?

Listen, I had two nights that I could spend going anywhere I so chose. M. was perfectly alright with letting me get away for a couple of days. I wanted to pick a place within easy driving distance. I've already spent time in Erie, Cleveland, Wheeling, Philly, NYC, Baltimore, DC, and Columbus. There was only one city of any significant size within five hours that I hadn't been to, and I couldn't give a good reason for that omission. Was I going to let Buffalo's reputation as a dreary, depressed area keep me from experiencing it for myself? Hell, no. So the day before I left, I got on the internet to try to make a list of destinations in the area. I realized quickly enough that there would be plenty to see.

I was also a bit puzzled as to why Carnegie Museum of Art Assistant Curator Heather Pesanti would choose to make the Albright-Knox Art Gallery her follow-up to the time she has spent working on the 2008 Carnegie International. I'm aware that the exhibition carries a fair amount of international clout, and is billed by some to be the best contemporary art survey in North America. What did Buffalo have to compare to that? It turns out that there is quite a lot to recommend Albright-Knox to the rising art administrator. Who would have known? Well, actually John Morris (curator for the now defunct Digging Pitt Gallery) was aware of the standard of excellence set by Albright-Knox. And he's my trusted source when it comes to anything in the modern-day art world.

But I probably wouldn't have been excited to go to Western New York if I hadn't identified some additional attractions. I learned about the Herschel Carousel Museum and the Fisher Price factory campus. I discovered the existence of an arts organization founded by a bunch of Buffalo students that included Cindy Sherman. I did a search for used book stores of note. I read up on the trendy neighborhoods of Elmwood and Allentown. I devoured information on the unwholesome foods that Buffalo is famous for. At one point I wondered if I had allotted myself ample time to see everything there was to see. It turned out that I hadn't, so I had to prioritize right from the start.

My initial impressions upon arriving in Buffalo were favorable. Even though I entered the city during rush hour, there was very little traffic. I suppose that is due in part to the decline in population that the once bustling trade center has experienced over the last several decades. There are now less than 300,000 people within its official limits, and about a million in its metropolitan area. Much of the action is focused on the long streets that split Buffalo vertically- Delaware and Elmwood. It was refreshing to see the type of commercial density that occurs in a city with a grid pattern, few hills, and no rivers. I had no problem getting around. Unlike Pittsburgh, it is a bit difficult to get lost.

More Details to Follow...

Dissapointment in Aliquippa.

When I attended the Dance of the Giglio in Brooklyn last year, John Morris (who went with me to that festival) hipped me to the local feast of San Rocco in the modest town of Aliquippa, which lies twenty-some miles northwest of Pittsburgh. He told me that there was a culminating event that involved people wearing large costumes on their heads. This year he posted about it on the Digging Pitt blog, and that reminded me that I wanted to go see it. He even included a video clip portraying the spectacle, and I heartily recommend viewing it for yourself. Tell me that you aren't at least a little bit intrigued... I knew right away that I wanted to head out there to take some photos. So I did what I always do in such circumstances- I found the official website and the schedule.

It turns out that SanRocco.org is a fairly comprehensive site, detailing the history and media coverage of the festa throughout the years. I'm not going to get into a lengthy recap of its origins. I'll leave that to the official sponsors. But suffice it to say that I wanted to be sure to be present for the 2008 "Dance of the Baby Doll", which incorporates an 8-foot statue of an Italian lady doing the tarantella (tarantula). This is a traditional folk dance that depicts the story of a woman who is somehow bitten, and decides to spin around at an increasing speed in order to rid herself of the poisonous venom. Supposedly the only real cure for this unfortunate was "finding true love".

Representing the salvation of this afflicted lady are the fireworks that are attached to the long bar extensions coming off the statue's arms. This pyrotechnic display is certainly a crowd-pleaser, as demonstrated in the video clip provided in the above link. I don't know if it eclipses the awe inspired by Zambelli's various shows around town, but it seems a shame for the average local not to check out the San Rocco Feast at least once during a lifetime. Plus I discovered that Franki Capri was performing on the last evening of the festival, and I haven't seen him in years. That phenomena deserves an entirely separate post. Far be it for me to try to encapsulate Capri's act in a single paragraph.

The problem was that I had a going away party to attend during the afternoon (for local artist Tom Sarver). I knew that the celebration extended until 9PM, and Franki was supposed to go on at 6PM. As the day proceeded I found myself increasingly less compelled to make an early exit, and I resigned myself to missing Capri's act. My buddy and I agreed to make the drive out to Aliquippa around 9PM, so we could arrive just in time for the Traditional Italian Doll Dance. As we made our pilgrimage we were only moderately concerned with the intermittent precipitation that eventually threaten our fun. When we found Lefty Cepull field (where the proceedings are held), we were surprised at the scale of the event.

We arrived just in time... to hear the announcement that the Baby Doll Dance would be canceled due to the inclement weather and possibility of lightning strikes. Watching the faces of the gathered observers was illustrative of the importance of this annual ritual. People looked absolutely heart-broken. We were bummed too. Fortunately Franki Capri agreed to come on for another set to compensate for the loss. I took a few trippy photos, and then we strolled around looking for some authentic Italian food to distract us from our disappointment. The ride home was pleasant, and we resolved to return next year to see what we had missed. Maybe you'll come with us next summer?

Day Trip Down the Ohio River.

After staying up late last night reading about the lingering questions in the FBI investigation of the post-911 anthrax letters, it was very refreshing to get out of town for the day with a nice long drive. My friend John put together an itinerary for a day trip earlier this summer. He grew up in West Virginia and understood my interest in the state, so he wrote out a plan that would take me down through a few of the small towns along the Ohio River. In theory it seemed attractive, and I have a good sense of John's tastes, so I figured he'd set me on the right path. My friend Mike shared an interest in getting away, and he decided that he wanted to drive his newly-acquired Ford Probe. It had been a long time since I filled the role of passenger, but it freed me up to serve as navigator.

