66 in 96

Recently I found a set of prints from our first family roadtrip. It's always saddened me that we wrote so little about that initial adventure - and that I lost several pages of a recent attempt to summarize that trip to an accidental deletion of the only file I'd saved. A few memories from our first Route 66 trip can be found on a previous note on summer roadtrips, I offered some detail about the motels we visited in an early version of our Motel Americana website, and Jenny wrote some brief notes in her journal, but there are few photos from that time that contain our feelings from the trip. Thus it's pretty cool to have these images (a couple also found in other scattered locations) collected in one place. They help me collect my thoughts a bit.

As depicted in the above pic, Jenny, Vienna, and I visited Cadillac Ranch, which is slightly west of Amarillo, Texas. Tourists encountering this site often bring cans of spray paint to mark up the cars, a practice that is tacitly accepted by the folks who maintain this private art exhibit to the glory and folly of America's auto-centric civilization.

Below (the next day), we stood for a portrait from our "tepee" at Wigwam Village in Holbrook, Arizona. I remember using a payphone to make a reservation the previous night and then racing to arrive before the office closed, marveling at the deep red buttes that flew by while we roared toward the sunset. I'm fairly sure we snagged the last room. Incidentally, this is one of three remaining "Villages" based on a motel concept created by Frank A. Redford.

The next image (below), featuring Vienna atop a fiberglass rabbit, was taken at the Jack Rabbit Trading Post near Joseph City, Arizona (one of my favorite places). Vienna was six years old at the time - then as now, a real cutie. See that sombrero? For some reason, our daughter wanted one of those tourist trinkets more than anything. I couldn't begin to guess where that souvenir ended up.

No doubt, a highlight of our journey was an overnight excursion to the Grand Canyon. We made a print of the image below and sealed it in a postcard acetate that made its way to Jenny's grandmother. That print resides today in an album she keeps. I remember us entering the national park so late that the ticket booth wasn't staffed, which was a good thing. We had a tight budget - even more than we anticipated, for reasons noted below - and we needed to save every penny.

I vividly remember the hike partway into the canyon. Our daughter (again, fairly young at the time) understandably grew tired of the exertion, and we all suffered with each step upward. Even so, we loved the chance to watch the rock squirrels scamper and cavort. Signs made it plain that folks are not supposed to feed the creatures, and I've since come to understand the wisdom of these admonitions. But as the picture shows, I just couldn't resist sharing a tiny morsel.

By the way, see the tacky trucker's hat I'm wearing? That was Jenny's gift to me the morning after we'd been robbed by some loser who broke into our car as we played miniature golf in St. Louis. Right then, the first night of our trip, I seriously considered ditching the entire thing, just turning around and heading back. We felt so violated and vulnerable so far from home. Continuing onward just didn't seem worth the hassle. But the next morning, seeing that goofy-looking hat in Jenny's hand as she returned from calling the bank and switching our accounts, I had to smile. Perhaps we should continue on this trip after all, I figured. I'm so glad we did.

This final image (below), taken in an era when we didn't quite understand the need to avoid backlighting in outdoor settings, comes from some point near our western terminus.

On that trip back in '96, starting in Ohio, we drove to St. Louis and then navigated the Mother Road all the way to the California border, just past Needles. Completing that westward trek, we turned north for a visit to Vegas and southern Utah, whereupon we rolled east through the plains states before taking a quick jog northward to Chicago and finally back home to Ohio. None of us had ever traveled such distances by car; Jenny and I came from families for whom such tourism was a luxury. But we were hooked by the experience.

Today we take a serious roadtrip about once a year. Each trip has been memorable, and some are even recalled as exceeding the adventure of "66 in 96." But there's no trip like the first one.

Learn more: I developed a somewhat more detailed summary of my most recent trip along the Mother Road. Check it out: 66 in 08

(Photographs by Jenny Wood)

Representing History: Performing the Columbian Exposition

Rosemarie K. Bank's essay "Representing History: Performing the Columbian Exposition" provides a number of insights for students of Rhetoric and Public Life, particularly with her focus on the expo's construction of "The Other." In a broader sense, Bank does a solid job of weaving in a perspective relatively new to my home department of communication studies (but admirably enhanced by Matthew Spangler's many contributions to our community): the perspective of performance in the articulation of public life.

