Dinosaur World: Cave City, KY

After spending the night in a Wigwam, eating breakfast at a restaurant that still has a smoking section (it was full) and before we explored abandoned Funtown Mountain, there was Dinosaur World. There are three different Dinosaur Worlds, one in Florida, Texas and Kentucky. Cave City, Kentucky is located near Mammoth Cave Park and was obviously once a booming tourist town. There are still motels, gift shops and other attractions, but the whole town feels largely stuck in time.

Unlike Funtown Mountain across the street, Dinosaur World seems to be doing quite well—they're even open every single day except Christmas and Thanksgiving from 8:30am - 6pm. Dinosaur World features more than 150 life-sized dinosaurs set along an outdoor, wooded path. I read a review where someone complained that they weren't animatronic, but it was the low-tech nature of it all that appealed to me most.

I wouldn't consider myself to have an extensive knowledge of all things dinosaur-related, but I was blown away by how many different kinds of dinosaurs have been discovered. It's one thing to read about their different traits and sizes, but it's another thing entirely to see them up close and in person. Dinosaur World also has a "Mammoth Garden," and if there's one extinct species that we should try to resurrect, it should be the Wooly Mammoth.

Some of the dinosaurs looked predictably scary, but others looked so silly that they made me laugh. Nature is such a weird and wonderful thing, and it wasn't hard to draw connections between dinosaurs and modern-day creatures like birds and lizards. We'll probably never know what it's like to share the earth with dinosaurs like the ones we imagine, but a day at Dinosaur World was more than sufficient to quell that urge. And if all of the Jurassic Park movies are to be believed, resurrecting actual dinosaurs is most likely a terrible idea.

Historic Jersey City & Harsimus Cemetery

After meeting my eighth Muffer Man, I headed back east toward downtown Jersey City and stopped at the Historic Jersey City & Harsimus Cemetery. The cemetery was incorporated in 1831, after a cholera epidemic forced the city to create a larger cemetery on the outskirts of town. The site of the cemetery had previously been host to several Revolutionary War skirmishes and to an active ammunition bunker during the War of 1812.

The cemetery was badly neglected and abandoned until a volunteer group took over in 2008 and began to clean up and restore the grounds. It was during these restoration efforts that a series of tunnels and chambers were discovered through an old door set into the hillside. The tunnels were filled with bones, unburied coffins and boxes of munitions leftover from the war. Unfortunately I didn't get inside of the tunnels, and in fact, I was lucky enough to get inside of the actual cemetery. 

When I finally found the entrance, I discovered that the gate was locked. As I started to walk away disappointed (George Michael-style—head down, Charlie Brown theme playing), I noticed a man approaching the gate from inside of the cemetery. I went back and asked if I could "just look around," and to my surprise he unlocked the gates and waved me in. He mumbled what sounded like "the ghost got out again" as he was re-locking the gate, and I laughed until he said it again and I realized he was actually saying "the goats got out again."

All summer long the cemetery is using goats to help clear the weeds, and they were apparently having a hard time keeping them inside of the cemetery. I'm very grateful to the man that let me in, and to the other man tending to the goats who allowed me to explore the grounds ("Get some shots of the goats," he said. "They won't bite!"). I'm assuming they were the two veterans who now live in the caretakers cottage in exchange for watching over the cemetery, which sounds a lot like my dream job that I never knew existed. 

Although I would have loved to explore the tunnels, the cemetery grounds are plenty fascinating on their own. If you just wandered into the Jersey City cemetery, you would have no idea that it was abandoned or was once in such bad condition. It's only when you take a closer look do you start to notice broken stones, sunken graves and areas still covered in weeds.

The Historic Jersey City & Harsimus Cemetery immediately reminded me of Eastern Cemetery in KY—both places were saved from years of neglect and abuse by a group of caring volunteers. Additionally, the cemetery regularly hosts fundraising events such as movies, plays and concerts, with all proceeds going toward their maintenance, upkeep and preservation efforts. 

Conservatory Garden: August 2016

Now that I no longer have the pleasure of commuting every day through Central Park, I don't get to the Conservatory Garden nearly as much as I should. It's one of my very favorite spots in the park and I'm always happier after spending some time there, even if it's just my lunchbreak. I decided to check in on the gardens recently and it was as beautiful as ever. The last time I was in the Conservatory Garden, the tulips were in bloom, so I was way overdue for a return visit.