We left at around 9AM, and I made sure to get fortified on espresso before we even left the 'Burgh. After a reasonably brief interlude that took us off our course, we found our way to Rte. 22 and headed for Weirton where we could pick up 7 South, which is on the Ohio side of the river. Our first stop was Steubenville, where we wanted to take a look at some murals. Throughout the city there are about 26 of these paintings that depict the history of the city on the exteriors of old buildings. I couldn't track down the original date of initiation for the project, but I noticed that a lot of them were painted over the last ten (or so) years. We were lucky enough to stumble into an antique store that provided us with a map to find them.

There were several impressive works with themes that included street scenes, a stone quarry, and a hospital. I tried to take some photos of my favorites, but was occasionally thwarted by parked cars obscuring my view. Steubenville definitely has some charm in a beat-up kind of way, and the people we ran into all seemed very nice. We stumbled on a weird little "Animation Factory" at the Creegan Company. I even found a full-size Jack Chick-style Christian conversion comic that I was able to purchase quite cheaply. After a short walk around, it was on to nearby Wheeling, WV for lunch. In the center of this modest city is a market with what are reported to be the best fish sandwiches in the world (at a vendor called Coleman's). I don't like them though, so I had to take Mike's word for it- he said his was delicious.

We also sidestepped through an extremely cramped bookstore called Paradox. I was a bit overwhelmed by the looming shelves, narrow clearances, and unconditioned air, and didn't stay nearly as long as I would have liked to. We continued on our way down the Ohio River Valley on Rte 2, eventually hitting Sistersville. There we came across another bookstore- but this one was going out of business and had priced everything at a dollar. It took me a little over an hour to comb through the inventory. I walked away with titles by Jim Thompson, Rick Bragg, Colin Wilson, and Steve Erickson. I was pretty nearly in heaven. Mike meanwhile was impressed by the architecture and bucolic setting, both of which seemed to him to be literally frozen in time.

Our last stopover was in Moundsville where we planned to grab dinner. I got to choose the place as Mike was still impressed by that fish sandwich and I was the beneficiary of the only misplaced tip that John had for us. J. suggested we get pizza at DiCarlo's, which must be some local tradition. It was like school cafeteria-style "pizza" in a square shape, and the extra cheese I ordered was thrown on top uncooked. I thought it was terrible. I chalked it up to childhood nostalgia on John's part. Anyway, I insisted on the Acapulco Mexican Restaurant on 8th Street. I had recalled it from an earlier trip through town when I toured the Penitentiary. It was even better than remembered, and the perfect way to conclude our fun before heading back to Pittsburgh.

Doylestown and Henry Chapman Mercer.

Every time I visit Eastern PA, I get tempted to go up to NYC for a day. There's some kind of magnetic pull that draws me to that city like nowhere else. When people periodically ask me where I daydream about living, it's always the first place that occurs to me. But I've never had a particularly good reason to move there, and in the absence of a compelling objective, it's a dangerous and costly place to call home. There are too many temptations and it would require too much compromise. Yet it remains my premier destination to visit. However with a six-month old baby in hand, it just didn't seem logistically possible this time around. Having already hit Philly, we tried to brainstorm another day-trip.

We decided to go to Doylestown. This borough is the county seat of Bucks County, and is situated about 34 miles north of Philadelphia. Why would anyone want to go to this sleepy little village? Well, you could ask a sophisticated urbanite of the early Twentieth Century that very question, and you'd learn about the "Tools of the Nation-Maker" museum, which was run by the Bucks County Historical Society. The building that houses its collections was constructed from poured concrete by donor Henry Chapman Mercer. This eccentric archaeologist would eventually bequeath a castle (where he lived out his life) and the Moravian Tile Works ( an operation started when he left academia) to the town.

Mercer was a world traveler who loved collecting artifacts and believed that American society was imperiled by the Industrial Age. He became intensely involved with the American Arts and Crafts Movement and created the cultural institutions that would bear his name. Fonthill (Mercer's home) was originally considered a folly, as it was built by its owner with a haphazard design and off-kilter sensibilities. Many of his neighbors considered him a loon, and he did nothing to discourage those perceptions. He used to have roaring bonfires on the roof of his castle to underscore the fireproofing advantages of using concrete as a building material. He decorated its 41 rooms with objects from around the world, the vast majority of which still reside within Fonthill's walls.

We got to see a good portion of Mercer's domicile on our hour-long tour. Our guide (despite being new) was a great source of information, and didn't shy away from the more salacious details of Henry Mercer's life. Her favorite feature of Fonthill is a series of tiles, located in the "woman's bedroom", that depicted the adventures of Bluebeard and his last wife. It was an interesting decorative touch for a guy that was never married. Mercer did however have associations with the fairer sex. Apparently he contracted gonorrhea as a young man... an affliction for which there was no cure during his lifetime. Fonthill is a living monument to the energies and passions that Mercer sublimated into his many odd pursuits.

The Mercer Museum is certainly worth a visit as well. At one time this odd amalgamation of the tools and objects used in nearly every profession imaginable was thought to be one of the best museums in the entire country. In fact Henry Ford cited it as a major inspiration for his own material legacy in Dearborn, MI. It's an odd jumble of stuff that you could stroll through in an uninspired half hour. Conversely you could spend half a day marveling at its copious treasures. It all depends on how much you are fascinated by objects of daily work-life from a bygone era. The major advantage that it has over the "house tour" mentioned above is that you are allowed to photograph the Mercer's holdings. Obviously that appealed to me.

The City Of Brotherly Love.