Bank focuses on the 1893 Columbian Exposition (the so-called "White City"), attending closely to Frederick Jackson Turner's use of that moment to introduce his "frontier thesis." She also explores Buffalo Bill's Wild West exhibit, an event that did much to crystallize a compelling narrative of how the West was "tamed."

Initial highlights of Bank's piece include her reference to simulacra and her use of Michel Foucault to identify strategies in which discursive practices contain overlapping performances and narratives (rather than merely one that dominates and one that is dominated). While Bank's piece focuses on representations of American Indians at the 1893 Columbian Exposition, she intends for her essay to reflect something of the experiences of many oppressed groups who found themselves positioned in various ways at the fair - and who are represented in contemporary settings that purport to be both touristic and educational.

Bank begins by observing how the White City phantasmagoria contained both utopian and dystopian images, each relying upon the other to come into being. To the author, this balancing of opposing images evokes Foucault's heterotopia: a counter-site whose tolerance for ambiguity enables the management of crisis or deviance [To learn more about heterotopia, I encourage you to read an online version of Jay Miskowiec's translation of Foucault's 1967 lecture on the topic]. In class, I often use examples of amusement parks and motels to illustrate omnitopia].

Thereafter, Bank outlines some of the 1893 fair's various ethnographic exhibits dedicated to highlighting both the identities and distinctions of various racial groups, a significant choice for an event seeking to define the expansion and barriers of civilization. One common theme of the various Native American exhibits, claims Bank, was a turn away from educational ambitions and toward the packaging and portrayal of more caricatured version of the past, often jumbling together historically incongruous styles and group relationships, particularly at the fair's Midway Plaisance.

Even so, Bank refutes charges made by more critical researchers (most notably Robert W. Rydell, whose works on the 1893 fair represent essential reading), that one may find a singular narrative of "cultural hegemony" in these sort of exhibits. She reminds us, "Performers complicate unitary readings and performance resists binary interpretations" (p. 598). [I would add that the notion that agency resides even within the most totatlizing environments animates much of my thinking about public life, as examined further in City Ubiquitous.]

From this analysis, Bank shifts to Frederick Jackson Turner's 1893 presentation of his paper, "The Significance of the Frontier in American History" [here's an online version of Turner's paper]. Once more, Bank employs Foucault's heterotopia to describe how Turner represented a shift from 18th century views of history-as-continuity to 19th century views of history-as-discontinuity. More intriguingly, Bank contrasts Turner's (nostalgic) frontier - a relatively peaceful and empty site where Europeans traded their urban ways for simpler, rougher, more human modes of life - with the Buffalo Bill Wild West show and its depiction of the frontier as a site of initial struggle and ultimate concord between Europeans and Native Americans.

Bank concludes her analysis by focusing on Buffalo Bill's show and its efforts to depict the "taming" of the frontier as both a struggle located in the past and as a collection of participants continuing into the present. Here Bank offers a response to the critics of these sorts of performance, noting that the Wild West show enabled more freedom and dignity for its Native participants than the presumably more sober and educational ethnographic exhibits offered by government and university sponsors.

Noting the presence of Native Americans in the show who, she claims, were able to perform their roles in a manner more closely aligned with their recollections and interests, Bank states, "This Wild West was a shared history and memory, a jointly occupied arena in which competing claims for authenticity could be presented and evaluated" (p. 605). In this argument, Bank reminds critical scholars to eschew their facile articulations of history, lest their efforts to uplift oppressed groups hold aloft merely their own idealized images.

Read the entire article: Bank. R.K. (2002). Representing history: Performing the Columbian Exposition. Theatre Journal, 54, 589-606.

Note: In summer 2004, I published an essay using Foucault's heterotopia to analyze the Woman's Building at the 1893 fair. I sent my essay off for review before I was able to read Bank's piece; otherwise, I would have happily cited her. If you'd like to see a PDF of my essay, "Managing the Lady Managers: The shaping of heterotopian spaces in the 1893 Chicago Exposition's Woman's Building," published in Southern Communication Journal, send an email to Andrew.Wood@sjsu.edu. Also, any difficulty finding Bank's essay? Let me know. I'm happy to help.

(Image from Legends of America)

Durable Ephemera

Perhaps my favorite course to teach is Rhetoric and Public Life, perhaps because it's the first class that I could design to reflect a singularly coherent vision. While other colleagues in my department teach the course as well, all of us addressing common objectives, each brings a unique spin to our respective versions of COMM 149. One unique theme of my class is the role of ephemera, the throw-away flotsam and jetsam of everyday life, in collecting discarded visions of futures past.

