roadtripping.

Funsters ISO kitsch: a trip to the grooviest motel in Wisconsin.

continued from page 3

Back in the car, we coasted slowly down the hill to the supperclub below, gleaming like an alien spacecraft which has alit on the wrong planet. It was truly a sight to behold. The hydro lines surrounding it give the air of a bug trapped in a spiderweb from a dystopian future. I have no clue how this is supposed to fit with the turkey theme, but there it is.

We parked and circled the building, more carefully this time, because there were cars on the lot. More to the point, they were large shiny suvs and pickup trucks, souped-up in true small-town nuscle-car style, and in any case the sort of vehicle that could easily drive right over the momcar, pausing only to wonder if it had a pebble caught between its toes.

And there was a newish sign, declaring this to be the home of "John-John's Not-Yet-Famous Ribhouse."

Indeed.

Peering in the window, which involved navigating some sort of prickly shrub, and then balancing on sloping stucco, we were able to see... our Mecca. There were lavender naugahyde chairs, arrayed around the central circular bar. There were paper placemats with menus printed on them, neatly laid out on each table.

And, by the bar, a large screen tv. Turned on. Obviously, there must be people about.

Surely they'd let us in for a look.

At this point we got kind of creeped out. They didn't have a sign advising of their hours of operation out front, so we'd gone round the back to see what we could see. The only thing to do was knock. Suddenly we both felt very small and far from home and vulnerable and alone. But we did tap on the door.

And again, a little louder.

Finally, I tried giving the door a little tug, and found it open! Daniel and I exchanged nervous glances, and then, trying to sound as harmless and inoffensive as possible, I yodelled "hellloooo?"

A woman came to the door, looking slightly confused to see us there, but generally nice and friendly. "We've driven all the way from Toronto," we said, "just to look inside." Cleverly echoing the words from the brochure on the Institute of Official Cheer. If she noticed, she didn't say anything. except:

"Let me go get Mel."

Mel? Like in Alice? Was she putting us on?

Moments later she returned with a haggard woman in filthy clothing, who smelled so high, I would have failed a breathaliser just from standing next to her. It was as though fulfilling every negative stereotype about white trash was her personal mission in life. We had relaxed after meeting the first woman, who seemed perfectly pleasant and normal, but Mel looked like she was spoiling for a fight.

We explained our trip and asked if we could look around.
"We open at four," said Mel.
"But that's hours away! We have to leave before then. Couldn't we just take a little peek?"
"Look I had a big private party here last night, and I can't let people in to see the place until it's been cleaned up." And with that, she closed the door in our faces.

Evil, evil woman.

We took a final stroll around the grounds. The Gobbler is pretty breathtaking from just about every angle. See how the flashing is falling off! Listen to the eaves rattle in the wind! hHow could it have failed in its aim to be a stylish, happening meeting place for the coolest hipsters in the midwest? Alas, Wisconsin was perhaps not ready for the Gobbler. They are left with Mel and John-John. So sad.

But we had other fish to fry.

continue to page 5

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