One Thing I'm Really Going to Miss...

Is the sunsets. The New River Valley has the most beautiful sunsets. Click on these images if you want to see larger renditions.


I took these pictures at the ugly little strip mall near our house. It's funny, but I stopped looking at the sunsets a while ago.

I'm also going to miss the Blue Ridge Parkway. Here's a picture that we took on New Year's Day:

Homemade Advertisements

Okay, today I'm making two embarassing admissions. First, I mallwalk. Yes, it's shameful, but true--in an attempt to lose some of the weight that I gained after quitting smoking, I wander aimlessly around the mall, making friends with the octegenarians who, inevitably, outpace me as I push my daughter's stroller around. Don't you dare judge me...

The second admission is that my local shopping center, the New River Valley Mall, is a little run-down. It contains a lot of locally-owned non-franchise businesses. In fact, the devotee of Mallrats might refer to it as "the dirt mall." Still, I like it, and the locally-owned businesses make for some interesting advertisements.


The local pretzel store, Pretzels Plus, is a small chain. Most of their advertisements seem like something right out of the 1970's. They're badly arranged, the colors on the photographs are off, and the slogans are cheesy. In an attempt to enter the 1990's, Pretzels Plus is now selling an iced-coffee beverage, that they advertise in bright blue tones. While I admire their attempts to diversify, I have to note that "Ice Rage" sounds like something that happened to the Donner party, not something that you'd want to put in your mouth.

Across from Pretzels Plus, there's a nail salon. I like it alot, particularly given the amazing amount of character that it displays. It's run by a Vietnamese family that has a flair for Buddha-influenced interior design and a laissez-faire approach to the English language. Outside the store, the neon sign reads "Nail Trix":


Of course, on the window to the left of the entrance, it reads "Nails Trix":




Inside, age and an unwillingness to pay for replacement letters has produced this interpretation of the word:




The overall effect is stunning:





The local martial-arts studio specializes in self-defense in real-life situations. They have a nice term for it:




You just keep fighting reality, boys.

Finally, one local kiosk has chosen a pretty impressive name for itself:



Not to be a prick (I know--too late), but is there anything less "stylin" than the word "stylin"? Of course it doesn't help that this is a cell-phone cover store:



And one last image for you:



I try to avoid mocking the mall people because, well, it isn't nice. But this is a special circumstance. In case you can't read it, the man in this picture is playing "Silent Scope." This is a particularly fun, and realistic, first-person shooter game. In it, one shoots various enemies with the help of a scoped sniper's rifle.

I love this game, and don't have any problems with people playing it. But take another look at this man. No jewelry. Woodland camouflage. Relaxed posture.

He's not playing. He's practicing.

And on that note, I bid you a good evening.

Contrarian

My wife and I have discovered a new nemesis: the lotion people.

In the mall, there's a cart that sells lotion--it's called mystic flame, or eternal spark, or something like that. At any rate, it seems to be peopled by low-paid exchange students with bright, shiny personalities. Seriously, these kids have the kind of creepy, in your face happiness that one usually expects from Mormons and Hare Krishnas. They're like Moonies, but they aren't selling god, and I can't understand how they can be so buoyant when they're just foisting lotion on total strangers.


Actually, I don't mind the over-the-top, saccharine happiness all that much. What I really hate is the fact that they feel obliged to attack passers by with lotion and the exact same sales pitch:

Bright-faced young person from Latin America or Eastern Europe: "Excuse me, Sir, do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Me: "No, go ahead."

Bright-faced young person from Latin America or Eastern Europe: "Have you finished your Christmas shopping yet?"

Me: "Not completely."

Bright-faced young person from Latin America or Eastern Europe: "Good, because you might want to try our new...blah, blah, blah...made with cow placenta...yackety-shmackety...incredibly rich...yadda, yadda, yadda...would bring Lenin himself back from the dead..."


The other possibility is that the smiling young moisturizer zombie approaches me with an open tube of lotion, asking if I want to try a free sample. Of course, I wouldn't mind lotion, but I have absolutely no intention of buying a tube of the crap. More to the point, I feel a little weird about people entering into my comfort zone with what is, essentially, lube. I know that this is probably my problem, but it doesn't change my irritation. What I REALLY want to do is make an incredibly rude suggestion, in the hopes that the kids will take their lotion elsewhere. However, my wife keeps telling me that unzipping my fly and shouting "Grease it up, Svetlana!" will probably get me kicked out of the mall and possibly arrested.