Walking around Philadelphia yesterday it struck me just how much an environment can leave its imprint on people. The inspiration for this thought was the amount of ugly people on the streets of the "City of Brotherly Love". I do realize that this sounds awful. It's not a politically correct observation to make. Perhaps I feel entitled to make this judgment since I am no superstar in the looks department myself, and because I grew up damn near Philly. But the fact remains... there are legions of unattractive folks running around that city. And I'd say it makes a lot of sense that it should be that way, since its inhabitants are surrounded by such an unlovely setting. Have you ever been there? If not, maybe you should reserve judgment.

When I first announced my decision to move to the 'Burgh,the most common reaction I got was bewilderment. The populace of Eastern Pennsylvania has a collection of very skewed notions about Western Pennsylvania. I guess in their minds they imagine a cross between a post-industrial apocalyptic wasteland and a scene out of Deliverance. In their collective mind's eye, they saw Pittsburgh's citizens as toothless rednecks with the grime of the steel mills forever caking their skins. They pictured rivers on fire, and lines outside of soup kitchens. And naturally everyone was running around with goofy foam Steeler hats (well, of course that one just happens to be an accurate depiction).

Meanwhile I found Pittsburgh to be much more beautiful than anywhere in the Northeast. The rivers are clean, there is an abundance of interesting architecture, and the mountains and bridges form postcard-quality views in almost every neighborhood. The garbage men don't go on strike, and there's not much litter. Indeed there are some individuals who look like they stepped out of the 70's, but they move slow enough to be mistaken for your garden variety zombies- simply step around them and on to your destination. The reality is that Pittsburgh is yours for the taking. It's not jam-packed with human vermin trying to claw their way to the top of the social heap by way of your bent back.

In considering the general unsightliness of much of Philadelphia, one has to acknowledge the demeanor of Philadelphians. The place is corrupt, congested, and unclean. Living in such an atmosphere has to take a toll on people. That's likely why many of these urban dwellers get that pinched and sour look so permanently affixed to their skulls. They are always on the very brink of falling into the vast mire of their city. One stutter-step could make them lose their footing, and they'd be in the prone position in a dirty gutter, sleeping in their own piss. In order to avoid such a fate, they are at any time only a second away from planting their knives into the backs of their fellows.

All this should be kept in mind when visiting Philly. It's not an especially welcoming town. They don't want tourists because they don't need another body to push aside. Don't make eye contact. Don't try to make idle conversation. Don't ask for directions from anyone not acting in an official capacity. Don't make the mistake of asking a cop for help. Exhaustive planning before your visit will benefit you greatly. Get in, do your business, and get out. There are good reasons to go (cheese steaks, the Flyers, a robust and quality art scene, etc.), but Filthadelphia constitutes about 75% of the total area. And remember... the natives don't stay in place, but freely roam. Just because you are in the "good" 25% doesn't mean you are safe.

Philadelphia Freeedom, Fraternity and Freaks.

We have found our way, baby in tow, into the breach. We're not trying anything exotic, but rather visiting relatives. Yet we are indeed hours from home. The anxiety that we had about a long road trip with a six-month-old kid turned out to be only partially justified. It's absolutely true that babies will cry. There's no getting around it. At the same time it is also the case that riding in a moving vehicle can calm an infant, as the sensation resonates with memories of prenatal life. Perhaps that explains the fact that I often slip into a deep drowsiness when I drive. Anyway, when all was said and done we only had to put up with about half an hour of sustained crying. We did (of course) spend much more time at rest stops.

Arriving safely and sanely at our destination was a small victory. The next objective was planning for a day or two of activities that might suggest vacation-like conditions. That's not particularly easy to do in the Lehigh Valley. However, this area benefits from its proximity to more interesting locales. I quickly identified Philadelphia as a worthy destination. This morning we packed Baby E., his stuffed entourage, and his accessories into the car, and made the hour and fifteen minute drive south. Our guide was adept and we arrived at our first stop with little difficulty. I had decided that I'd like to visit the Grand Lodge of the PA Freemasons, of which Benjamin Franklin was a charter member.

Not surprisingly this frat house is located only steps away from City Hall. It would present an impressive facade if it wasn't currently obstructed by sidewalk-to-sky scaffolding. The innards are a wonder to behold. There are a series of increasingly larger and more ornate meeting rooms where the 42 chapters in the region gather to look important and tweak their plots to control the world. There are waterproof altars above troughs where the spilled blood of virgins can collect at the feet of the brethren. There is also a force of half-beast, half human slaves that await their masters every order. Just kidding... but there is a cloak room that served conveniently as a place for M. to breast feed Baby E. in peace and privacy.

Our second site of interest was Eastern Penitentiary, a large and relatively ancient prison that once held notorious criminals like Willie Sutton and Al Capone. I had wanted to visit in order to collect images of the deterioration of the buildings and grounds. Compared to the prison in Moundsville, WV and the reformatory in Mansfield, OH, this facility was like a museum. Portions of it have been restored, and other areas have been utilized for a Halloween haunted-walk-through and art installations. There's a helpful audio tour with Steve Buscemi, but I didn't listen to much of it. It only took me about an hour and ten minutes to stroll the sections that are open to the public- and I would have been done a lot quicker had I not been taking photos.

To cap off the day, I finally made my pilgrimage to the Mütter Museum at the College of Physicians of Philadelphia. For those of you who are unaware of this odd little museum- it's chock full of human abnormalities and wax models of victims with horrendous diseases. The collection was first put on display after Thomas Dent Mütter, retired Professor of Surgery at Jefferson Medical College, donated it to the CPP. Its highlights include a plaster cast of Chang and Eng Bunker (history's most famous Siamese Twins), a huge presentation of human skulls, the tallest skeleton on exhibit in America, a handful of authentic shrunken heads, and a freakishly huge distended and constipated colon. Good stuff... eat right before you go for maximized enjoyment. But don't bring your camera because you aren't allowed to use it.

