Special Ingredients: Branson or Bust

I just came back from a fun-filled road trip with my girlfriend, Christy’s, family that took us to Branson, Missouri. Don’t feel stupid if you’ve never heard of it; very few people who I talked to about it have, which is frankly very surprising, considering the high-caliber attractions the town offers. If I had to sum it up, I’d say that Branson is similar to a 1970’s Las Vegas minus the gambling and vulgarity, but plus a family-fun atmosphere, an extremely hilly terrain, and an overall sense of Christian values. So basically, as stated on The Simpsons, "it’s like Vegas — if it were run by Ned Flanders."

The trip itself consisted of nine days with travel, and I’ll admit now that there is a lot of material to cover about it, but I’m going to leave out most of the details and just focus on the attractions and activities, which actually weren’t that numerous or complicated. The details I’m leaving out involve a certain potential future in-law and could get me in serious trouble if I spout out about it in a non-fictitious format, a risk I’m not willing to take for free. The other reason I’m holding back is that most of these incidences are going to be the focal point of a book I’m planning to write, so if you want to know the saucy details, bug your favorite publisher until they send me a bag of money for a piece of literature that technically doesn’t exist yet. I’m sure most of you publisher types can’t wait to get your grubby hands on this idea, so throw in your bids now, so when the final winner is determined, I can purchase a personal helicopter and harass idiot drivers on my commute to work (“Cut off THIS!!!”)

One day, Christy’s dad invited me to come along on their family trip to Branson. I was hesitant at first, since I didn’t want to spend the week with her family, fearing that too much exposure to me might give them more valid reasons to hate me and convince her parents to pressure Christy into joining a convent. I eventually agreed, based on the fact that Christy laid down a very subtle guilt trip that she refuses to acknowledge, but as a seasoned boyfriend, I know better. Women instinctively know how to send guys on guilt trips, even if they don’t intend to. It’s part of nature’s way of making guys act less like guys.

I probably should have given the matter some more thought. After all, we were going to a state called “Missouri,” which is suspiciously close to “misery.” However, having now been there, I can now say that this assumption is inaccurate. There’re a lot of great times to be had in Missouri, assuming you’re a hillbilly, country music fanatic, or Christian. If you happen to be all three, you're in for the greatest hoedown of your life.

I awoke early on Thursday and waited for the family to pull around in their behemoth family van and whisk me away to Branson. My “payment” for the invite was to drive the van every so often during the seven-hundred mile plus road trip. This made me nervous, since had I never driven a van before. I figured I’d accidentally fuse other motorists into the van’s framework in an attempt to switch lanes, but when I got behind the wheel, I discovered it wasn’t that bad and everything ended up without a hitch, though I had to get used to driving my car again when I got back. Comparing the handling of a full-sized car to a van is like comparing a jet ski to a navy destroyer.

Our only overnight stop was on the outskirts of Saint Louis, ten hours from home and three hours from the time share condo we would be staying at. I’m not entirely up on this “time share” concept, but what I think it involves is the “buyer” giving money to a company in exchange for use of a living space that’s not their home at a specific time, which is basically the concept behind hotels, except less flexible.

For whatever reason, though, we stayed in a hotel at Saint Louis that night. I questioned why we didn’t just keep going, to which I was told that our time at the condo didn’t start until the next day. I asked why we didn’t simply leave for the condo a day later and save on the hotel room, but no one was certain why. This is part of the magic of planning a family vacation.

Not that I’m complaining, though. The hotel was nice and was within walking distance of a very cool shopping plaza that managed to extract part of my vacation fund from my wallet. There was even a used music/video/video game shop that had some great concepts (their “business cards” were Atari 2600 cartridges fixed with their own labels), but, sadly, they thought their clever ideas warranted outrageously high prices. It was a great time, though, and was one of the highlights of the trip.

The next day, we made our way to the condo. Hours passed as we zipped down increasingly-wooded areas, trailers, pickups, and people with more tattoos than teeth becoming a more frequent occurrence as we moved on. We eventually arrived at the Ozark Mountain Resort, which is a ways off of the Branson mark, and would be home for the next week.

A feeling of dread swept over me like a buzz from moonshine as we navigated the twisting, hilly roads of the resort that even mountain goats couldn’t get a proper footing on. The van puttered along, careening up and down the road, passing by dozens of small, rustic combo cabins that looked like they had a strong chance of housing Missouri’s largest population of creepy crawlers.

Eventually, we reached the condo, which turned out to be very nice and only contained a single cockroach (really). The resort itself featured a nice array of activities, including a swimming pool, miniature golf, basketball, ping pong, archery, air hockey, and an array of other entertainment. The problem is, most of the entertainment either cost money or was hidden.

