Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Time once again emerges the winner in its perennial battle to change our hearts and minds, ravaging (perhaps, that's too harsh a word) along parameters that stretch from our youth to our deaths. What are these you ask? Only the old man himself knows and he's not telling. Winter fades to spring on the Elk River and the flood waters recede, streaming rivulets of mud and murk. I pack again for the cabin trip, like every summer since my summers began, excited, except for those few years in high school, when I fled from my parents, a high-minded but foolish youth, escaping into books and records, with friends. We surreptitiously visited the cabin on weekday nights, beers in hand, talk in mind. I pack and pack some more -- the right records, the right books, the right attitude -- looking forward to seeing the Elk overrun its bed or settle back into its groove, and anticipating the smell of the forest, the plants, the early summer.  I make my annual lists and call around...

When I was a kid, long before I began delving into folklore, collecting stories, and thinking about how differently stories are told in an oral form than a written one, my friends and I used to visit Holy Cross Road in an effort to experience supposed supernatural phenomena. This concept is commonly referred to by folklorists as Legend Tripping. Adolescents tend to venture out at night to explore places that are considered supernatural or haunted. Often certain rituals are carried out in order to either prove that kids were there, or just to prove that they aren't scared. Holy Cross was definitely the premier place for teenagers to go when I was in High School. I'm not certain it still maintains this status, but we certainly had fun going there. Our first trip there was an adventure in itself. I had heard many stories about the place -- it maintained quite a reputation. These stories ranged from the tame (unexplained noises) to the truly bizarre (gnomes, floating men, shot ...

Dark, murky dusk on a river finds the boys around a raging campfire. Logs are twisted in sharp directions, poking precariously towards the graying sky. The music that comes out of the immense Cerwin Vega speakers is a crackly, tinny selection of mostly old school country and rock 'n' roll, interspersed with metal, punk, indie, and Deep Purple. The portable record player does its best to keep up with the steady stream of dust and dirt from long forgotten grooves. Drinks and beers are lofted skyward in respect for new friendship and ancient camaraderies. The whiskey mixes with the beer in an interminable amount of Krunt pulls, swigs straight from the flask, and attempts at shoddy mixers. Yet the music blares on, not impeded by the sound of a car door cracking or a drunken stumble through the mud to the far away outhouse. The night eventually winds down. A crack of light is seen in the sky. Political discussions, story-telling, wrestling on the rocky ground, will all drift seaml...