Vanishing Roadside Culture.

Inevitably when June comes around my mind starts to wander to the idea of the open road. Granted this concept is a bit naive in today's age, with the cookie-cutter homogeneous sprawl that threatens to engulf our nation. Maybe that's just the bias of a lifelong resident of the US Northeast. In theory I believe that something as free as the "open road" does exist... say, somewhere in Montana. Either way, compared to my workaday existence, a day-trip down to West Virginia seems like a little slice of heaven. So now I've started to think about how I might make something like that happen this summer. Certainly I have more obstacles to that type of carefree travel nowadays, but I have faith that I can make it work somehow.

Even if I am still contained to a 9-5 existence, I can get on the internet and daydream. One of the sites I like the best for this purpose is roadsideamerica.com. It is a vast collection of offbeat travel destinations categorized by state. It documents a culture that has largely vanished in our modern age. There was a time in our nation's history when people anxiously interrupted long car rides for the most minor of attractions. That's why someone thought it would be a good idea to exhibit the world's largest frying pan (Wilmington, DE), and the large kettle once used to boil the flesh off of "Mad Anthony" Wayne's bones (Erie, PA). Such oddities lured weary drivers from the claustrophobia of their family-filled automobiles.

Now folks are generally in too much of a hurry to get wherever it is that they are going. Leisurely travel seems ever increasingly to be a thing of the past. The country's highway system is based upon convenience and simplicity. You can go hundreds of miles without encountering a stoplight. Corporate fast food joints now have a monopoly, with the institutional glare of service centers offering a brief respite to the harried wayfarer. Good luck soaking up some of the local color in between your home and your ultimate target. It all looks and smells the same. Occasionally you may catch a glimpse of something interesting advertised on a road sign, but how often do you actually exit the highway to check it out?

Still some of this vanishing culture exists on the back roads and the alternate routes. I remember my family stopping at Roadside America (no relation to the aforementioned site) off of Interstate 78, near Shartlesville, PA. This is a "miniature village" model train setup complete with tunnels, mountains, bridges, farms, town squares, a mountain trolley, a grist mill, woods, and even a little zoo. Incredibly this vast tableau was largely the work of one Pennsylvania Dutch man- Laurence Gieringer. We all marveled at the lovingly crafted scenes, and the old school animations that visitors could trigger with the push-buttons along the periphery. Fortunately for all of us, the place still functions through the maintenance of Gieringer's offspring.

The magic of this traditional stop inspired what has become for me a lifelong love for such oddball attractions. These little petting zoos, family-run theme parks, cave tours, and idiosyncratic one-room museums seem like the last remaining vestiges of authentic mid-Twentieth century Americana. They are disappearing quickly with the growing dominance of our corporate monoculture. Thank god for the small group of obsessive weirdos that invest their time and money, often rehabbing and preserving the essential qualities of these treasures. If not for their efforts, freaks like me couldn't dream of experiencing the unique pleasures of stuff like the Secret Caverns (Cobblesville, NY) God's Garden (McCarthur, OH), or the One and Only Presidential Museum (Williamsfield, OH).

The Intrepid Day-Tripper.

Among my friends and family I can count a number of world travelers. It's not that I know a lot of wealthy people (although there are a few exceptions), but rather that I tend to hang out with folks who put a lot of value on this activity. I've actually gotten into quite a few conversations with them about why I haven't been overseas. For some reason, a lot of my buddies seem to assume that I've been to Europe. But the fact is that I never arranged things in my life so that I could undertake such a substantial journey. When I had enough money, I always had other plans. I'd find myself tied down by commitments, or want to save up for some large purchase. Consequently I have enough possessions. I just don't have any interesting anecdotes about foreign countries.

To be honest, there's another reason I haven't done any extensive traveling- I don't like to fly. Even before 9-11 I found the experience extraordinarily uncomfortable. My height always necessitated a request for an emergency aisle seat. This made the experience bearable, except for the added sense of responsibility that it placed in my mind. Unfortunately. the last thing you want to be reminded of when you are flying is that there might be a need for an emergency exit. A couple of times there were no spots in the 'special' row, and I had to sit in a fetal position for an entire flight. Another time I sat next to a born-again Christian with a golf obsession. All these factors contributed to a sense of foreboding. And then the planes hit the buildings...

So for the last several years, I've been confined to land travel. My wife does no highway driving, so that anytime we go on a trip I'm always behind the wheel. That puts limitations on my range. I can do about twelve hours in a day, and then I start going a bit nuts. I make up for these restrictions of movement with creativity. I have been to plenty of places that most Western Pennsylvanians would never consider visiting. This includes a Hare Krishna ashram, an abandoned reformatory, the world's largest indoor Bible wax museum, and Erie. Of course I've been to most of the notable cities within that range as well- New York City, Boston, Washington DC, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Cleveland, Columbus, Asheville, Chicago, Toronto, Knoxville, and Atlantic City.

I'd certainly qualify as a regional explorer. Whether it's an Appalachian backwater, a rural hovel, a historic battlefield, a beach community, or a dying rust belt town- chances are it has not escaped my interest. It's strange to think about the variability in human experience that lays within 600 miles of any point on Earth. There's plenty of exploration to be done around any such node. While it may seem that I've seen the majority of stuff that is worthwhile, I realize that this isn't close to being true. I could spend the rest of my lifetime not going beyond these (somewhat) arbitrary borders, and never experience everything. I wonder how many people throughout the centuries have never strayed beyond such a circle.