I’m not making the hidden part up. The archery range and basketball court (among a few others) was tucked away in the forest, with literally no direct way to reach them from the main road. The provided resort maps were also useless, so after ending up in a restricted area way off the beaten path, we eventually cut through one of the cabin's lawns and ended up on an extremely rocky and uneven path that led to the outdoor activity area, which was so close to being overtaken by the surrounding forest that the trees were actively blocking our jump shots and hurling them back in defiance.

The basketball court itself was only a half-court slab, and the archery range was broken up by a small creek that we had to cross every time we shot an arrow. There was a shuffleboard court and a patch of sand with a net that I assume was supposed to resemble a volleyball court, but we didn’t look into these activities, since the bug population would have likely finished us off where the trails had failed.

I never did find the exercise room or the marina, despite all of the signs pointing to them. I’m still not convinced they ever existed, despite the fact Christy claims she saw them. I think it was the mountain air getting to her.

The indoor activity center featured an array of games, videos, a kitchen, and ping pong and air hockey tables. The problem here is that air hockey was a dollar a game, though ping pong was free, provided you had a ball. If not, there was a handy machine that dispensed them at a quarter a piece (the most reasonable price there). If you needed it, there was internet access available for the low, low price of only $8 an hour on a 56K modem, meaning a casual e-mail check would likely cost no more than $128. A steal!

The miniature golf was fun, and the pool was extremely good. As an added bonus, these two attractions were right next to our condo, so I could take a dip with casual ease and without the fear of being eaten by a bear on my way back. Another plus is that I didn’t have to endure the hilly terrain, which really takes a lot out of a person during a ninety-plus degree day. I really didn’t see a point in having an exercise room; just walking to the registration building once would be enough to make exercising anymore in your lifetime unnecessary.

A mile or so down the road was a small town that provided the basic necessities: groceries, gas, local yokel restaurant, and bowling. Not just any bowling, but hillbilly bowling! I’m not joking; there was actually a place called Hillbilly Bowl, which I desperately wanted to check out, but, sadly, never had the opportunity to.

The main focus of the trip, of course, was Branson, which I’ve already summed up. I’m not joking when I say this entertainment town (or at least the “entertainment” part) was basically founded by a family of musicians who took a look at the town and said “You know, I bet if we open a theater here, we could get a lot of dumb tourists to come in and give us their money!” And boy, were they right.

The main strip of Branson consists of theaters, restaurants, tourist information, hotels, booths, miniature golf, go-cart tracks, and stores that range from leather shops (although there wasn't anything really kinky; this is the Family Fun Capitol of the World after all) to antique (read: junk). We saw four shows during our stay, most of which were excellent within the parameters of Branson, which means canned crap.

Just kidding. The shows were mostly good for country music. The first was a variety show featuring a group called New South, which consist of a guy who still sports a mullet and another guy whose voice is so bass that it literally shakes the very seats every time he opens his mouth. I’m not joking about this; this guy can’t be heard, he's felt.

The next show was an improvisation comedy show in the vain of Whose Line is it Anyway? called Hot Seat. This show was exactly like Who’s Line, except without the humor. Okay, it was kind of funny, but you can tell that these guys really wanted to go places that were closer to Hollywood than Branson. Christy’s brother did get on stage, though, and won something (mentioned later), so that was kind of neat. I hesitated to volunteer, since I’m not that good at improv, and I’m rather comfortable with the significant distance between my audience and me right now, just in case I piss someone off.

The staff was also trying to hock various weird and cheap toys that had nothing to do with the show other than they provided extra income. I was tempted to purchase this interesting stretchy spiked cap/ball thing, but at $8 a piece, I felt my money was better spent elsewhere. One of the items on sale, a foil flying saucer, was tossed into the audience for some entertainment, but after it slammed into a few unwitting attendees by hyperactive children, causing brain damage, I’m sure they rethought that idea. Or not, since brain damage might convince the audience that these guys are the funniest thing since Chris Moore. Christy’s family promptly bought one of these things.

The next show we actually had free tickets for (more on that later). It was a high-production show featuring a family of musicians called the Haygoods. While they were a talented lot, these people really disturbed me. For one, they had their fourteen-year-old sister and twelve-year-old brother out there performing with the ferocity of rapid weasels. Seriously, these kids have more music talent than Beethoven. I suspect some serious child labor and exploitation violations here…

Speaking of which, it was obvious which Haygood was the black sheep. Tucked away in the back, quietly sitting and playing his guitar, was one of the brothers, a heavy-set fellow who seemed to resent the entire family. They only brought him up once to sing, which, diplomatically, he should never have been fooled into trying. I’m not saying I’m better than him; I can’t whistle without making dogs howl. I just felt sorry for this guy, and I think if those whiny human rights groups want to focus their righteous indignity on anything, they should focus it on the happenings in Branson.