Typically we think of ephemera as being easily thrown away, stuff like paper, postcards, comics, and the like. But the industrial era has made possible a rise in more, shall we say, durable ephemera (it's Friday; I don't mind waxing paradoxical).

Recently, Wired offered a few interesting examples of durable ephemera. Some didn't quite speak to me, failing to whisper much more beyond their apparent depictions of junk. But a couple of them manage to evoke an eerie image of overlapping realities - the kinds of parallel worlds that we discuss in class. Check 'em out: Abandoned Technologies.

Thinking about David Carradine

David Carradine's death comes as a sad surprise to me. Though the actor was 72, I always see him as a young man, shorn of hair, home, and most possessions, wandering the American west as a Shaolin monk in the 70s television series, Kung Fu. I guess you could say that Kwai Chang Caine served as the yin to James Kirk's yang in my childhood understanding of how one responds to conflict.

As a kid, I identified with Caine's preference for non-violence, particularly as I was raised by my mother, a true child of the sixties, to regard pacifism as the only appropriate response to bullying. I wasn't strong and I had no taste for blood. It always confused me why some people truly seem to enjoy inflicting pain upon others.

I remember when my mom invited several kids who tormented me in middle school over to our apartment to share - I swear it - tea and biscuits. When one of them asked cheekily if he could bum a cigarette, she passed one over without blinking an eye. I don't recall having any further problems with those dudes afterward. I learned from her - and saw in Kwai Chang Caine - that kindness generally does turn back a cruel heart.

Of course I also learned - as did Caine and my mom - that sometimes one finds no other alternative than to fight. And there, David Carradine's character possessed such grace and composure, more than I ever did in my own petty school confrontations. If only real life could dissolved into hazy slow-motion poetry as Caine's did in Kung Fu!

I also remember those burning sunsets that served as backdrop for the wandering soul, tramping across an endless desert. I saw myself there too, and today I have a special place in my heart for desolate environs. Indeed, I think our family's tradition of "silent walks" (learn more) was born from watching Kung Fu.

I try to forget most of Carradine's later years: those awful spin-offs, those insipid commercials. Aside from his star turn in Bound for Glory, there seemed to be little magic left to his art. And then came the Kill Bill movies, with Carradine presenting such a subtle balance of kindness and malice that I had to think, there's so much more this guy has to offer.

Too soon, too little time later, he is gone.

I cannot judge his life or his ending, but I know that my regret for Carradine's death is also balanced somewhat by my appreciation for the characters he gave us. It's a rare job that allows you to help other people define who they are. David Carradine's Kwai Chang Caine did that for me.

Highway 17 Bus Rant

As longtime readers know, I'm a regular on Highway 17, the express bus that connects Santa Cruz and San Jose. Heck, Jenny and I chose to buy our house partially due to its proximity to mass transit. And so I ride the bus every weekday during Fall and Spring semesters and often over the summer, even on those occasions when I'd much prefer to zip "over the hill" in my own car.

Most of these trips are OK. A little noisy, a little smelly, and little slow, but OK. Most passengers are cool; they just want to get to their destination with a minimum of hassle. Pretty much, the 17 is a good deal. But every once in a while the trip is marred by a variety of folks who need a good rant. Perhaps you recognize 'em?

To the guy asking the bus driver for trip-planning tips: Listen up, the folks who run the bus system offer online planning tools and phone-based planning advice. They plaster route maps all over the place, too. You know why? Because the driver is paid to drive the bus, not serve as your travel agent. Similarly, when you get on a bus that says, "San Jose," which is northbound, why are you shocked that the bus is not heading to Santa Cruz, which is southbound? And why do you have to confirm several times with the bus driver that you're trying to get somewhere else. You're new here? That's cool. Welcome to California. But do us all a favor and spend a moment with a map or a schedule before you get to the bus. Heck, chat with us in line. We'll happily advise you. But don't show up at the last minute and ask the entire bus to wait for you to get your act together.

To the gum-smacking BFFs burbling with pithy conversation while sitting across the aisle from each other: Did you notice that you're the only two people talking this loudly on the bus? Most everyone else is reading or writing or sleeping. Everyone but you who interject each sentence with a minimum of two or three "likes" as if they're hot air to keep your words aloft. Bring me the sweet embrace of death, if only you two would quiet down just a little. Oh, and to the guy who switched places so these two can sit closer together (but still across the aisle): thanks, dude. You just wrecked an hour of peace and quiet.