My window of opportunity for overseas travel has definitely passed... at least temporarily. The costs and other responsibilities of raising an infant are a bit prohibitive. I realize that I'm going to have to get really creative if I want to continue taking 'vacations'. No more bathing in the lap of luxury, to be sure. I have to consider the well-being of my child, first and foremost. Yet I really have no idea how people travel with such a young child. Where do they go? How do they get to see anything that they want to see? With as many weeks off a year as I usually get, I'm sure I will find the time to work through some of these issues. As baby E. gets older, it's going to be fun to take him to some of my old haunts. I have to remind myself that this journey is just getting started.

Splendid China, and other long gone amusements.

In surfing through a series of urban ruins sites today, I came across some shots of a singularly unique location. Outside of Orlando, Florida there was once a 'theme park' called Splendid China. I don't know how I missed hearing about it. Apparently it included recreations of some of the more notable sights from that behemoth land across the Pacific. There were replicas of the Great Wall of China, The Leshan Grand Buddha Statue, and the Forbidden City. Visitors were invited to stroll the grounds among these architectural wonders and check out some authentic Chinese entertainment and performances. This wasn't the type of place that you would find thrill rides like roller coasters and dark rides, but rather opportunities for relaxation and contemplation.

If such amusements strike you as incongruously located in the shadows of Walt Disney's empire, then you are certainly not alone. Reports are that it only attracted about 700 people per day. The $100 million dollar facility was opened in 1993, and closed in 2003. But within that time it managed to provoke plenty of controversy. Evidently there were quite a few observers who viewed it as a propaganda machine. Protesters actually demonstrated outside of the park, complaining about the occupation of Tibet, and the idyllic depiction of what amounted to the largest communist nation on Earth. Although it was owned and operated by China Travel Services, there were allegations that the organization received its marching orders from the Chinese government itself.

In retrospect all the hoopla seems kind of silly. Did folks really think that Splendid China should have contained scenes of the Red Army harassing Tibetan monks? Would it have been appropriate to include a cheerful model of the Tiananmen Square massacre? It seems like that would have defeated the purpose. I doubt it would have led to marketing success. It surely wouldn't have delayed the 2004 auction that offered the park assets to the highest bidder. Ultimately I find the park's demise a sad, yet probably inevitable, reality. American families and tourists are much more interested in the type of sanitized experiences that the pavilions at EPCOT offer. There has to be cartoon characters and greasy fried foods, or otherwise it's not really a vacation, is it?

I've often lamented the homogeneity that characterizes amusement parks in the United States. They offer plenty of opportunities to achieve physical disorientation and vertigo. But most of the rides are mass-produced and differ only in their marketing content. The same skeletal structure underpins Garfield's Tunnel and The Little Mermaid's Fanciful Swim. It's all pre-packaged and deliberately targets the lowest common denominator of society. Amusements must be sanitized of any elements that could possibly offend the delicate sensibilities of the average consumer. It's really no different than the Hollywood film industry or basic strip mall culture. Everything is contrived and boring. How can anybody be sentimental about such diversions? Travel across the country and you can find the exact same thing in your back yard.

Maybe it's always been this way. In the bygone days of roadside attractions, there were surely numerous "Mystery Holes", "Reptile Lands" and "Slippy Slides". Still one could still hope to stumble on something truly unique and interesting. Today I discovered this site- Florida's Lost Tourist Attractions. It catalogs an abundance of places that have faded inextricably into the past. These were destinations often reflecting the particular dreams and visions of true eccentrics. Nowadays those guys can't compete with the spectacles of the mega-corporations. Gone forever are the The Upside Down House, the Prince of Peace Memorial, and Tragedy in the Museum. Luckily for us their memory is still preserved on the World Wide Web. At least we can discover what we are missing.

Shepherdstown and Harper's Ferry.

Because we confined our trip to Berkely Springs to a single weekend, and we got settled in Friday night, we only really had one full day to explore the area. Through the relatively modest amount of research I did beforehand I knew that there wasn't a lot of essentials that I would regret missing. I figured we'd spend part of Saturday on the road, and had some vague plans about towns I'd like to visit while I had the chance.

We were in the easternmost part of WV, and that section of the state seems more like Virginia or Maryland then the land of "hoopies". Part of the reason for that is its proximity to Washington DC. It was pretty clear that many people from the capitol region have summer houses near Berkely Springs. It's not as hilly as the main part of West Virginia, and it has a discernibly different identity. The most common description that ran through my head was "quaint". There are a lot of self-consciously old-fashioned small towns, with clean streets and little shops. In addition the area has a whole lot of Civil War history. Having enjoyed our trip to Gettysburg a few years ago, we figured seeing some similar battle sights might be worthwhile.

Unfortunately since the previous few days had been exhausting, we got a late start. Around noon we plotted a course, and I despaired of seeing much of all. Then of course the bridge spanning that particular stretch of the Potomac was confined to a single lane of costruction (relecting perhaps the recent tragedy of bridge collapse?) , and that took away another bite of precious time. But we made a big circle around our target towns on route 70, and eventually got off around Antietam. I know almost nothing about the specifics of that battle, and I was looking forward to seeing the miniature replica of the conflict at a roadside museum. Can you believe that it was closed at 2PM on a Saturday? This added to our overall bleak impression of our itinerary. We drove a bit through the battleground itself and scanned a few plaques, but without a greater context it meant close to nothing. Anyway neither of us are particularly interested in staring at barren expanses- we are more likely to appreciated a cheesy wax museum. We drove on through Sharpsburg.

Eventually we found Shepherdstown which contains the small Shepherd College. I was struck by the contrived old-timey feeling of the business district. It felt like a living reconstruction of a contemporary yuppie's dream of historically significant shopping. Yes... it was quaint. I did however find several shops worth spending time in. Four Season Books has a nice back room of remainders and used books. Their selection was broad and hip. We grabbed lunch at the Yellow Brick Bank. We probably would not have chosen the restaurant at dinner (too expensive), but lunch was excellent and reasonably priced. I had a pasta dish with several different cheeses, and it was delectable. The interior is charming with its old-school stylings and decor. They also have a good beer selection (which I chose not to take advantage of). I followed lunch with a stop at The Lost Dog coffeehouse, which was surprisingly progressive and hip. There was vaguely edgy art on the walls, and its staff would be completely at home in any prospering inner city enclave. And they didn't stumble on my extremely finicky drink order.