To further the case, they decided to bring out Momma Haygood and show her off. After having five kids (at least I think that’s the number; they had some friends and other relatives up there, so it was hard to keep track), I expected a grim, large-ish women who looked like an old-fashion country ma to plod out on stage. Instead, a skeletal-thin, forty-ish woman who looked like she never ate a day in her life strode out, happily waving. While I’m tempted to accept this woman as being the real mother, I wouldn’t find it surprising that they routinely bound and gag the real Momma Haygood and sealed her in an outhouse until the show’s over. There are some sick, sick things going down in Branson…

I have to mention that shortly after this article was posted, I received an e-mail from one of the Haygoods who had read the article. He was pleasant about it and politely corrected me on a few things, mostly taking this entire thing for what it was: humor. At least that's what he claims. I've been watching my back since, waiting for one of them to strike, since country-music family combos are known for their ninja skills. While I'm still alive, check out that e-mail here.

Once the human rights groups are done investigating the Haygoods, they should check out Joe Riley, who was our final and most dismal stop. This “performer,” whose theater was tucked away in a pitiful local mall (red alert!), had a country music/comedy show that was doomed from the start. The man started out with a “I flew in from Texas and boy are my arms tired!” joke that was drawn out for half a minute. The rest of his show consisted of flat jokes, mostly talking about his brother’s large ear size, doing stale impersonations, and making stupid, pointless faces at the audience. I’m not sure why this guy was given his own show, and I could tell his band members couldn’t figure it out either. I think they really wanted to kill him, and probably would have if it weren’t illegal. If you guys want to try it, I’ll start a legal fund for you if you pull it off, but I’m sure it won’t cost much after the jury sees this guy’s routine via one of the high-priced souvenir performance video tapes.

It should come as no surprise that the performers were constantly trying to sell tapes of the performances. It was actually pretty impressive that the audiovisual crew could shoot out a tape of the performance and get it ready for sale after that show, but I still can’t see paying $24.95 just to relive the experience. It’s kind of like buying a graduation video: no one ever wants to watch it again because it was so stupid and boring, and there’s no reason to put anyone through it again. I’m sure hundreds of video tape souvenirs sit in America’s video shelves, their owners wondering what the hell they were thinking spending their child’s prescription money on Aunt Martha's Washboard Show Live! It’s one of our flaws as a species, I guess.

For those who know a little bit about Branson, no, we did not see allegedly Russian comedian Yakov Smirnoff (really), though witnessing the vast amounts of promotional material scattered around the area for his act probably counted as seeing the actual show. It's just as well, since I have my doubts that the man has come up with any original material since 1994 (the date on all of his CDs the family had from a previous visit). If I wanted to live the experience, I could just pop one of these babies in and stare at one of Yakov's obnoxious pamphlets (pamphlets, by the way, are the most effective way of communicating in Branson, Missouri).

There was more to do in Branson than going to shows, of course, and I managed to miss out on most of it. Fortunately, since Christy’s brother was given a pass for a local go-cart track for his performance at Hot Seat, the three of us got to ride on a pretty cool track. Needless to say, I beat the lot of them, even though I don’t think the family of the little girl whose car I flipped in the process shared my mirth. They’re just jealous.

Another attraction was the Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum, a fascinating place where visitors can spend hours upon hours reading. I’m not joking here; there’s more text in this place than a standard unabridged encyclopedia set. But it’s neat, and you can see a lot of cool things here, like a “real” shrunken head (I’m a bit skeptical about its authenticity. I think it was made from the head of an employee with a low performance review score).

As interesting as it was, some moronic parents thought it was a great idea to bring their kids into this place. This is fine if the kids are mature enough to stand around reading for a couple of hours, but if they’re under the age of 45, you can forget it. It was an all too common sight to see children running around, whining, or crying as their parents tried to make them have fun, dammit. But I guess you don’t get ahead as a parent by being smart.

Not that I was that much better. At one point I took a break from the tour and stopped in the restroom, setting my expensive Palm Pilot down. Later, when we were a half mile away from Ripley’s, I realized I didn’t have it on me. I panicked and forced to family to go back, which, considering Branson traffic, only took ten minutes. The moment the van stopped, I flew out and latched onto the nearest employee, explaining the situation with the calmness and collectiveness of a parent whose child was actively on fire. I eventually convinced them to let me back into the museum, and I ran through three hours worth of exhibits (going the opposite way), and eventually reached the bathroom where I thought I left my Palm. I flew through the door, ripped the stall open (if there was anyone in there, they definitely would have experienced the most disturbing moment of their life) and found: my Palm Pilot. And with that, the merciful water cooled off my little bundle of joy.

I later theorized that the only reason no one took the Palm is because they didn’t know what it was. Considering the state I was staying in, this is a solid theory.