Plants will always be a mystery to me—as evidenced by the time I mistook a billion chrysanthemums for daisies, or the succulent that I recently murdered—but that's part of why I admire them so much. I started off looking at the dahlias and other blooms, but very quickly started to fall in love with all of the darker plants. It's a trend I noticed when I visited at a similar time last year, but the dark color palette is definitely more pronounced this year. Deep purples and charcoals might not seem like an obvious choice for a summer garden, but that's what makes them so wonderful.

The deep reds were also really beautiful and as always the contrasts of textures, colors and shapes is really spot on. The Great Fall anticipation always begins for me around this time of year (I blame back-to-school advertising) and for a brief moment I allowed myself to get excited for all things pumpkin, spooky and crisp.

Muffler Man: Wilson's Carpet

Ever since I saw my first  (and second and third and fourth and fifth and sixth and seventh) Muffler Man, I've been obsessed with meeting every one I can. Roadside America has an invaluable map of known Muffler Man locations and I consult it wherever I'm going to make sure I don't miss one. I've known about the one in Jersey City for a while, but I just recently made it across the Hudson to finally see it in person.

The carpet-clutching Muffler Man stands outside of the entrance to Wilson's Carpet and Furniture under the Pulaski Skyway in Jersey City. Owner Norm Wilson bought the 25-foot-tall Bunyan figure in 1974 for $5,000. In 1998, the Muffler Man became legitimately famous when it was included in the opening credits of the Sopranos—something I didn't know about it until after I got home. He's definitely changed over the past eight years, and is in desperate need of a touch-up, but he's still clutching his signature steel "carpet" roll.

The electronic sign board appeared to be broken when I went, and a HUGE SALE!! banner hung in tatters from one of his hands. He stands on a base declaring "America is #1! Love it or leave it!" which feels a little bit too "Make America Great Again" for my tastes, even though I know it predates any Trump-related craziness. Wilson's is located on a very busy road, near the New Jersey turnpike, Hackensack river and elevated PATH train tracks. It's really not a pedestrian-friendly area, but I wasn't going to let that stop me from checking out my eighth (!!) Muffler Man. 

This Muffler Man gets the sad distinction of being in the worst condition of the eight I've seen—the paint is peeling from his pants, his carpet roll is rusting and his faded facial features create a greying, salt-and-pepper look. It was definitely a harrowing journey—despite being only less than nine miles from my Brooklyn apartment—but it was so very worth it.

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Wilson's Carpet & Furniture
220 Broadway,
Jersey City, NJ 07306

Jersey City

I recently joked that I was running out of things to do in New York, so I needed to expand my radius. Of course this will never really be true because New York City is huge and constantly changing. However, as I become more comfortable living here and exploring different neighborhoods, it would make sense that my exploration area would be ever expanding. I had an entire sunny Sunday free recently, and decided to use it to venture over the Hudson into New Jersey.

Of course I've been to New Jersey before, but I'd never taken the PATH train. It was easy enough to figure out (you can use your MetroCard!) and I was surprised at how quickly I got from lower Manhattan to Jersey City. I had a loose itinerary for the day, which began with a stop at the VIP Diner. It had everything I look for in a diner—original furnishings, excellent signage, a friendly waitstaff and cheap, filling breakfast. From the diner I headed to check out a Muffler Man and a cemetery (more on those later), before making my way back east to downtown Jersey City and the waterfront.

The "Historic Downtown" area of Jersey City actually looked like a movie set to me—complete with generically named shops like "Hardware" and "Dry Cleaners." I stopped in a cute bookstore to browse, drank my weight in iced tea and marveled at the cute PATH entrances. It was very, very hot, but I was still surprised to find the streets so empty on a weekend afternoon, but it was a nice break from the sweaty, crowded sidewalks of the city.

I found out that New Jersey has a light rail when I almost got run over by it as I was crossing the street. I tried to ride to Liberty Park but I wasn't aware of the weekend service schedule so I had to get off after going just one stop, but it was worth it to experience yet another form of transportation (I have a seriously nerdy obsession with all of the varying forms of public transit).

