And etc…

Last weekend Matt and I experienced the horror that is, or was, “Musky Festival 2005.” We witnessed a pageant wherein the best talents by far were hairstyling and a corny dramatic monologue. Now, I’m all for those things, but I guess I don’t see them as fabulous talents. However, when you’re competing with an incredibly weak tap dance number, two people singing along to the radio or something, and a girl speed-reading poetry (at least that’s what they said it was), hairstyling is a first-place talent. Of course, I’m a talent snob, but I know it was bad because even Matt looked somewhat embarrassed to be witnessing these things. It took guts for them to be up on stage, though. I’ll give them that. Points for sheer bravery. Or maybe stupidity. But points nonetheless.

Then we attended an arts and crafts fair in the middle of Main Street in which every other booth featured nature paintings on tree stumps, or something akin to that. There were also a thousand bead necklaces. Yes…not exactly my idea of a fun purchasing extravaganza. Apparently my tastes don’t run towards the nature, wood, country stylings direction. So I suppose I at least gained some serious introspective knowledge of myself.

After a day of that, we eschewed the Musky Fest (ironically, there were very few actual muskies, but a ton of corn dogs. I would’ve pointed this out, but I’m pretty sure the Musky Queen could’ve taken me out). We escaped into the surprisingly much less horrific location of Al Capone’s Northwoods Hideout in Couderay, Wisconsin.

Yes. THE Al Capone. Famed mobster/mob boss/guy who liked stuff. Our visit started in the gift shop where we spent thirty minutes waiting for an overpriced tour to start. The best thing in the gift shop besides the weak attempt at era-specific restrooms? The shot glasses. They were also the cheapest at $2.95 (well, the restroom tour was free, but you know what I mean). So of course we bought one because it was so cheesy. And I like cheesy.

After several laps of the gift shop, the tour finally started. Our tour guide bore a striking resemblance to Geraldo Rivera, and was wearing dress pants, a button-up long-sleeve shirt, and a tie. Maybe he had an interview after work. He looked hot–not gorgeous-hot, but incredibly high heat hot. He also looked miserable, but hey, he’s a tour guide–a tour guide who has to walk up and down a hill ALL DAY.

The tour consisted of Capone’s main lodge, which featured a bunch of flapper-esque mannequins that clearly showed he liked the ladies. A lot. I guess his wife was okay with that. Of course, she was also okay with the mob thing, so I’m thinking she was a pretty easygoing lady. We saw a lot of expensive-looking antiques and listened to a pre-recorded person telling us about stuff, which I thought was stupid and showed that the tour guide’s main purpose was enforcing the “no touching expensive things” rule. However, I did not see any comment cards at the time.

Then we walked down the hill to see Cranberry Lake, which he owned. He also owned all the land around it–wouldn’t want the neighbors who knew what he was doing to actually see what he was doing. The guy hired cleaning ladies from the town of Couderay. Lesson: when you have machine gun towers you don’t need subtlety or deception.

I was amused by the tour guide’s description of the lake. “It’s bottom consists of sinking mud and sand.” I thought it was a nice way to say “lots of people died at the bottom of this lake” without actually letting the five-year-old girl on the tour know that. This may have been more humorous coming from the mouth of the Geraldo-lookalike, of course. (Oh yeah, there were only six of us on the tour. Two kids. The girl looked a bit innocent to be learning about the bloody acts of mobsters, but who am I to judge? I bought the shot glass.)

They really touted the Valentine’s Day Massacre reenactment, but it turned out to be a pre-recorded audio presentation in which at the end Geraldo pulls back the curtain to reveal some bloody mannequins. There was a part in the recording about a dog that they tied up to a post, and when I didn’t see the dog on the stage after the super-dramatic curtain opening I really wanted to ask where it went. However, after taking a look at depressed Geraldo I thought that it might be cruel so I reined in my sarcasm until we got back to the car.

I did get my picture taken by a cheesy Al Capone cut-out, though, so I think it was worth it. Besides, now I know that Al Capone died at least partially from the maddening effects of syphilus, which is a good lesson in safe sex. Since his wife apparently didn’t have syphilus, I jumped, or rather, hopped to the conclusion that he may, and I say “may,” have been sleeping with some of his flapper lady friends. However, the mannequins and decorations at the main lodge only suggested this. The flapper reclining on the bed was wearing clothes, after all. She could’ve been relaxing, or taking an afternoon nap while smoking.

So kids, practice safe sex. You don’t want to end up like Scarface. Ah, STDs, the great societal equalizer. It doesn’t matter if you’re raking in 500 million a year if you don’t use a condom.