Another big attraction in Branson is tourist information. You can’t rosin up your bow without hitting one of these places, which is interesting, because they hand out free information and maps, so you wouldn’t think they would be that profitable. They do sell tickets, however, and they also hold those seminars that promise you a free gift if you sit through two hours of their advertising. Christy’s father got suckered into one of these, and he walked away with Haygoods tickets without buying into anything, but I'm sure there were a few true suckers that more than made up for it.

It goes without saying that Branson has a lot of hotels, and every one of them is guaranteed, without question, to be run by a filthy weasel. I base this statement on the fact that nearly every hotel offered a "2 for $2X.XX" special on their rooms. Half of the time, though, the sign would also say "3 for $8X.XX," which doesn't make much sense; why would you want a room for three nights at $80 when you could get one for two nights at $20? Or you could get two rooms for that price? What I think they meant was two people could stay in one room for the price, which is idiotic, because I've been cramming people in hotel rooms and claiming to be under the legal limit for years. You have to keep a sharp eye on these Branson folk.

Another attraction is the array of antique, specialty, craft and collectable shops, as well as flea markets, which dotted Branson and neighboring (well, fifty miles away) Springfield, which we went to one day for reasons that still evade me (we also stopped at a few on the way in). I hate the specialty stores, because they sell one category of item at painfully inflated prices. I hate craft stores even more, because I feel that it’s an insult to people’s intelligence to charge twenty dollars for two blocks of wood taped together (this was actually an item available at one store, though it had stale jokes written on it, and it wasn’t that expensive, but you get my point). I’m not too fond of the antique shops either, which basically sell rusted, dusty junk by passing it off as a rare collectable. I can’t hold pity for an idiot who’s willing to pay ten dollars for a bent butter knife because it’s fifty years old and has “Collectable!” written on the price tag.

The antique shop’s cousin, the flea market, is almost as bad, despite my suggestions about these types of places being good places to look for deals. The structure they had down in Missouri was a bit odd: the entire store was run by two people, but all of the “booths” belong to individuals who rented out the space and stuffed their junk in. The idea was that you found something you wanted in the rubbish and pay for it up front. The problem here is that bartering was pretty much impossible, which was bad, because most of the prices on what little good stuff I actually dug up were ridiculous. I did glean a few treasures out of the dirt, but only after some intensive searching that was hampered by a potential future family-in-law that wanted to get going right away.

One thing that always strikes me as odd about these types of stores is how commonly they sell knives and swords. Almost every time, I’ll see a display for knives with Dale Earnhardt’s face on it, or something similar. More often than not, the wares are low quality and high priced, and I really wonder how many people actually buy them. I think that these weapons are available at these places for when the customer gets home, which is when the craft-buying high wears off, and they realize they spent two hundred and seventy-nine dollars on tacky crafts. Then they can use the knives to kill themselves, though I couldn’t imagine it would be dignified having “3’s” smug face taunting me as his knife sticks out of my chest.

We also stopped at a pawn shop. I’m going to take this time to elaborate on how Christian this town is. There’s actually a place called “Christian county” around there. Gospel music is built right into the shows, and even Bob Evans sells Bible paraphernalia in their gift shops. So it should come as no surprise that this particular pawn shop had a sign that stated they could refuse to do business with anyone who uses the Lord’s name in vain or any profanity. I actually bought few things from this place, even though I let out a stream of random profanities on the way out, just to prove a point.

There really wasn’t much more that happened on the trip in Branson, at least not anything I’m going to cover here (wait for the book). On Friday, we packed our bags and left the condo, fighting off traffic jams and irate motorists until we reached (surprise!) Saint Louis, where we stayed the night again. During that time, we caught a baseball game, where Saint Louis walked away with narrow victory, courtesy of a game-winning homerun. Not that I would have known unless I overheard it on TV, since Christy’s father insisted on leaving halfway through to avoid traffic.

The next day, we made the ten hour drive home, along the way stopping at the third Dairy Queen of the trip and maybe the fourth of my life. At least I think I’ve been to at least one before, but maybe not. Toledo doesn’t have a ton of DQs, so this was a relatively new experience for me and stands as one of the highlights of the trip, which is a little sad. We got home safe and sound, and I returned to a life that was a little less crowded and filled with rushed site updates.

Overall, I had a decent time in Branson, and I encourage those of you considering a trip to look into the town, assuming your idea of vacation is watching canned country cover bands. Or you can order some of the souvenir tapes and thank the stars you lived the Branson experience in your own home with a stop button on hand. Saint Louis is pretty nice, though, or at least what I saw of it, and the arch really is neat (though I didn’t get close to that, either). Or you can just stay at home and eagerly await my book, which I’m sure will be just about ready for me to start considering writing as soon as I see a hefty advance.