To the guy jaywalking on the intersection in front of us: I know that you're late for a meeting. I know that you're important; I can see that by your snazzy cell phone. And I'm glad that you're saving 15 seconds from your trip. But there are about 30 people on this bus who also have places to go and people to see. And we can't get anywhere because you're blocking the road. No, we don't want you to get hit by a car, but - well - there's no good way to complete this sentence.

To the girl placing her book bag on the seat next to her: Unless you paid double, you bought access to one seat, not two. And the good folks who run this operation have seen fit to cut routes sufficiently to ensure standing-room only conditions, certainly on miserable, rainy Mondays. Placing your book bag on the empty seat, you offer a challenge - one that I happily accept. I will take that seat, despite all of your eye-rolls and your barely concealed huffs of displeasure. Feel free to look behind you. Yes, I also see that there's an empty seat snug against the window a few rows back. Yes, I could theoretically keep walking down the aisle. But I won't. It's you and me, kid. Oh, and you're annoyed that you have to stow your bag on the shelf above us? I'm sorry to frustrate you, but that's what the shelf is for. Here, let me help you with that.

To the guy bringing an extra bike onboard: Congratulations for being environmentally conscious. And you're clearly a serious biker, what with your helmet mirror and spandex pants and all. But there are already two bikes on the outside rack and you insist on lugging your bike inside, which is fine - except for the fact that three people must be booted from their chairs to accommodate you and your bike. Me, I stood in line for an extra ten minutes to snag this seat because it's one of the few on this bus that offer a little legroom. An elderly person needs it? It's theirs; I'm gone. A person with physical challenges needs it? Outtahere with a smile. And you? Well, OK, I'll move - if you ask nicely. But remember: I don't have to say yes.

To the girl asking if anyone can break a $20: Seriously? See the sign on the side of the bus, "express"? That means that passengers are trying to get from one distant spot to another in the shortest amount of time possible. We've paid our fares and want to get on our way. But because you couldn't spend a moment to think, "Hmm, this bus is going to cost money, and chances are it's less than $20," we're expected to rip through wallets and purses to help you make change? There's a 7-11 a few blocks away, and I'm pretty sure the nearby grocery store will make change if you buy something. But please don't just show up to the bus, expecting us to wait for you to get your finances in order.

To the guitar-strumming dude smelling of pot and body odor: I kind of envy you, guy. You've struck up a conversation with that pierced UCSC girl about your "journey." You know, takin' it easy, travelin' cross country, hangin' out with friends, crashin' on couches. And you sure do love strummin' that guitar. Just a flick of your fingers adds a bit of musical accompaniment to your Kerouac narrative. It sure does remind me of the dull, empty conformity of my staid middle class life. Oh, did you hear? The hippy girl just offered you a place to sleep tonight! Nothing serious, just some cool friends who like to chat late into the night. For some ungodly reason, you said no. Just gotta keep ramblin' on, I guess. Thanks for showing me a world beyond houses made of ticky-tacky. You've blown my mind a little, you, the first adventurer choosing to "see America." I dig it. But damn, dude, could you soap up your armpits once in awhile?

Finally, to the person in the wheel chair: no rant for you. I'm sorry you've got to endure so much hassle to get on this godforsaken bus. Transportation for most of us is a convenience that requires so little: some thought, some planning, some courtesy. For you, it's a much bigger deal. So take your time and get yourself settled, safe, and comfortable. And ignore the jerks who give you dirty looks because they have to move to accommodate your chair. One day they may know what it's like for you. You hope they won't. I hope they won't. But karma doesn't mess around. In the meantime, take all the time you need and enjoy the ride.

2009 New England Diner Tour - Itinerary

Initial plans for this summer's New England Diner Tour are complete. And right away you'll notice sacrilege: the absence of Jersey diners - and not even a stop in Maryland, which, as any fan of Barry Levinson's Baltimore-based movies knows, occupies a symbolic centrality in our collective geography of great diner locations.

That's the problem with our focus on New England. We've chosen to concentrate our attention further north and dedicate more time to New York, New Jersey, and Maryland next time.

One other thing: While the original theme of our family's 2009 adventures focused on diners, we've broadened our criteria to include swell drive-in theaters, fascinating historical sites, goofy roadside attractions, and even a jaunt to Montreal (presuming the feds return my renewed passport by mail on time). So where are we going?

