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Read more Mad Dog
on the Road!
Mad
Dog on the Road
Part VII - A trip to the Funny Farm
by Mad Dog
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| You
have to stop when you see these places. After all, these people have devoted their lives
to creating a little fantasy world of prehistoric monsters, fairy tale characters, and
nature’s oddities, the least you can do is take a look. |
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Face it, a car
trip isn’t a car trip unless you stop every couple of miles to check out a roadside
attraction. While some people’s idea of a roadside attraction is a McDonald’s
with a playground or a bathroom without a sign that says "For customers only",
I’m talking about real attractions here. You know, like the restaurant shaped like a
40-foot Mammy or the 60-foot pink and blue brontosaurus at the side of the road that
roars, "Come see me and my friends. We won’t eat you, we’re vegans!"
Hey, it’s the 90’s.  You
have to stop when you see these places. After all, these people have devoted their lives
to creating a little fantasy world of prehistoric monsters, fairy tale characters, and
nature’s oddities, the least you can do is take a look. Besides, how else will you be
able to buy the postcards that let your relatives know there’s more to your vacation
than a car full of edgy family members valiantly trying to all make it through the week
alive?
The heaviest concentration of roadside
attractions in the country may very well be along the stretch of US Highway 101 that
extends from Northern California through Southern Oregon. Maybe it’s the fog and
rain, or it might be the fact that there’s hundreds of miles of enticing beach along
the coast with water that’s too cold to swim in, but the simple fact is once you hit
the redwood forests there are more places to stop at than curves in the road. Well,
almost.
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was their pet goat Lucy–you know, the one who lived in a pink 1954 Studebaker and ate
dill pickles– that started attracting attention. |
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You can drive through
giant redwoods without getting a ticket, though you have to buy one before you can do it.
You can see hollowed out trees claiming to be the world’s tallest rooms. There’s
even a cathedral of six redwoods growing from the same root which has been the site of
innumerable marriage ceremonies. Okay, it’s not Vegas, but the preacher’s not an
Elvis impersonator either. The fact is, they’ve probably done just about everything
you can think of to a redwood tree short of opening a brothel in one, and I suspect that
if I wasn’t using a G-rated AAA tour map I would have seen it marked in huge red
letters: "Home of the Big Redwoodie". 
The Trees of Mystery in Klamath, California sports a 49-foot Paul Bunyan and a well
endowed Babe the Blue Ox out front. The Prehistoric Gardens in Port Orford, Oregon has
oddly-colored dinosaurs hanging around one of the most incredible rain forests in the
country. But if you go inland a bit you’ll find a place I’ve been told to visit
many times but had never actually come across: The Funny Farm.
Located off Hwy. 97 between Bend and
Redmond, Oregon, the Funny Farm is part second-hand store, part art installation, and part
acid flashback. The brain stutter of Gene Carsey and Mike Craven, The Funny Farm started
as an antique/junk store 15 years ago. It was their pet goat Lucy–you know, the one
who lived in a pink 1954 Studebaker and ate dill pickles–that started attracting
attention.
The next thing you know they’ve put up
a bed frame filled with planted flowers and the outline of a man lounging on it (the
Flower Bed), a bowling ball garden (you can buy bowling ball seeds on the way out), a
Yellow Brick Road which leads to Dorothy’s house (complete with witch legs and ruby
slippers jutting out from beneath it), and an Agitator Wall covered with painted washing
machine agitators. Oh yeah, and picket signs propped in the corner in case you’re in
an agitating mood yourself.
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| They’ve
now got Bear, a dog which sleeps on a sofa on the roof and, yes, eats hot dogs the
tourists buy just for that purpose. |
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There’s real art
there too, like the statue of a three-legged bowler whose heads are the images of Gene and
Mike in their younger days, the tire totem pole, and the electric kaleidoscope which
continuously shows the Wizard of Oz in cascading psychedelic images. And let’s not
forget, there’s all that stuff for sale, from oddball knickknacks in the main shop to
antiques, junk, and old radios in the barn. Oh yeah, there’s also the costume shop,
which not only has vintage clothes, but features the Dead Halloween Mask Burial Grounds.
How else to explain the masks of Rodney Dangerfield, Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, Spuds
McKenzie, and the old hag labeled "Madonna in the year 2020"? Lest you think this isn’t serious stuff, the
Funny Farm has its educational side too. Where else will you ever get the chance to see
what’s inside a bowling ball? (Hint: It looked like plaster to me.) Maybe they should
have stressed this learning aspect when the county supervisors tried to stop them from
moving across the street when they were being displaced because of a road widening
project. After getting 500 unsolicited letters supporting the Funny Farm, the county
begrudgingly gave in, but to this day won’t allow them to erect a sign on the
highway.
Life goes on at the Funny Farm, though
always in a constantly changing form. They used to host a party every Saturday night for
local gays and lesbians, but they stopped because it was getting to be a little too much.
In order to pay for their Yellow Brick Road improvement project they now offer to put your
name on a brick for five bucks. And in the spirit of Lucy the goat’s ghost,
they’ve now got Bear, a dog which sleeps on a sofa on the roof and, yes, eats hot
dogs the tourists buy just for that purpose.
It’s all attitude, an attitude which
is best summed up by one of the many printed sheets they hand out, this one explaining
what we can learn from their fainting goats. Prominently displayed is a reminder that
it’s important in life to "kid around". No kidding.
©1997 Mad Dog Productions, Inc. All
Rights Reserved.
These columns appear in better newspapers across the country. Contrary
to popular opinion, goats don't read them, they eat them.
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