Blue Rock Station,
1190 Virginia Ridge Rd.
Philo Ohio 43771 USA
+1-740-674-4300 (phone)
+1-740-674-6303 (fax)
Or contact us by e-mail
1190 Virginia Ridge Rd.
Philo Ohio 43771 USA
+1-
Or contact us by e-
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Copyright 2003-2007 Blue Rock Station, All Rights Reserved
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People seem to love to collect things.
Some people collect coins, some collect stamps. My father used to collect match books ...until they burned up one day (it wasn’t me, I swear). And beer mugs... He had an entire shelf full of antique beer mugs that mysteriously seemed to break all by themselves in a house full of six boys who weren’t supposed to touch them.
I even know a woman who collected the teeth from her dogs, but that’s just too creepy to even contemplate. I, on the other hand, have never managed to hang onto anything long enough for it to be considered a collection.
I once tried to collect golf balls, but if you have ever seen me play, you
will understand how my “collection” soon ended up at the bottom of varied and assorted lakes and streams.
So I have taken to collecting analogies. I have yet to lose one in the bottom of a pond, and there are just so many good ones lying around. I recently think I have found a real doosie, the perfect analogy for my country of origin.
I speak, of course, of that 500 pound gorilla of the world stage (which is really a metaphor and therefore not part of my collection)––the United States of America.
In my collection of analogies, Cracker Barrel is America - and America is, of course, Cracker Barrel.
For those unfamiliar with Cracker Barrel, you will find them lining our nation’s Interstate Highway system, conveniently located at scenic (and not so scenic) exits everywhere (you see the analogy start to form already, don’t you?).
These are franchises (of course), and they make a ton of money to boot. I have never been to one that wasn’t packed to the rafters with throngs of people blissfully unaware that anyone else in the universe exists.
You have come here to consume, not just food - oh no, that would be too sensible. You first must weave your way through a maze of merchandise designed to: 1) attract your attention; 2) fill you with a sense of nostalgia for bygone days that never were; 3) separate you from your money; and 4) get you to select some useless little trinket that will find its way to the top of your toilet tank where it will sit proudly for several years or until it slips unnoticed into a wicker waste basket conveniently located below.
They do not, be reassured, sell anything with any practical purpose. You can easily life your life - and live it well - without ever buying anything they sell at Cracker Barrel. But still they sell these things by the truck load.
So, having made your way past rows of ornamental whisk brooms and miniature stuffed children playing hide-and-seek, you give your name to the friendly lady with five gold stars embroidered on her apron, the one standing at the podium. She will decide when you have stared at the merchandise long enough and are allowed to sit down to eat. She will soon call out your name and lead you to your table.
This process is not as easy as it might first seem, because any name that has not been used recently in a popular soap opera will be so mangled in its pronunciation that you will likely never get a seat. “Paging Mr. Graphaplishopzicopenhiemer, party of 6...Mr. Gwokschinerwisen.”
So it saves a lot of time and confusion if you just make something up. Celebrity names are especially good. You’d be surprised how quickly you can get a table with a name like “Conway Twitty” or “Hulk Hogan.” Sure, people may stare, but who cares––this is America!
But in the meantime, you have to wait. So you make your way to the veranda with the rest of the poor and huddled masses and sit in long rows on rocking chairs (available for purchase, of course). You enjoy the carefully manufactured ambiance, that sense of nostalgia, the waiving fields of wheat and corn.... Well, actually you’re watching the Interstate exit ramp, but hey, if you want culture, go to Europe.
You glance at the oversized plastic checkers on an imitation log stump sitting next to you and it hits you. If you have any brain cells left firing - you really want to hate this place. Deep within your psyche, perhaps a genetic memory - you know, or feel that this is wrong. Cracker Barrel - or is it America - is big, it is tacky––its sole function in life is to make money, lots of money.
And, it is very good at this. It is open all the time. It is crowded. Sure, the service is prompt and friendly, but it’s shallow and lacking in depth. The walls are covered with genuine fake antiques (in America by definition an antique is anything that is no longer on sale at Wal-Mart).
It pretends to be wholesome and down home, but it is contrived and corporate. The rocking chairs are mass produced. They are made without craft - and from cheap materials. The food is abundant, too much in fact, and designed with the help of several dozen focus groups. It is all this and more. It should be easy to despise.
But here you sit. You stopped here, after all. You knew what it was all about. You had other choices - but you chose this one. Why did you do that?