It's funny to me that you have to go to New Jersey (or Brooklyn, or Queens) to really see Manhattan, and one of the best parts about Jersey City is the incredible skyline view. The neon view as you descend the escalator at the Exchange Place PATH station is pretty wonderful too, although it's still not quite enough to make me consider defecting west of the Hudson just yet.

Barrel of Fun

We had already planned to eat ice cream from an ice cream cone-shaped ice cream stand, but when I came across the Barrel of Fun in my roadtrip research, I couldn't resist adding it to our itinerary. We did visit them on separate days, but even if we hadn't, you can never have too much novelty architecture (or ice cream) in your life, in my opinion.

The Barrel of Fun is located in Okolona, a suburb of Louisville, Kentucky, in a residential neighborhood, next to a tiny strip of shops. The 12-foot-tall red, and white-striped barrel opened in 1994 by former plant worker Mark Beam and originally only sold ice cream. They've since expanded to included other standard roadside fare such as burgers and hot dogs.

By the time we arrived at the Barrel, we were ready for dinner, so I got a chili cheese dog (my first!) and a large dill pickle (my mouth waters at the memory). New York maybe clouding my judgement, but everything on the menu was insanely cheap (I can't remember exactly, but the chili dog was under $2). Is the Barrel of Fun something everyone should drive miles out of their way to see? Probably not. But it was a delightful, somewhat hidden, local gem, with average food that tasted slightly above average only because it was served to us from the inside of a 12-foot barrel.

Abandoned: Sandy Hook, NJ

Back in June, when I posted about my day spent exploring the abandoned parts of Fort Totten, Kate commented that I should check out Sandy Hook, NJ. She had lived near there and promised that the now-defunct US Army post at Fort Hancock was lousy with abandoned gems. We didn't wait too long before taking her advice—along with the ferry to Sandy Hook—a few Sundays ago.

Sandy Hook is technically a barrier split approximately 6 miles in length and is located at the north end of the Jersey Shore. Sandy Hook is owned by the government, mostly controlled by the National Parks Service and has three public beaches (including one of the largest "clothing optional" beaches on the East Coast). Fort Hancock is home to the Sandy Hook Light, the oldest working lighthouse in the country; Battery Potter, the first disappearing gun battery in the US; and Battery Peck, a 6-inch disappearing gun battery.

My dude and I took bikes and the area is filled with nice paths for both walking and biking. It still very much feels like a military base, with rows of identical buildings—distinguishable from one another only by their varying levels of decay. The Officers' Club, completed in 1879, is one of the best crumbling mansions I've ever had the pleasure of seeing in person. I was intent to find a way to get inside of it until I overheard someone describe it as a "raccoon hotel," and I decided it was better left unexplored (for now).

We took a free NPS tour of Battery Peck—private, technically since we were the only ones on it—ate our lunch with a view of the Manhattan skyline and strung a hammock up on the lawn of the Officers' Club. The Sandy Hook ferry is a bit pricey and infrequent, but the ride was nice and it was a perfect day trip away from the city.

O'Brien Cemetery

When I was back in Ohio recently, my dad asked if I'd like to go see a cemetery that he'd "been driving by for 30 years and never stopped to check out."Of course I said yes. O'Brien Cemetery is less than five miles from the house where I grew up, but I'd never heard of it before. I wasn't as diligent at seeking out cemeteries (or exploring in general) then as I am now, but my recent trip back made me realize just how little I actually know about the place where I spent the first 27 years of my life.

Fortunately, at least one Charitan has been paying attention, and it felt right that my dad and I got to see the cemetery together. The only thing my dad had seen was the tiny sign ("Get your camera ready," he said) at the end of a long driveway that disappeared into woods. We drove down the gravel road not really knowing what to expect, but it felt like the way a horror movie might start, so we were optimistic.

The O'Brien cemetery was established in the 1880s, however burials took place on the site as early as 1806. The area, on the west side of Hudson Drive in Hudson, Ohio, was once called "Little Ireland," and the cemetery residents are primarily of Irish descent. There is a map of plots and names, including a lot of O'Briens, McCauleys, McKenzies and Galloways, although the plaque acknowledges that since a lot of the records have been lost, "there are definitely errors in this listing."