Thus fortified we continued down the road to Harper's Ferry. I had desired a look at at the scene of John Brown's aborted rebellion, and I figured on taking a relaxed walk through another forgotten village. Almost immediately we realized that it's actually a significant tourist destination. The town-planners have set up a system to encourage visitors to park in a lot outside of town, and pay $6 to ride a shuttle bus. I wasn't having it. I figured I'd be able to find street parking. Once we got to its center, I thought I had made a mistake. But against all odds we found a free space right in the thick of things. It was surprisingly crowded with white faces perched atop business-casual outfits. If you ever plan to visit, you need to wear your "sensible" shoes, because it is packed with steep inclines and outdoor stairways. The park service has restored several buildings with artifacts and original designs, and the history buff can peer through glass at the interiors. Among those buildings are a mass of shops and restaurants where you can buy civil war replicas and sweets.

Although we couldn't find anything that looked like a centralized museum, we did go inside the John Brown Wax Museum. Even though I made sure to get permission to take photos, the old crone manning the desk felt obliged to threaten a lawsuit should I deign to sell any images. In every moment she gave us the impression that she hates her plight in life. Maybe she is paranoid that some ambitious competitor will rise up and start a rival wax museum in town. She was actually babbling to herself as we looked at the first few vignettes. Perhaps she continued, but eventually we were beyond the reach of her whiney voice. In retrospect- if she was so suspicious of my intentions, she should have simply prohibited any photography. I would have accepted that, as it is policy at many such places. Anyway the exhibits were vaguely entertaining, if not exactly life-like. I would suggest that when that bitter old woman at the front counter dies, she should be stuffed and promoted as John Brown's long-suffering wife. It will give the place some added bite.

Overall I would recommend Harper's Ferry as a diverting family experience. It does seem that its modern inhabitants have a wish to insulate it from the homogenization of gimmicky technology. I admire the commitment to preserve the historical authenticity of the village. There are a host of live actors in period costumes that lend a serious tenor to the events that took place there. Unfortunately the arsenal itself is long gone, and the firehouse that housed the captured rebels has been moved repeatedly. But there is enough to see to warrant spending the better part of a day in Harper's Ferry. And if the kids get restless they can always go for a dip in the river.

Berkely Springs, WV.

Well... every once in awhile it's good to have a complete getaway. Part of the joy in such a trip is shirking responsibility and dropping everyday routines. During my first two forays on the road this summer I still felt some pressure from the inertia of this blog. Even though I had met my goal of a year of posts, I still felt compelled to write daily entries. That wasn't the case this time. M. and I drove to Berkely Springs, WV. We chose the location as appropriate for a private weekend. It's only about three hours from the 'Burgh, and the driving mostly avoids the type of mountainous roads that make M. nervous. I had never been there before, and had planned on doing more research than I had, but then the power went out and we spent a tense and hot night in the dark. So when we left Friday morning, we were mostly blind to the area.

The claim to fame of Berkely Springs is that it was the first major spa destination of the republic. Luminaries such as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Meriwether Lewis were known to take the waters there. It contained sulfates, carbonates, and nitrates, and was considered to be good for digestive ailments and stress relief. When it comes out of the mountains, it is 74 degrees Fahrenheit. There are still multiple spas in modern day Berkely Springs, and they still attract a lot of tourists from the Washington DC area. But the area has also tried to build a reputation as a small-town arts center, and it contains an artist co-op in a converted ice house. Walking down the few streets of downtown the visitor sees galleries, fancy gift shops and a few fine restaurants. Predictably the wares are the furthest thing from being edgy. The stuff is mostly meant to be high-priced wall decoration. And most of the businesses close at 5PM, no matter what day it is. The town is not known for its sparkling nightlife, so if you go- plan your evening activities elsewhere.

We did eat two meals in Berkely Springs. The first was at an Italian restaurant called Maria's Garden. The proprietors are clearly Catholics, and they have a counter where you can buy Christian lit, and sundries with the images of saints. The food was decent, if a bit misleading. M.'s vegatarian sub had bits of meat that were left over on the grill. My Chicken Cacciatore had large chunks of beef in the meat sauce. I began to belief their conversion efforts were twofold, though everything did taste good. Last night we ate Mexican, and it was standard fare. I was extraordinarily pleased to discover that the Creamery (where we got dessert) featured Butter Brickle ice cream. You can't get that in the 'Burgh.

The most distinctive part of our little vacation was definitely our accomodations. M. booked us a little place from Berkely Springs Cottage Rentals. It was called the Back Creek Cabin, and I believe that it lived up to its billing. We had to take a series of increasingly dodgy backroads to get to the place. They narrowed until the point that they were clearly one-lane paths. At the end of the wooded trail was a steep incline that would be impassable if wet and muddy- at least without an ATV. All through our stay I worried that it would rain, and we would be stuck. We were very fortunate in terms of the weather. We also felt lucky when we got in the doors of the cottage. It seemed that the people in charge of the place had thought of everything. Considering its remote location, we were amazed at how well appointed it was. There was a full kitchen with microwave, a TV with VCR, DVD and Direct TV, and a queen-sized bed with lots of extra pillows and blankets. Two comfy recliners were provided for lounging. Outside on the porch there were some great chairs and a grill. A fire pit with a stockpile of wood was nearby. But the biggest treat was the A.C., which was especially appreciated after our experience with the blackout at home. Someone even thought to keep it running for our arrival. The place was immaculately clean and thoroughly insulated. For its reasonable price, we were quite pleased- what a great little hideway!

