Not long ago Jo-Elle and I took a long road trip to the Twin Cities in Minnesota. We drove. Listened only to FM radio (no iPod). Relived some of her glory days in St. Paul at Macalester College (and University of Minnesota, where she oddly took mostly bio classes at the Ag school, also in St. Paul---in fact, she seemed completely unaware of what the heck was going on in Minneapolis). Relived her early zoo career at Minnesota Zoo (where, oddly, I noticed a sign with a huge photo of a former co-worker). Ate VERY well in Minneapolis (less so in St. Paul). Saw some cool public art. And enjoyed a town that seems pretty great---at least for the four months/year when your nose will not freeze solid and chains are not necessary when driving to the store. I liked it.The drive was interesting for a couple of reasons:
Listening to FM radio meant a steady diet of classic rock the WHOLE way...except that 20 miles out of Minneapolis, it was confirmed that Michael Jackson had died. At that point we were able to spin the dial and hear "Billy Jean" on literally every station. It was amazing. Throughout the weekend, there was no shortage of spontaneous MJ choreography (mostly moves done by hordes of zombies). And on the way home, we only heard "Thriller." On every station. Over and over again. Weird. You'd never have guessed that the guy was the biggest selling artist of all time with a cajllion #1 hits... Enough Michael Jackson...for all of us...forever.
The more substantially thought-provoking event occurred at the end of the trip. It is something that will likely have me scratching my head for some time to come. And maybe spark me to do some writing...
When we originally talked about this drive, Jo had mentioned an interest in revisiting an attraction she remembered stopping at as a kid---the House on the Rock. We missed the turnoff for it on the way north, so I found a map to ensure we could stop there on the way back. No surprise we missed it---this place is an hour off the interstate from the Dells, on a state road in rural southern Wisconsin. As I looked at the map, I noticed a second architectural point of interest just a few miles from our destination---Taliesin.
Taliesin. Somewhere I've always wanted to check out, but thought it was out in the middle of nowhere (well, actually it is I guess). Somewhere I found intriguing after gaining an appreciation for Frank Lloyd Wright as a kid touring the Dana Thomas house in Springfield---and gained a morbid curiosity over after learning the lurid details of the unfortunate ending to a sordid chapter of Wright's life in that house involving a mistress and arson. A masterwork of one of architecture's greatest genius...
...and we passed it to go to see the whimsical creations of a rich, unfocused, Orientalist... A goofy place with robot musicians (not nearly as cool as it sounds) and a collection of cheap knickknacks perched on an outcropping... People say that life in one of Wright's homes was uncomfortable, but as near as I could tell life in the House on the Rock would be unlivable with its low, shag-carpeted ceilings and narrow meandering floor plan. You can't even see the house's facade (I could see much of Taliesin in the distance from the road---beautiful).
We left with no time to double back, scratching our heads quizzically, wondering what the heck that had been about...and frankly, feeling litterally sick to our stomachs at having passed up the work of a genius for what seemed to be a somewhat elaborate roadside attraction.
And why had we done this?
Marketing.
Signs and brochures ply unsuspecting fools like us with words of brilliance. They litter the road side and racks from Chicago to Canada. And they don't live up to the flowery prose.
Wright's home has no such outreach. Its a tiny dot on the map, with small staid signage that you don't see until you are right on top of the area. You have to want to get there. You have to know.
Style over substance. And as a sometimes marketer, I should not be surprised. Somehow, I think it works out a bit as Wright would have liked...snob.
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