The cemetery is very small with only about 175 residents. It's definitely one of the smallest cemeteries I've ever explored, second only to the Second Cemetery of the Spanish and Portuguese Synagogue, which is the smallest cemetery here in the city. Some of the stones are broken, some are in near-perfect condition, and others are adorned with fake flowers that probably seem like a good idea (they never die!) but somehow look extra creepy when they're tattered, sun-bleached and covered in spider webs.

At the entrance to the cemetery is a carved wooden monk, holding a tray on which visitors had left various offerings. Some of them made sense (coins), some were obviously just hastily taken from cars (the Little Trees air freshener, a salt packet) and others just made me laugh (a fossil collection diagram). I wasn't prepared, but I still felt as if I should leave something. I defaulted to the second category, hastily grabbed my Dinosaur Land wristband and offered it to the cemetery gods as a thank you for leading us to such a wonderful spot.

The Ohio State Reformatory: Chairs

One thing that JMP and I kept noticing as we toured the Ohio State Reformatory was all of the chairs. In almost every room that we entered, there was a chair—almost always alone and almost always a different style. I seem to always notice chairs when I'm in abandoned spaces—like the Ellis Island Hospital complex or the creepy dentist chair in the Staten Island hospital—and they add so much character and feeling to otherwise lifeless spaces.

A lone chair sets such a lonely scene, suggesting that a space's inhabitants simply got up and left, but at the same time suggesting that they may one day return. They humanize empty spaces and provide much-needed scale. We wondered if they were placed deliberately, and if so, we commend the chair-placer on duty that day—every one we came across was better than the last.

The variety of different styles kept us searching for more, and every time we found a new one we were thrilled. I'm always on the verge of becoming overwhelmed by incredible places like the Reformatory, and searching for specific things helps me stay focused. I only regret that I didn't happen to catch a ghost relaxin' in one of the chairs—catching an elusive JMP, however, was equally satisfying.

Longaberger Basket

The last stop on our recent #ALLCAPSEPICROADTRIPOFDELIGHTS was the (now former) Longaberger Basket headquarters in Newark, Ohio. I have always appreciated novelty architecture, but I've become more and more obsessed with seeking out examples of it. The Longaberger Basket is just about perfect in the "buildlings shaped like what they contain" department, right up there with Twistee Treats, donut shops like Randy's Donuts and the Big Duck (the latter two are top of my wish list).

I've said it before, but the whimsy of novelty architecture is something that is sorely missing in most people's every day lives. Unless of course, you drive down Ohio's Route 16 frequently, which has a near-perfect view of the big basket. If you never find yourself in rural Ohio, know that you can creep on the basket from Google Earth, where—just like Willy the Whale—the basket and its adorable shadow can be viewed at any time.

The basket was completed in 1997 at the insistence of founder Dave Longaberger, and at what would turn out to be the peak of the company's success. Two years after the building's completion, Longaberger died. Due in part to changing decor tastes, sales of the expensive baskets began to decline, and the company stopped paying taxes on the basket in 2014. Longaberger currently owes $577,660 in property taxes, and in mid-July they relocated their remaining employees to a space at their nearby manufacturing plant. 

We arrived at the basket late in the day, and there were two cars in the parking lot but by all accounts the building already looked abandoned. The large side parking lots are overgrown, the flags out front are in shreds and from up close you can see that the exterior paint has begun to peel. Because the company is so behind on the taxes, the possibility exists that the basket will be seized and put up for auction, with the minimum bid set at around $570k. This might be a steal if the basket wasn't located in Newark, Ohio, or if it wasn't so costly to maintain—I read somewhere that the handles need to be heated in the winter to prevent ice from forming and crashing through the massive skylight. 

I knew the basket was big—seven stories with handles and brass tags 160 times the size of a standard Longaberger basket —but it's definitely something that needs to be seen and experienced in person. 

Although it was a bit out of our way, finally making it to the big basket was a total dream-come-true for me and the perfect way to end our already-perfect roadtrip. I'm interested to see how this next phase of the basket's life turns out, and I do hope that it lives on in some way. However, if it does happen to stay abandoned and fall further into disrepair, a return trip to Newark is a must—the only thing better than a seven-story, basket-shaped office building is an abandoned, seven-story, basket-shaped office building.