During our first night there, I think we were the only people on the mountain. I took a walk to check out the scene. There were a few other scattered cabins and lodges, but no cars or lights in sight. The thick woods obscured the surroundings. This fact made it especially cozy and special. Whenever I went outside the cabin and sat for a cigarette, I marvelled at the sounds of the chirping insects. Between the crickets and cicadas, it sounded like the deep jungle. I loved it. I turned out the porchlights and stared up through the trees at the stars. The total darkness accentuated the experience, and I had the minor thrill of being (almost) totally alone in the wilderness. It made going inside and watching late night television a unique experience. On the second night our distant neighbors were whooping it up with loud country music. A sharp disappointment accompanied the shattering of my illusion of isolation. But once night fell, and the sounds of the forest asserted themselves, I was happy again. It was exactly the experience I had been looking for.

"We Will Dance Again" @ Melwood Screening Room.

The day of my reception has finally arrived. It's been a waiting game ever since I delivered the work to the gallery. Since then I've found out that several people showed up last Friday, expecting the reception to be on the actual day of the opening. It's a bit of a shame they missed out on the free refreshments, but I was gratified to learn that they cared enough to take a look. As far as tonight is concerned, I am experiencing very little anxiety. My last solo exhibit was recent enough to take the edge off of this one. So hopefully I'll arrive early, drink a couple of beers with some friends, and relax.

I figured I'd take this chance to provide a little context about the show. Here is the blog post I wrote last year after first visit to Asbury Park. It's hard to believe that almost an entire year has passed since that visit. I wanted to travel to this destination for several years before I actually got my act together. The sights I saw are still fresh in my mind, no doubt aided by the visual record I have put together. It's notable how few people in Western PA have any idea about what Asbury Park once was. For that reason, I thought that I might provide a basic outline of its storied history.

The land that Asbury Park sits upon was purchased by James A. Bradley in 1871. He named the community after Francis Asbury, the founder of Methodism in the US. Bradley had traveled extensively throughout Europe, and used his experiences as a foundation in the planning and layout of Asbury Park. Right from the very beginning, it had its own unique character among northeastern beachfront towns. It was actually the first seaside resort in America to benefit from a sanitary sewer system. It was an early adopter of trolleys and electric power, and was equipped with an operahouse and several fine hotels. By the last decade of the Nineteenth Century, a boardwalk and amusement pier with rides had been built.

Despite a horrible fire in 1917, Asbury Park continued to grow in size and prosper. The year 1923 brought a building boom, and several structures depicted in my show (including the Casino and Convention Hall) were constructed during that time period. Cookman Avenue, which has recently been rejuvenated through the latest round of development, was a bustling business district. But in the wake of the post WW-II years, social changes brought about an almost imperceptible transition in Asbury Park. With the completion of the Garden State Parkway, less and less vacationers used trains to reach their destinations, and the railroads that brought tourists to Asbury were becoming progressively empty. At the same time the construction of suburban shopping malls took a big bite out of the commercial activity on Cookman Avenue. Office parks on its periphery drew professionals away from downtown residences, and the opening of Great Adventure (a huge amusement park) presented overwhelming competition for leisure dollars. On July 4th, 1970 civic unrest turned into riots, and the declining fate of Asbury Park was sealed.

Although several rock clubs (like the Stone Pony, the Fast Lane, and Asbury Lanes) have played host to big name musical acts throughout the years, Asbury Park has been considered a seedy and slightly dangerous beach town for the past few decades. Bruce Springsteen immortalized this period with his seminal album Greetings From Asbury Park. It's been known as a mecca for populations as diverse as bikers, gays, criminals, drug addicts, and artists. Now as the last remains of Asbury Park's past crumble into ruins, a new future is dawning. The attention of investors has been naturally drawn to this underdeveloped beach-town only about an hour's ride from NYC. The modern explorer is met with the evidence of large-scale construction projects that will soon result in resorts of massive scale.

I was compelled to photograph Asbury Park on the cusp of what I perceive to be another lamentable example of the homogenization of the American landscape. Soon all evidence of a once unique and authentic city along the Atlantic shore will be wiped away forever. Like everything else of specific interest on the East Coast, the future of Asbury no doubt will be characterized by the suburbanization of our urban environments. Gentrification, driven through the commercial imperative, is bound to make Asbury Park look as blandly uninspired as the US itself. The structures I saw on my trip, despite their state of rapid deterioration, encapsulate a stark grandeur that seems to be forever receding into our past.

Throwin' Down the Gauntlet...

"Regular readers" of this blog (and you surely have no real understanding of just how ludicrous a term that is) are probably sick and tired of my travel anecdotes. But it's only when I get back into town that I realize just how slow-paced life in the 'Burgh can be. Sure I get out regularly... but it's usually to meet up with friends and rehash our two or three staple conversations. So sometimes it does get a bit difficult to figure out what is worth sharing.

Anyway now that the disclaimer is out of the way, I'll relate just one more story from the road. On my last night in Chicago, my friend L. took me out to his favorite local dive- "The Long Room". Suffice it to say that this bar lives up to its name. It is dark (but clean) and has an extraordinarily long bar traversing its depth. The beer selection is fancy, and the prices are reasonable for the big city. This is the spot wherein L. meets up with his people and feels most comfortable slamming back a few Jameson's. So perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise when the topic of writing came up.

It started with a tremendously goofy interchange whereby we began to evaluate the quality of various rock group names. He's been listening to a band named the "Kings of Leon", and I remarked that I found this to be an incredibly bad choice, apart from the music itself. It's the kind of moniker that keeps me from ever giving the actual songs a chance. We started to exchange famous and infamous existing band-names, and offering our opinion on whether or not they were any good. I'll spare you the quotidian details of that segment of our conversation. As one might expect, our talk soon transitioned into a contest to come up with the best fictional band name.