The path starts in Philadelphia (where we got the best deal on flights), heads north through the Catskills and Adirondacks to Montreal, returns south for two-day U-turns in Vermont and New Hampshire, swings north and then south along the coast of Maine, drops into Massachusetts for a couple days, and then cruises through Rhode Island and Connecticut before returning to Philly.

Without providing too much exhaustive detail, here's a tentative list of highlights (including a handful of must-visit motels) for our two-week trip. See anything in the New England region that's obviously missing? Please post a comment.

Pennsylvania

Philadelphia: Geno's Steaks and Pat's King of Steaks (cheesesteak paradise)
Philadelphia: Independence Hall
Philadelphia: Reading Terminal Market
Orefield: Shankweiler's Drive-in (longest running drive-in theater in USA)

New York

New Paltz: "America's Oldest Street": Huguenot Street
Red Hook: "Fork in the Road" and Giant Prozac
Red Hook: Village Diner
Mt. Tremper: Kate's Lazy Meadow Motel
Massena: 56 Auto Drive-In
Massena: Blue Spruce Motel

Montreal

No specific plans yet. We'll park at the Grande Bibliotheque de Montreal, ride the metro, and see everything we can for about three days. Our only plan is lodging: two nights at Le Relais Lyonnais. Here's a trip back to '96 when we made our first trip to Montreal.

Vermont

Colchester: Libby's Blue Line Diner
Burlington: World's Largest Filing Cabinet
Castleton: Birdseye Diner
Covered bridges tour of southwestern Vermont
Brattleboro: Chelsea Royal Diner
Bellows Falls: Santa's Land (well... maybe)
Bellows Falls: Miss Bellows Falls Diner
St. Johnsbury: Dog Chapel

New Hampshire

Washington: Town Green
Claremont: Daddypops Tumble Inn Diner
Keene: Lindy's Diner
Keene: Rocky Brook Motel & Cottages
Hinsdale: License Plate House
Hinsdale: Northfield Drive-In
Manchester: Red Arrow Diner
Tilton: Tilt'n Diner
Lincoln: Clark's Trading Post
Mount Washington Auto Road

Maine

Bethel international sign
Gardiner: A-I Diner
Brooksville: Bagaduce Lunch
Waldoboro: Moody's Diner
Wiscasset: Red's Eats
Freeport: Maine Idyll Motor Court (where they don't take credit cards, but they do take personal checks - Cottage 5)

Massachusetts

Salem: Salem Diner
Salem: Bewitched statue
Somerville: Rosebud Diner
Wellesley: Babson Globe
Concord: Walden Pond
Worcester: Edgemere Diner (supposedly reopened as "The Edge" - hmmm....)
Worcester: Kenmore Diner
Worcester: Miss Worcester Diner
Worcester: Boulevard Diner
Middleboro: Sisson's Diner
Plymouth: Plymouth Rock
New Bedford: Shawmut Diner
Fall River: Al Mac's Diner

Rhode Island

East Greenwich: Jigger's Diner (famous for Johnnycakes!)
Pawtucket: Modern Diner
Providence: Haven Brothers
North Smithfield: Rustic Drive-in
North Attleboro: Arns Park Motel

Connecticut

Newington: Olympia Diner
Middletown: O'Rourke's Diner
Noank: Abbot's Lobster in the Rough
Guilford: Town Green
Fairfield: Super Duper Weenie World

No, we probably won't visit all of these sites. But we'll sure try! Once more, any suggestions? Let me know...

The Astounding World of the Future

As often as possible I teach a course called COMM 149: Rhetoric and Public Life. At a basic level, this class examines the dialectical continuum of utopianism and dystopianism in historical and contemporary visions of the future.

A broader focus of this course calls for students to analyze various versions of "the future" as a collection of communication artifacts, each subject to rhetorical analysis while collectively reflecting a lens to critique the construction of public life. Toward that ultimate goal, students are encouraged to consider three common questions: Who's in? Who's out? Who decides?

This video, while occasionally disturbing, does a swell job of presenting an intro-version of one future we study in class. Notice how the opening images preview the 1939-40 New York World's Fair. More importantly, the video illustrates a key notion of Rhetoric and Public Life: We got pretty much the future we were promised. Now we're faced with the consequences.

Difficulty seeing this video? Point your browser here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJjUVIIYptE&feature=player_embedded