Chemical Smells and Prime Rib
THE TIKI RESORT
: : There’s something wonderful about ‘resort’ towns. There’s a smell, a look and a vibe that emanate from them. The best ones are like mosquitoes trapped in amber: relatively untouched by time, a stroll down main street can instantly transport you. But there is a catch. If the town is too close to a major metropolis, something dreadful can happen. It can get swallowed up by the big city, transforming it into a yuppified ‘bedroom community.’ It can be robbed of its innocence and remade into something much worse: an idealized, sanitized version of itself. Gone are the tacky joke-shops with the fake barf, gone are the T-shirt and bikini shops, gone are the ice cream parlors and video arcades, and in come the stores that sell useless faux folk-art crap like birdfeeders and wind chimes. In come the acting troupes who renovate the old fire hall and put on pointless plays like ‘Cat On a Hot Tin Roof’ or ‘Death of a Salesman,’ thinking that the locals need or want culture. Who needs culture when you’ve got a wax museum? : :
: : The yuppies – well-meaning though they might be – inadvertently transform the wholesome girl-next-door into a seedy whore. : :
: : There needs to be a buffer. A commute of about an hour and a half to two hours seems to be about right. An hour’s drive is just too tempting for yuppie commuters. That falls within the radar-circle and is vulnerable to their shit-seeking missiles (or more accurately, shit-depositing missiles). In the Toronto area, once-wonderful towns like Whitby, Port Perry, Barrie, and Brampton have been Frankenstein’ed into yuppie nightmares. But Wasaga Beach, an hour and a half away, remains true to its resort town roots. In Montreal, it’s already too late for the ski-towns of the Laurentians. They have long ago been bombed to shit. But south, due south about 2 hours into the US, there remains a pristine little town that Montrealers visit every summer: the Town of Lake George. : :
: : Lake George is perfect. It’s close enough for Montrealers to spend weekends there but too far for day-trips. It’s also in another country, meaning Montreal yuppies couldn’t live there even if it were closer. It’s altogether too far from New York City, but close enough to Utica and other small cities in the state to remain relatively active. And because it’s upstate New York, there are things you can’t get in Quebec: Real Italian pizza with the thin crust... A&W burgers that taste different from Rotten Ronnie’s... and those beautiful semi-Brooklyn accents. : :
: : The town itself is quite large, large enough that a 3 or 4 day stay doesn’t get boring. Although the beach is fairly small, it is well laid out and has a nice big deck over the sand at one point where you can visit the snack bar or smoke a cigar while you watch the girlies bake in the sun. There’s para-sailing and jet-skiing on the water and go-cart tracks and mini-golf on the outskirts of town. There’s the ‘House of Frankenstein’ on Canada Street that hasn’t changed its wax figures since it opened in the 60s. : :
: : There also is a Tiki joint. : :
: : Called the Howard Johnson Tiki Resort, this is one of Lake George’s fancier places (the other being the Fort William Henry, where Dag’s parents – for a ‘high class’ experience – would take him and his sister for breakfast during family vacations in the 70s). During July and August, there are always two shows running at the Tiki Resort. The upstairs show which changes once in a while (this year it’ll be Joe Eigo with ‘Elvis 2001’, last year it was Joe Eigo with ‘Elvis 2000’) and the permanent ‘Hawaiian Floor Show & Dinner’ downstairs in the Waikiki Supper Club, which has been running for many years. Featuring fire and knife acts, hula dancers, your favorite Hawaiian music, and brilliant native pageantry (the website’s words, not mine) – all of the cheese of a vintage exotica show – the show is a blast. It was like our MC walked right out of some portal to 1962 or something. The bad jokes, teaching the crowd some native words so we can all play call-and-response with him, the mugging and eye-rolls, asking if there were any weddings, anniversaries or birthdays in the house... it all had the same reassuring, lukewarm yet nauseating familiarity of the undercooked prime rib on the plate in front of me. : :
: : The little show is actually quite good once it gets going, and the really endearing thing is that it’s a family affair: mom works the lights and the soundboard at the back of the room (she does one costumed dance during the show), dad is our Don Ho-esque MC and guitarist, son plays drums and then later does the ‘fire-act’, and the three daughters are the hula dancers. Dad doesn’t seem to mind that during a couple of the numbers, his girls are so scantily clad that the line between fantasy and reality is separated only by a few millimeters of sequined cloth. After one such number, Dag – working on his third Mai Tai – was prompted to yell out “Very talented... VERY talented!!!” as he vigorously applauded the young girls. Although the girls are quite good dancers and go through at least 10 costume changes representing the different nations of Polynesia (how the hell would I know?) and there is a section where audience members are invited onstage to learn a few moves (“When I say ‘Pineapple!’ thrust your hips to the left... when I say ‘Coconut!’ shake your...”), the real treat of the evening was the fire show. The chubby son gets out from behind the drums and basically lights the floor on fire while throwing flaming hoops in the air with his hands and catching them with his feet. After it was over, the whole place was filled with smoke and throat-constricting chemical smells... now THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT... dessert anyone? : :
: : Actually, had we wanted dessert, it would’ve been too late at that point: once the fire-finale is over, the girls come out for a 30 second reprise, take a bow, and then the harsh neon strip lights immediately blink on, snapping us out of our trance like a well-placed blow-dart to the neck. That’s America for you – you ate, you saw the show, now GET THE FUCK OUT!! : :
: : As we wove our way through the musty corridor, up the concrete staircase to the main foyer and out into the fading twilight, the fact that I had just spent over $50 US faded too, thankfully, into the murky rum-soaked corners of my mind. : :
Waikiki Supper Club
Route 9
Lake George, NY 12845
Phone:(518) 668-5744
Dave LeBlanc © 2001
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