These kids have turned the middle of the mall into an official no-fly zone. I now find myself staring at walls, the floor, ANYTHING, in order to avoid eye contact. I'm not sure how, but this live-action Bennetton ad has made me feel like I'm wandering through a tent village, circa 1933. I don't want to make eye-contact, lest they ask me if I've got a dime. Ugh.


Manufactured emotion tends to affect me this way. When I listen to Christmas Carols, I can't help it--I have to critique the orchestration, the singing, and the questionable lyrics. When I see frighteningly earnest, disturbingly cheery kids, I immediately think about cults. When I see inspirational posters, my mind travels to Despair, Inc. It's not that I'm opposed to inspiration, or honesty, or Christmas Carols. Rather, I just get an itchy feeling in my colon when someone tries to manipulate my emotions. It ends up making me behave poorly, which makes me resentful.

Mostly, I just wish the little bastards would keep their lotion to themselves.

Probing the Mystery Hole

For about a year, my wife worked for a publishing company in Roanoke. There were numerous problems with her job, including massive disorganization, an editor-in-chief who was a raging alcoholic, and various people who were perched on the narrow edge between insanity and homicidal insanity. However, there were also good points.

One of my favorite things about her job was the access it gave us to various weird tourist attractions. As I've mentioned before, I'm a big fan of home-town tourism, and the people at my wife's work had made a living out of finding strange and unique places to visit. One day, my wife burst through the door, yelling that she'd found a place we just had to visit.

"What is it?" I asked.

Her smile widened. "The Mystery Hole."

After I determined that she wasn't coming on to me (she can be a little oblique sometimes), we immediately made plans to go. On Saturday, we woke up at the crack of 10, gassed up the car, got some bottled water, and pointed ourselves toward West Virginia. It was a beautiful day, and we relaxed into the drive. It's about an hour and a half from our house to Anstead, West Virginia, where the Mystery Hole is, and much of the drive follows the path of the New River, which is, oddly enough, the second oldest river in the world.

As we passed into West Virginia, the mountains became sharper and more defined. It was absolutely gorgeous. However, as much as we enjoyed the twisty highway and beautiful scenery, we were happy when we finally got to the Hole. The roads in West Virginia are very steep, and my old Mustang wasn't really enjoying the extra exertion. Added to this, my wife suffers from about a billion different allergies and, as much as she enjoyed driving with the top down, she was starting to have a hard time breathing.


Even before we took our tour into the unknown, the Mystery Hole was worth the trip. It was encased in an old quonset hut with a broken VW bug poking out of the side. A row of American flags decorated the top of the hut, and the walls were painted with flashy slogans and various flourishes. It looked like both sides of the sixties--the hawks and the doves--had staked their claim to the building.

The audience was almost as exciting. It was a mix of kids and adults, locals and out-of-towners. John Deere caps mingled with dreadlocks; maybe it was the garish painting and the carnival air but, for a moment, everyone looked like a freak. We went inside to catch our breath, buy our tickets, and look through the gift shop.

The tickets were a couple of bucks each, but the store was out of T-shirts, which was a real bummer, as I really wanted a shirt that said "I've been inside the Mystery Hole!" or something similarly tasteless. It would have been really cool if I could have gotten it in prison orange. Anyway, we bought our tickets and waited with a growing crowd of kids in the parking lot for the next tour into the hole itself. This gave us time to peruse the signs warning people with heart problems from taking the tour. In spite of ourselves, we started to get a little excited.

Finally, it was our turn. As we walked down a long flight of stairs, the tourguide kept up his patter, a story about the "discovery" of the Mystery Hole that seemed to owe equal parts to oral storytellers and circus sideshow barkers. As we went deeper into the hole, we passed the little scares and visual jokes that are part and parcel of any good house of horrors. Yes, brothers and sisters, there was a blacklight room and wood carvings. There were mannequins and skeletons. And, yes, it looked like a 16-year old's room, circa 1978. Suffice to say, it was a total blast.


