Ye olde tacky attack *
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
(*a favourite column)
A friend of mine is presently ensconced in her Tacky Highpoints of
the World Grand Tour. This, I hasten to add, is not because she has no
taste but because no taste finds her, no matter where she travels.
She could be on a cruise ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and the
guy who makes Papal tea towels and Mother Teresa “I Love Calcutta”
embroidered doilies would plonk himself down in the deckchair next
to her and offer to sell her a Jesus beer holder and matching key ring.
Anyway, Eleanor sent me an enthusiastic letter last week to say she
has finally found a winner. Of all the world - and she has hung her hat
in most of it - she claims to have at last found the “Absolute Tackiest
Place on Earth”: Carmel, in the United States.
Not only is this place famed for once voting in Clint “Dirty Harry”
Eastwood as mayor, which has a certain kitsch value all of its own,
but she reports it actually specialises in boutiques of different
collectables:
“You start with your standard china ballerina shop (Carmel Ballerinas), your china owls (Owls of Carmel), your china doggies (Carmel Poocheria), then your china thatched cottages (Carmel's Olde Englande), and your handpainted china plates (Assiettes de Carmel) but then there's an entire store devoted to gold bunny jewellery, no I am not kidding (Bunnies at Carmel-By-The-Sea). I mean, your teeth itch, it's so twee.”
I'll grant you Carmel sounds like a winner. But, personally, I remain
fond of Arizona, from whence I acquired a too-tacky-to-pass-up
metallic road runner barometer, which tells the temperature in its
bird stomach.
Imagine my surprise in finding that, on an airport X-ray machine, it looks exactly like a handgun.
As I exclaimed to customs officials, “Hey, whoa, what a
coincidence!”, shortly followed by “Uh, guys, can you let me up
now, my chin’s getting lino-burn.”
(Just so you know, it is not smart to crack grenade jokes to armed,
humorless airport officers holding you on suspicion of smuggling
illegal hand guns.)
But I think we should also look inwards when it comes to tacky
attacks. After all, is not Australia home to that fibreglass icon,
Queensland's Big Pineapple? And also the Big Cow, an udder monument
to bad puns? But before you visualise plastic Seaworld shark erasers or
snow-dome Glenelgs, I can narrow down the list. I did once find the
tackiest place in Australia, which, oddly, was also more terrifying
than Alexander Downer in fishnets.
I fondly remember it now only as Big Nazi Mumma's Cheeseworld,
although, and thank heavens for repressed memories, its actual name
eludes me. Beyond potholes large enough to sink a family sedan, the
barricaded door, grilles and security mesh – minus only the patrolling
SS armed guards (who were probably reloading their Luger pistols out
back) - there lay in wait a frightening Thatcheresque woman in a
stern, grey flannel suit and hair piled higher than Bronwyn Bishop's.
She was like a German matron from a Monty Python skit and propelled
herself, arms pumping, forcefully up and back with military
precision, between the - wait for it - T-shirt rack and cheese fridge.
Her souvenir range included a delightful fluorescent pink T-shirt
with a cheese superimposed over a sketch of her building (complete with
the foreboding security grilles and mesh) - only missing the words: “I
survived my cheese world visit, without acquiring a nervous
disorder.”
Alas, my visit was only brief: I was ordered out, Nazi Mumma's
imperious finger aimed at the door, when I threw caution to the wind
and asked if she sold diet cola. (Curse my impetuous ways.)
But to this day, I regret never buying one of those T-shirts. They were
truly impressive actual tack, twee and naff, above and beyond the call of
duty.
Frankly, Carmel should be so lucky.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 06 APR 1999