I led off with my longstanding favorite- "The Yeti Family". Soon I ran through a list of others with various degress of sincerity, including "The Slipped Discs", "Labial Intentions", and "The Delectable Mountains". I almost spit up my beer with the suggestion of "Shaved Pussy". (You'll have to forgive me, for this is the type of stuff that two male buddies who aren't that into sports end up talking about when slugging alcohol.) This went on for awhile, until L. suddenly got quiet and then threw down the gauntlet. It turns out that he has been going through a resurgence of interest in singer-songwriting. But unlike many musicians, he's intrigued by the idea of adapting other people's word to music. He knows that I enjoy writing, so he told me to come up with a poem/song right there on the spot.

Now by this time I had already had several beers, so the pressure was on. I tried to beg off by saying that I had neither paper nor writing implement. In a matter of about two minutes, these tools materialized in front of me on the bartop. L. wasn't accepting any excuses. I don't even think he would have continued talking to me if I refused the task. So I sat staring down at the blank surface of the back of a register receipt, and tried to muster some words. Eventually L. had a touch of mercy, and provided a writing prompt- I was to riff on the topic of the competing gender strategies of dealing with life's more difficult moments. This was a reverberation of a conversation we had with one of his friends the previous night. After a bit of contemplation I hunkered down to the task, and in a matter of about ten minutes I had what could possibly pass for a poem/song.

Although I initially fought against the idea of such improvisational free-verse writing, I ultimately enjoyed it. Unfortunately I can't share the results here because I left L. with the only copy to see what he could come up with. Perhaps L. will send me a copy of those lyrics if he reads this post. But my point in recounting this incident is my rediscovery of the value of this type of writing exercise. I've kept my penchant for penning poetry a secret from most of my friends. In fact I've been doing it intermitttantly for about fifteen years. I have a small pile of examples buried somewhere. Yet I've always wondered whether or not it was a waste of time.

I actually did a public reading about a decade ago. About three people (in addition to the organizers) showed up. I felt self-conscious about doing that, but I found it rewarding in some strange nebulous way. Now that I have been keeping a blog for a year, my reticence about indulging this side of myself seems a bit ridiculous. I've been thinking that I might want to resume the practice. Sometimes the convergence of life's events subtly prods me in a new direction. L.'s challenge last week, along with Thad Kellstadt and Edgar Um's reading the week before, appear to be a sort of clarion call. I don't know if I'll share the product, but I foresee a period of poetry-writing in my near future.

Of striking a balance on the road.

One of the things that I was very conscious of in Chicago was wanting to make sure that it didn't feel altogether like a "work" trip. Ever since I started taking my photography seriously (i.e. when I began to exhibit and sell it) I have been compelled to make travel first and foremost about taking images home with me. Taking that approach has (at times) had a substantial payoff, both in practical terms and in lending an extra dimension of depth to my experience. I'm glad I've been involved in that type of "work". But it can become obsessive and intrusive as well.

Truthfully, I have always felt the need to run around and see as much as I can whenever I visit a new place. I get a nagging sense that I might never return, and I don't want to "miss out". At times this has been an issue for my companions on such trips. Having researched a place to come up with an itinerary, I get frustrated if I encounter competing agendas. This isn't generally a problem with M., as she understands and respects my priorities. She's perfectly happy for us to go our own ways whenever we disagree about what we individually desire. But others have interpreted my vacation-approach as a slight against their own values, or a commentary on my friendship with them. I've become more diligent about explaining this issue beforehand, and trying to monitor situations that might elicit inner or outer conflict. I feel like I negotiated that well this summer, in both NYC and Chicago. Of course you'd probably have to consult L. or JM to get the whole story.

L. and I actually had an interesting, protracted discussion about individual strategies for engaging art museums. He told me that he had been affected by a suggestion he read in a Jeanette Winterson book. Her contention is that so many people file through the halls of great art collections, and give cursory glances at so many great works of art. They have only a set amount of time to spend, and so they move quickly through, and often get overwhelmed and overstimulated long before they have seen everything. Winterson suggests finding one work that is particularly interesting, and sitting down in front of it for a long time- perhaps even an hour. She says that, in this way, one can have a deep fulfilling experience, and therefore get closer to the true spirit and intention of art appreciation. After all the artist took hours and/or days to create the work... is it so much to ask that we invest a substantial amount in considering its values and meaning?

My initial reaction was that this approach didn't seem like a particularly useful way to manage the finite resource of time. If I am in a new city, I want to get a broad range of experiences in order to synthesize my thoughts and feelings about the place. I can't imagine traveling for many hours for a single shot at seeing what the Metropolitan Museum (or MOMA or the Smithsonian, etc.) has to offer, only to spend the bulk of my visit contemplating a single image. There's no way I could keep myself from feeling some vague sense of dissatisfaction and regret because of a perception of missed opportunity.

Yet at the same time, I think it's important for me to give fair consideration to Winterson's idea. I do see how it could be useful to devote one's attention to certain works that appear particularly appealing (for whatever subjective reason). This seems like the natural way humans process information anyway. I have no problem making choices about what I believe I can pass up, and what things I should invest time in. I do think it's important to empower ourselves to make such discriminations. There is no rational way we can give equal time to each and every piece we encounter. And in order to reach any true measure of depth with something, we have to be willing to pause and give into an interactive introspection.

Somewhere there is an ideal balance of quantity and quality. If we confine ourselves to committing all of our resources to the things that already appeal to us, then we risk the repression of our own growth and evolution. But on the other hand, if we try to pack too much in- we face the danger of shutting off completely to the very meaningful ways in which it is possible to experience an individual piece of art (or anything else for that matter).