In time, we found ourselves in the Mystery Hole itself. And, as much as I'd like to be a smartass and tell you that it was all cheesy and ridiculous, there were times when I had to stare at a fixed point because my sense of balance started to get out of whack and my heart sped up. I saw water flow uphill and a chair, with a woman in it, balance on a wall. I saw plumb bobs stick out of the wall at me. And, although I knew how it was done, it still freaked me out a little.

When it was all over, we were pretty hungry, so we went to Tudor Biscuit World, a chain restaurant that sells fast-food Southern Cafe cooking. It had real ham biscuits and proper southern string beans, overcooked to perfection. My wife got the pot roast and I seem to remember pie for dessert. I decided, then and there, that fast-food Southern cooking was a brilliant idea, and that I was glad I didn't live within sixty miles of a Tudor Biscuit World, as I'm not sure my waistline could take the punishment.

So there you have it. If you ever find yourself in Anstead, West Virginia, be sure to drop into the Mystery Hole. Hopefully they'll have T-shirts in stock when you come by. Even if they don't, you still won't regret the trip.

Some Fun Local News

My wife told me about this one a couple of days ago. Apparently, Pam Semones, a Christiansburg policewoman brutally misused her power. While this might not seem too uncommon or impressive, the degree to which the officer in question broke the law is truly astounding.

The story begins with Wendy Covington, who accused her husband, Gary, of having an affair. Gary, who sounds like a real charmer, took umbrage at this, and proceeded to beat Wendy until she was unconscious.

She was holding her 22-month old child at the time.

When she came to, Wendy called the police. Covington was quickly arrested and taken from the scene. Enter Pam Semones. Officer Semones showed up after the arrest and demanded that she be given control of the investigation. Semones then put Wendy Covington into her police car, where she told the battered wife that she would "arrest [Wendy] for abusing [Gary] and would do whatever she could to take Covington's children away."

Over the next few days, Semones continued to harass Wendy Covington, intercepting Wendy's request for a restraining order, forcing Wendy to pack Gary's bags, and bringing him by the house to pick up his things, in direct contravention of a magistrate's order. Semones also kidnapped Covington's children from the Women's Resource Center in Radford. While Semones transported the children to Gary Covington, the Radford police detained Wendy, accusing her of kidnapping her own children.

Confused? Here's the upshot: Officer Pam Semones is Satan. I know that this might seem too bizarre for words, so click here to get the full article from the Roanoke Times. Now, my wife knows Pam Semones, as they worked together for a while. Apparently, this isn't the first time Semones has worked outside the law. However, it is certainly the most egregious. And the best part? The woman Wendy Covington (accurately) accused her husband of sleeping with was...you guessed it, Pam Semones.

How the hell do people justify this kind of behavior to themselves? I know that I'm insanely naive, but I can't imagine the kind of moral twists and turns that Pam Semones must have gone through to be able to look herself in the mirror. Ugh.

Well, here's the upshot: Wendy Covington is currently suing the Town of Christiansburg for $40 million. I hope she gets it.

Uncommon Courtesy

For some reason or another, I've always viewed the South as the last repository of good manners. Perhaps this is because the South prides itself on its manners, or maybe it's because of the long pedigree that manners seem to have in the literature of the South. Maybe it's just because everybody just talks more slowly down here. However, recent events have convinced me that the time has come for the South, or at least my little corner of it, to surrender the mantle. The time has come to admit that the South is peopled with intolerant, immature, agressive louts.


From South Cacalacky to Silver Beach
A few years ago, my then-girlfriend Angela and I visited her mother, father, and great-aunt in South Carolina. As soon as I entered the house, Angela's mom had me in a chair and was shoveling food in my mouth. Seriously, the whole operation was creepily reminiscent of Lawrence Olivier in Marathon Man. She started off with leftovers from breakfast; within an hour, she was force-feeding me food that had been in the freezer since the Nixon administration. During the seven days (and twenty pounds) that I stayed with Angela's family, Angela's mom rarely gave me a moment's respite. I was eating constantly, and not always willingly. I also noticed that every time I stepped into a room, Angela's mom would offer me a seat. I appreciated this a lot until I realized that Mrs. H refused to let me stand up.