Bonus Basket! I couldn't resist making one last, last stop at the nearby Longaberger Homestead, home of the "World's Largest Apple Basket," which was hand-woven out of hardwood maple and stands more than 29 feet tall.

Abandoned: Warner and Swasey Observatory

After fueling up at the Diner on 55th, and before roasting in the sun at the Rubber Bowl, JMP and I explored the Warner and Swasey Observatory in East Cleveland. The observatory was built by the owners of the Warner and Swasey instrument and telescope company, and given to Case University in 1919. The observatory originally had a 9.5 inch refractor and grew over the years to include a 24-inch telescope, library and lecture hall.

Light pollution from downtown Cleveland began to make observations difficult beginning in the 1950s, and a new facility was built 30 miles to the east. The observatory was officially abandoned in the 1980s, and plans to turn it into a residence fell through in the mid-2000s. There are a few boarded up windows and locked doors, but we actually just walked in through the back door, which was wide open.

Since the observatory has sat abandoned for so long, it's covered from top to bottom in graffiti. Most of it is run-of-the-mill, unimaginative penis drawings and swear words, but there were a few phrases that made me laugh, like "Long Live Bob Ross + Happy Trees," and the people that amended "You Will Die" with "probably" and "might."

The main observatory, despite missing a few dome panels, was such a thrill to see. I'd seen photographs of this building many times, but nothing prepared me for how cool it was to actually stand inside of the large rotunda. It must have been really extraordinary to observe the heavens from here in the early 1900s, and even though thinking about space really freaks me out, I would love to have seen the observatory in its heyday.

One of the main thoughts I left with was how large the observatory seemed from the inside vs. my expectations. It seemed as if we kept going through hallway after hallway and finding room after room. The auditorium was a last minute, A+ find, although it was so dark that we had to use flashlights just to barely make out the lecture hall. We found a classroom with a chalkboard still hanging, and some rooms with somewhat new construction suggesting plans that never fully materialized.

We almost missed the smaller observatory, but I'm so glad we stumbled on it before we left. Of course I wish that we had been able to see the observatory as it was originally, or at least not covered in layers and layers of average graffiti, but it's kind of a miracle that it's still standing at all after so many years of neglect.

Green-Wood Cemetery: Moss

On a recent walk through Green-Wood Cemetery (aka my happy place), I noticed that a lot of headstones were covered in moss, algae and/or lichen. I've already established that I know absolutely nothing about plants or greenery so I'm not entirely clear on the difference between the three, or sure that those are the only greenish things that grow on headstones. But what I am sure of is that a moss-covered tombstone is creepy and beautiful, and Green-Wood is lousy with them right now.

I happened upon a particular spot in the cemetery where almost every stone was covered, and it doesn't appear to have much to do with the composition of the stone itself—although the older and more porous a stone, I'm sure the more likely it is to be host to any and all creeping flora. Whenever I see one stone covered in ivy or any type of growth it makes me wonder how it was chosen as a host above all the others. I happen to extra-love any stone that looks overgrown and forgotten, and if I intended to have a tombstone of my own one day (I don't, despite my love of cemeteries) I would love nothing more than to have it entangled in ivy.

I've been to Green-Wood so many times now—and it's such an overwhelmingly large space—that narrowing my focus helps me to not jump around frantically feeling as if I'm missing something. Green-Wood does such a wonderful job of maintaining the stones and the space, that it's a testament to that maintenance that it's actually quite rare (in my experience) to find anything remotely crumbling or unkempt in the cemetery.

5th Avenue: 24th Street - Park Place

It's been a while since I've just wandered around taking photos and my storefront addiction was in need of a fix. After satisfying my always-present need for cemetery exploration by walking through Green-Wood Cemetery, I decided to walk the rest of the way home (2 miles exactly) down 5th Avenue through Park Slope. I live right on the border of Park Slope and Prospect Heights, and what I always find fascinating about New York is how distinctive neighborhoods can be from one another.

Park Slope is the epitome of Brownstone Brooklyn, and 5th Avenue is one of the main retail streets through the neighborhood. Brooklyn's 5th Ave is slightly more mom-and-pop than the more famous 5th Avenue in Manhattan—but like all of New York, things change quickly. There's a Barnes and Noble and a handful of big name banks and chain stores, but there's still some really wonderful, old signage, diners and small businesses to be discovered.

