The KFC Museum

Last week, when I was in Albuquerque, Kristin sent me a text that we needed to get out of town and go on a road trip. I agreed, because it seems like forever since we went somewhere fun. I didn't really have any ideas (Santa's Land, one of my perpetual "We have to go there!" places, has once again closed for the season without a visit from us), so Kristin suggested The Harland Sanders Cafe and Museum, or, as it is known colloquially, the KFC Museum.

"Do you want to go to the KFC Museum?"

OF COURSE.

Yesterday morning I got up early, got ready to go, and waited for Kristin to come pick me up, and then we were on the road, to a strange and distant land known as Kentucky, our neighbor to the north:



After only two hours in the car, we neared our destination, and Kristin tried to put a damper on my excitement.

"Now, I don't want you to get your hopes up, but it's not that great."

Not that great? How could a museum dedicated to a uniquely American facet of our cuisine, Kentucky Fried Chicken, made with Colonel Sanders' secret recipe of eleven herbs and spices, possibly be "not that great"? People in 105 countries known that "Kentucky" means "chicken" because of Colonel Sanders, and I refused to believe that the museum dedicated to this pioneer of business and Southern culture could possibly be anything less than a shrine.

And, of course, I was right. It is a shrine. A tiny shrine that takes up a small part of a regular, plain old KFC restaurant:



Everything on the right side of the picture, from the "Pure Oil" sign over, is the museum. Everything on the left is a KFC.

I should have listened to Kristin.

Really, my first indication should have been in the parking lot. They don't even have a sign that says "Museum". The sign looks like this:



The building itself looks somewhat historical, and still has a vintage sign:



but you can see right there from the rounded addition that they've added a modern KFC restaurant to the place despite the historical status:



The state of Kentucky does have a historical sign out front:





but again, this isn't really a museum. It's a KFC with some display cases:











a somewhat dirty statue of Harland Sanders on a bench that you're supposed to have your picture made with:





and a dark, windowless wood-panelled dining room that, I suppose, may or may not be historically accurate but is also a weird mix of styles from different decades:



There are a couple of displays in the dining room: a model of the motel rooms that used to be attached to the cafe, a model of Harland Sanders' kitchen that had vintage Borax boxes on the counter but modern faucet hardware in the sink, and a model of Col. Sanders' office:



I guess if you're hungry and on the way to somewhere else the museum is a good place to stop, but it was almost as disappointing as the National Knife Museum. Arguably, it may even be worse than the National Knife Museum, because that at least had a gift shop and some hideous animatronic animals. This seemed kind of like they couldn't tear the building down because it was on the historical register, so they pulled out a bunch of old KFC stuff, nailed it to the walls, and called it a day.

Kristin and I weren't ready to call it a day, though, and instead decided to press on to Lexington and visit Joseph-Betth Booksellers, which Kristin remembered as a huge independent bookstore with lots of obscure, hard to find titles but which has instead given over more than half of their floorspace to food, clothing, trinkets, toys, home decor, candles, and what is apparently the kind of business model that killed Borders. Still, I did find a book that I didn't know I wanted because I didn't know it existed, and we had a nice late lunch/early dinner at the Bronte Bistro inside the store.

The mini creme brulee is an excellent use of two dollars:



On the way home, Kristin had to stop for gas, so we also stopped for a minute at the slightly decrepit fireworks store next to the gas station:



and marvelled at the collection of weird statues:





and broken down amusement park rides (seriously, they had not one but two rusting inoperative ferris wheels):









on their front lawn.

We didn't buy anything, since neither one of us is allowed to have fireworks in our apartment complexes and both of us are liable to blow off a finger by accident, but it was a nice end to a fun road trip day.

I can only hope that the museum and shrine to Long John Silver or Chef Boyardee is more exciting and befitting of their stature as pillars of American culture.

Your friend, the Gay

I was trying really hard to not post here about the Chick-fil-a thing, because I will just get ranty and I didn't think I had anything to add, and also because I've been posting the hell out of my Facebook about it, but this morning someone I respect, who I thought I was close to, had a picture of a chicken sandwich captioned by "Free speech never tasted so good!" in her Facebook feed and I hit the limit of my temper.

First I defriended her, and then I left this as my facebook status:

[Joel] thought he was going to make it through the Chick-fil-a debacle without defriending people, but apparently this was not to be.

In case I was somehow horribly unclear earlier in the week, let me reiterate: This is not a free speech issue. The guy running CFA can say whatever he wants about his values, his religion, and his beliefs. My issue is that he is not just talking. He is taking the money you are giving him for chicken, and using it to legislatively force the entire country to believe as he believes.

If you are friends with me, then "gay people" are not some group you hear about on the news. They are me. Every time you hear someone say, "Gay people" or "LGBT" or "fag" in a sentence, mentally substitute the words "my friend Joel". Try it. "My friend Joel should pay the same taxes as me, but not have the same rights." "It should be illegal for my friend Joel to live that way." "It should be legal to fire my friend Joel for being my friend Joel." "My friend Joel is disgusting and is going to burn in hell." Once you finish doing that, ask yourself if you and I should actually still be friends if you feel that way about me.

If, after you ask yourself these questions, you can't stop yourself from joyously buying chicken to help oppress me, then by all means, do so. But please, keep the fact that you are actively trying to hurt me and all of the people who happen to be like me, rather than like you, to yourself. Otherwise, I will see it, and I will defriend you.

We will not speak of this again, because your friend Joel is angry, and going to the office to work it off.

I'm not going back on Facebook for a while (by which we all know I mean, "At least an hour!"), because I clearly need to cool off. I'm hurt, and I'm going to sulk.

flea market!

We lived in Tennessee and Kentucky when I was little, and every few weeks my mom would bundle us up and take us to the flea market. I don’t remember them very well, but a few things stick out:

1) They were always outside. This also meant that they were usually hot and dusty, but when I was little that irritated me much less than it does now.

2) They had comic books. I used to buy “Swamp Thing” there, and thought it was awesome to just sit and go through the boxes and get a stack of comics for a dollar.

3) My mom bought doilies at one that we used on the coffee table and end tables for years afterward and probably still own.

When I moved back here I didn’t wait very long before I went to my first flea market, but it was different. It was inside, and there weren’t really that many interesting things, just tables and tables of homemade crafts, Tupperware, Avon, sample sized packs of medicine in Rubbermaid bins, and a lot of similar stuff that seemed like you could just get it at a dollar store or discount outlet. Not many antiques, or weird stuff from people’s houses, or the kind of atmosphere that I remembered. I found it disappointing and haven’t gone back to the Expo Center for another.

I never knew where the outdoor one was, though, until last week when my friend Lauren told me she was going to set up a table at one. She just got a new job on the west coast, so she’s trying to sell a lot of her stuff instead of packing and moving it, and I said I’d swing by and show some support.

It’s the flea markets I remember!

Acres of cars parked out front!



Colorful, yet somehow sad, displays of unwanted goods!



And then there’s the oddities, the things you don’t ever see for sale anywhere else, like a vaguely blasphemous Virgin Mary beach towel:



Nothing screams “Day at the beach!” more than a scantily girl slathered in cocoa butter and laying on Jesus’ mom as topless guys walk by and ogle her. It’s pretty much the definition of “wholesome family fun”.

More photos are on the photo page, including the live chickens, which disturbed me. My taking a picture of them disturbed the guy selling them even more, though, which makes me wonder about the legality of the whole thing. That’s probably also part of the fun of the outdoor flea market.