Later that same summer, we visited my friend Billy's parents on Cape Cod. Now, Billy's mom is old-school Boston Irish, which means that she was half in the bag by the time we got to her house at 6 PM. Glaring at me through an alcoholic haze, she snarled "Siddown!"

I complied.

She gave me the evil eye. "Ya want some blueberry pie?" she sneered.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"With ice cream?"

"Yes, ma'am." She practically threw it at me.

I ate it quietly and quickly--blueberry pie is among the many culinary delights of the Cape, and is almost always amazing. When she noticed my empty plate, Mrs. C practically yelled at me: "You want more?"

I smiled. "Yes, please."

She refilled my plate and slid it over.

After this interaction, I assumed that I had somehow pissed Mrs. C off, or that I just brought out the demon in her. However, when I saw Billy two days later, he told me that his mom had asked after me, and was wondering when I would be coming back. I told him that I thought I had pissed her off. Billy gave me a funny look, replying, "No, she really liked you. A lot."

Thinking about it later, I realized that Angela and Billy's moms were actually not all that different. Although Mrs. H was charming, there was never the slightest question that her gently-worded offers were, in fact, orders. On the other side, for all her brusqueness, Mrs. C took it upon herself to see that I was fed and well cared for while I was under her roof. Based on this summer, I started to reconsider my concepts of courtesy.


Remember My New River Valley
One would think that the halcyon vales of the New River Valley would be a haven for polite, kind folk. Miles from any city, far from the madding crowd, it would seem the perfect setting for genteel manners. One would imagine the local gentry, tipping their John Deere caps to each other as they pick up their Skoal and Big Macs.

One would be wrong.

I believe in holding the door when somebody is nearing an entrance at the same time as me. I know that this is old-fashioned, but I was taught to be courteous, and some of my mother's lessons stuck with me. As an inveterate door-holder, I have grown accustomed to the rude looks and sneers of the people I courteously allow to pass ahead of me. My wife, on the other hand, lacks my sanguine, relaxed sense of justice. One day, she was holding a door for someone at the library. As the woman passed through, she made the mistake of giving my wife a sneering look of superiority. Bad move.

My wife hauled back and slammed the door into the woman's ass. As the offending shrew went sprawling, my wife yelled "Next time, say 'thank you,' bitch!"

My wife is the coolest person ever.


Road Warrior
About a month ago, I was driving up interstate 81 into Roanoke with my sister and daughter. Two people ahead of me, a SUV and a Hooter's delivery van, were in a rolling roadblock. Both were going about 60, which was five miles below the posted speed limit. I was about one car length behind the Hooters van, and I flicked my lights to indicate that I wanted him to pass or get out of my way. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a white van slid into the tiny space between the Hooter's van and my car, nearly running me off the road. After I caught my breath, I laid on the horn for about fifteen seconds. The guy in the white van slowed down to fifty miles an hour. For the thirty minutes remaining in my trip, I tried to pass the white van. He would let others pass, then would slide ahead of me. There were times when he careened across four lanes of traffic to cut me off. I started to wonder if I was going to make it to my destination alive. One exit before I had to get off, I pretended to pull off, and the white van veered ahead of me. Once he was firmly inside the exit lane, I swerved back onto the highway. As I drove away, he flipped me the bird and shook his fist out his window.


New York
This last summer, my wife, my daughter, and I wandered around New York together. Oddly enough, we found that New Yorkers were almost insanely courteous. Our previous experiences had taught us that, while New York was generally not as aggressive as its reputation would suggest, it was still far from polite. This summer, however, we found that it had an almost Jane Austen level gentility. Everywhere we went, people opened doors, held elevators, and gave us smiles. The final straw was when I was on a subway and a Jewish lady in her seventies offered me her seat. I didn't want to be the shmuck who took an old lady's seat, so I tried to pass George to my wife. Smiling, she said "No, I'll stand."

I stared daggers at the love of my life. "No, really, honey, you look tired. Have George and sit down."

She smiled sweetly. "No, I need to stretch anyway. You sit."

The yenta tapped my arm. "Sonny, really, sit down."

I tried to save the last shreds of my dignity. "Really, ma'am, I appreciate it, but I'm fine."