Perhaps it is because the do a really good job at what they do. The food is good, the prices are reasonable; the place is clean and efficient. Sure, it lacks the depth and heart and the warmth of the romanticized family farm. But let’s be honest, Grandma’s hash brown casserole was never this good.
So, in my collection I have placed America as the Cracker Barrel of the world––big, tacky, and successful. A place you love to hate, but can’t help liking. Like every nation or corporation, we have our dirty little secrets, our shortcomings and very public failures. There is so much here that is very very wrong.
Yet, somehow, somewhere on the menu, there are apple dumplings and sweetened iced tea. There is a fire in the fireplace and Christmas carols play softly in the background. It is not sincere, but you stopped here and will again. You kind of like it, despite yourself.
Written - August, 2000
Some people collect coins, some collect stamps. My father used to collect match books ...until they burned up one day (it wasn’t me, I swear). And beer mugs... He had an entire shelf full of antique beer mugs that mysteriously seemed to break all by themselves in a house full of six boys who weren’t supposed to touch them.
I even know a woman who collected the teeth from her dogs, but that’s just too creepy to even contemplate. I, on the other hand, have never managed to hang onto anything long enough for it to be considered a collection.
I once tried to collect golf balls, but if you have ever seen me play, you
will understand how my “collection” soon ended up at the bottom of varied and assorted lakes and streams.
So I have taken to collecting analogies. I have yet to lose one in the bottom of a pond, and there are just so many good ones lying around. I recently think I have found a real doosie, the perfect analogy for my country of origin.
I speak, of course, of that 500 pound gorilla of the world stage (which is really a metaphor and therefore not part of my collection)––the United States of America.
In my collection of analogies, Cracker Barrel is America -
For those unfamiliar with Cracker Barrel, you will find them lining our nation’s Interstate Highway system, conveniently located at scenic (and not so scenic) exits everywhere (you see the analogy start to form already, don’t you?).
These are franchises (of course), and they make a ton of money to boot. I have never been to one that wasn’t packed to the rafters with throngs of people blissfully unaware that anyone else in the universe exists.
You have come here to consume, not just food -
They do not, be reassured, sell anything with any practical purpose. You can easily life your life -
So, having made your way past rows of ornamental whisk brooms and miniature stuffed children playing hide-
This process is not as easy as it might first seem, because any name that has not been used recently in a popular soap opera will be so mangled in its pronunciation that you will likely never get a seat. “Paging Mr. Graphaplishopzicopenhiemer, party of 6...Mr. Gwokschinerwisen.”
So it saves a lot of time and confusion if you just make something up. Celebrity names are especially good. You’d be surprised how quickly you can get a table with a name like “Conway Twitty” or “Hulk Hogan.” Sure, people may stare, but who cares––this is America!
But in the meantime, you have to wait. So you make your way to the veranda with the rest of the poor and huddled masses and sit in long rows on rocking chairs (available for purchase, of course). You enjoy the carefully manufactured ambiance, that sense of nostalgia, the waiving fields of wheat and corn.... Well, actually you’re watching the Interstate exit ramp, but hey, if you want culture, go to Europe.
You glance at the oversized plastic checkers on an imitation log stump sitting next to you and it hits you. If you have any brain cells left firing -
And, it is very good at this. It is open all the time. It is crowded. Sure, the service is prompt and friendly, but it’s shallow and lacking in depth. The walls are covered with genuine fake antiques (in America by definition an antique is anything that is no longer on sale at Wal-
It pretends to be wholesome and down home, but it is contrived and corporate. The rocking chairs are mass produced. They are made without craft -
But here you sit. You stopped here, after all. You knew what it was all about. You had other choices -
Perhaps it is because the do a really good job at what they do. The food is good, the prices are reasonable; the place is clean and efficient. Sure, it lacks the depth and heart and the warmth of the romanticized family farm. But let’s be honest, Grandma’s hash brown casserole was never this good.
So, in my collection I have placed America as the Cracker Barrel of the world––big, tacky, and successful. A place you love to hate, but can’t help liking. Like every nation or corporation, we have our dirty little secrets, our shortcomings and very public failures. There is so much here that is very very wrong.
Yet, somehow, somewhere on the menu, there are apple dumplings and sweetened iced tea. There is a fire in the fireplace and Christmas carols play softly in the background. It is not sincere, but you stopped here and will again. You kind of like it, despite yourself.
Written -
Give Us Your Poor, Your Tired, Your Buttermilk Pancakes