"Of course you are. Come on, sit, sit!"

There was no way out of this. Feeling like the biggest asshole on the face of the earth, I took the old lady's seat. We talked for the rest of the ride, and she told me that she remembered how hard it was to juggle kids and bags on the subway.

Of course, I know that people were only nice to us because we were carrying a cute kid, but this isn't the first time that I've noticed that people in New York are surprisingly kind to each other. After a few days of this treatment, the rudeness of Southwest Virginia was an unpleasant shock.

I'm not sure what's going on with courtesy, or why our daily lives have become a Mad Max in Thunderdome foray into barbarism, but I'm getting a little sick of the rudeness around me. Maybe I have to take lessons from my wife.

The Day I Caught a Glimpse of Little Elvis

In Southwest Virginia, the big city is Roanoke. This, of course, is a little odd, as Roanoke has a population of just over 300,000 people. Still, it has an international airport, two ballet companies, four malls, a few hospitals, some museums, and a couple of interesting tourist attractions, so I guess that it could be worse. I mean, it's not Muncie.

One of my favorite hobbies is playing tourist in my own hometown. I buy a travel guide, list all the interesting things to see, and seek them out. When I started doing this a few years ago, the first thing on my list was Miniature Graceland. I read about it in Moon Guides' Virginia Handbook, by Juilan Smith. He wrote: "Miniature Graceland is [...] the product of hours of loving work. Don and Kim Epperly have filled their modest backyard with doll-sized replicas of major buildings in Elvis' life, topped by Graceland itself, complete with car museum."

Clearly, I couldn't resist. However, a place like Miniature Graceland deserves special treatment, so I saved it for the very end of the milennium. On December 31, 1999, accompanied by my sister Ella, my friend John, and John's creepy friend, whose name I've (mercilessly) forgotten, I traveled the hour down 81 to Roanoke. We started our pilgrimage at the Roanoke Star, which is the largest neon star in the world. Supposedly, Elvis also visited the star on a trip to Roanoke. Regardless, the star gave us an opportunity to take lots of Soviet-style pictures of ourselves and marvel at what, truly, is a huge eyesore. While up there, we also noticed what we thought was a group of Amish driving a compact car. On closer observation, though, we realized that they were only Mennonites.


On the way back down Mill Mountain, we stopped in on Graceland. I think we drove past the place a few times, as it is, essentially, the side yard of a non-descript house in a very non-descript neighborhood. Finally, though, we found the place, parked, and silently piled out of the car. Reverently, we approached the shrine. The first thing we saw was the statue of Elvis. The Epperly's had, apparently, decided that any shrine to Elvis needs an idol. There's was a full-sized gold replica of the man himself. However, when we got nearer we realized that the statue appeared to be a mannequin of an asian man with a huge pompadour and a lot of gold paint. Unwilling to let reality get in the way of style, however, we acknowledged that this was a true stroke of genius, dropped a dollar or two in the little gold-painted collection box, and went on our merry way.

Miniature Graceland was, to be honest, kind of a disappointment. While we enjoyed taking pictures of ourselves from forced-perspectives, the joy of impersonating Godzilla in Memphis quickly dissipated, particularly as we noticed that Miniature Graceland was...well, a little seedy. The grounds were overgrown, the house needed a paintjob, and the Barbie dolls that the Epperlys had put in the little buildings were somewhat threadbare. On further reflection, however, we realized that the Epperlys had, actually, captured the true spirit of Graceland: seedy, overgrown, a little tacky, and in need of a fresh coat of paint.

Happy once again, we went to a Vietnamese restaurant, where we had our last official meal of the milennium.

I've since returned to Miniature Graceland, and found it to be even more overgrown and seedy. However, on the bright side, Don Epperly's son Mike has taken control of Miniature Graceland and is in the process of rebuilding and refinishing the houses. So there's hope for mini-Elvis after all.

Failed Seekers, Part 2

NB: This post is a continuation of Failed Seekers, a post that I did about a week ago.

Will Morva escaped from jail the day before the Fall Semester was scheduled to start. As my wife drove me in to work, I noticed police cars parked along Route 460, the main highway through my area. We had heard about the escape the previous evening, but it was still shocking to see the police combing the bushes.

About midway through my second class of the day, there was a knock on the door. When I answered it, another teacher was waiting for me in the hall. He told me that the University had shut down for the day, and all of my students were supposed to return to their dorms. I wrapped up everything in class and sent my students home. Walking back to my office, I noticed that campus was almost empty; I called my wife and asked her to pick me up.

In my building, my colleagues were gathering in little groups in each others' offices, chattering about the day's disturbing events. I was the only one who knew Will, and they seemed convinced that he was about to knock down their doors and start shooting. I could understand their concerns; Will looked insane in the mug shots that were plastered all over the news. While I couldn't imagine my friend hurting a fly, the nutjob in the pictures was clearly capable of anything. While I tried to keep myself from buying into the hype, it was hard to see Will the same way.

All that day, I kept checking the local news' website and answering e-mails from worried friends and relatives. That night, I wandered around Facebook, reading the responses from various students. By the end of the day, there were over a dozen groups dedicated to Will. Some of them were funny, such as "Jack Bauer Would Have Caught Morva Faster" and "I'm Tired of This Mother#@&$in' Killer on This Mother#@&#ing Campus." Others, like "I Sat on my Couch with a Loaded Gun Waiting for Morva to Come in my House" and "The Homicidal Maniac at Tech Club," showed some of the terror that the students felt. The one that touched me the most, "We Knew Will Morva Before He Was a Murderer!," hinted at my own confusion.

One person, Emily Arthur, wrote: "everyone has to keep in mind that the William that we knew in high school and even after is NOT the same person who did all of this. The William that most of us knew was caring and peaceful. The person who emerged over these past few years is not the William that I remembered and is not how I will remeber him in theh future... I urge the rest of you to do the same." Another, Shawn Whiting, had also met the officer Will killed: "The sherif he killed on the huckelberry was the same guy that pulled me over 2 weeks ago for expired tags on my car. my tags were like 9 months out of date but he let me go, he was a really nice guy. kinda puts this whole thing in persepctive for me. fucking morva."

Perhaps the most interesting thing was the greater significance that people drew from this event. One person called this "the day that Blacksburg lost its innocence." A young woman weighed in with the profoundly ridiculous statement that "Today, someone I knew killed a man and got a middle name: William Charles Morva."

Now, for me, Blacksburg lost its innocence in 1994, when a freshman, Christy Brzonkala, was repeatedly raped by two football players. The young men, of course, went free, and Brzonkala ended up leaving the school. For that matter, the disturbing bacchanal that follows every home game has long made me nervous about wandering the streets, let alone allowing my sister to do so. Regarding the other statement, comparing Will to Lee Harvey Oswald, John Wayne Gacy, or Henry Lee Lucas is, of course, utterly ridiculous.

The conclusion that I drew from this matter was that Blacksburg is no longer a place for thoughful wanderers and assorted tumbleweeds. In the mid-1990's, I was able to raise my sister in the town because the cost of living was extremely cheap. However, over the last ten years, housing prices have gone through the roof. Today, downtown apartments cost as much as $3000, which puts them in range of New York prices. The three-bedroom townhouse that I rented for $480 in 1996 now costs over $1500. In other words, I could not afford to raise my sister in Blacksburg today.

The cost of this inflation is immeasurable. In the mid-1990's, Blacksburg had a wide array of floaters, dreamers, and drifters. Rather than undermine the town, these people added immeasurably to its intellectual life. Most of them worked part-time jobs to pay rent while they found themselves. Some of us worked for the University (I was an artists' model and librarian). Most people didn't do this for long; some, like my friends Dana and Adam, went on to law school or grad school. Others, like Paris, drifted away after a few years. One or two became organic farmers and some went to Hollywood. A few, like me, ended up teaching. I'd like to think that all of us added to the level of conversation in the local coffee houses and bars.

Will used to hang around with us, talking and drinking coffee. When he got older, it probably seemed natural to try living the same existence. But Blacksburg had changed, and he could no longer afford to be poor. Now, I'm not going to try to blame Will's actions on inflation or the rising cost of living, but it seems to me like there is almost no space left for people to "find themselves" before they are plunged into the workforce. This, to me, is a tragedy.