As usual, I was drawn to anything neon, strange, handpainted, vintage-looking or with a clever-sounding name. These types of walks—where I'm hyper-focused on storefronts and signage—are always uplifting to my New York-loving soul. It's tempting to get depressed with every demolition or the closing of a beloved business, but just knowing that there are still authentic, interesting places sandwiched in between every Chase bank and Dunkin' Donuts is comforting.

"Amazing Variety Store" wins points in the generic hyperbole department, Brooklyn Superhero Company (yes, this is a real store) wins for best closed sign (NOPE.), the laundromat and "TV Repairs" tie for best handpainted signage and Garry Jewelers wins for best signage overall—but it's the "I Want a Breast Pump" storefront that will continue to haunt and confuse me for a very long time.

More city walks: First Avenue: 1st - 34th Streets | First Avenue: 92nd - 34th Streets

Cleveland: Diner on 55th

Before a day spent creeping on abandoned places around Northeast Ohio (ending with the spectacular Rubber Bowl), JMP and I knew a proper diner breakfast was the only option. She scouted out a few diners around the Cleveland area, and after a false start at one that turned out to be a catering company, we ended up at the Diner on 55th. The diner is named after where it's located: on East 55th and St. Clair, just east of downtown Cleveland.

Although it looks straight out of the 1950s, the diner—from a pre-fab diner company and built in three pieces so it can be reassembled anywhere—is relatively new. The owner, a proper Greek, diner-lover named Dmetrios Anagnostos, came out of retirement and opened the Diner on 55th in 2001 after visiting a diner in Georgia and deciding that maybe he wasn't done with the Cleveland restaurant scene after all.

Seated at a table next to us was who I can only assume to be Anagnostos himself. Noticing my very conspicuous camera, he asked where we were from. When I told him I lived in New York, he talked fondly of the diners here and mentioned that New Jersey is also a bit of a diner goldmine. He was friendly and warm, and his love of diners was so obvious that I loved him (and his diner) immediately.

The inside of the diner is a veritable shrine to Coca-Cola, with a red-and-white color scheme to match. Even though the decor (and even the dining car itself) falls into the category of diner I like to call "faux retro," the service and food really made the visit memorable. My breakfast sandwich was incredible, my grits were the best I've had north of the Mason-Dixon line, and despite the very busy day that followed, I wasn't hungry until dinner time.

Eastern Cemetery: Abandoned

On our way to Cave Hill Cemetery in Louisville, KY to visit the final resting place of Colonel Sanders (naturally), we missed the entrance and had to turn around. JMP pulled into what looked like another entrance to the cemetery, but it turns out it was for a different cemetery, one adjacent to, and separate from Cave Hill.

Eastern Cemetery opened in the 1840s, making it one of Louisville's oldest cemeteries. While we were exploring, we were approached by a man that had been cutting the grass. We immediately thought that we were in trouble, but we couldn't have been more wrong. He had noticed our out-of-state license plate, and just wanted to share some information about the cemetery with us. His story was incredible, and made our visit so much better than it would have been otherwise.

The sordid story of Eastern Cemetery goes something like this: in 1989, a disgruntled employee came forward with information that the cemetery had been reselling old graves, perhaps starting as early as 1858. Cemetery officials would keep track of which graves were frequently visited by family and friends, and ones with no visitors would be marked "OG" in the records, for "old grave." OG's would subsequently be resold, and according to a New York Times article about the scandal, "the remains of up to 48,000 people were buried in graves that were already occupied."

Whoever owns the cemetery assumes liability and by law must make efforts to reinter all of the mistreated remains—an astronomically expensive and exhaustive task—so the cemetery has sat abandoned since the 80s. In 2013 a volunteer group was started to help clean up the cemetery, and their efforts are very obvious—in fact, most of the cemetery no longer looks abandoned. Our de facto tour guide said that when his group started, the grass was more than 7 feet tall around the headstones.

Speaking of the headstones, what did the cemetery do with the old stone when they resold the plot? Our guide said that was a mystery until recently, when a stone expert pointed to a particular grave with an unusually carved headstone. Not only was the cemetery reselling graves, but they were shaving names off of headstones and reselling them as well (!!). As if that wasn't crazy enough, Krug's stone was re-carved twice. After we saw once instance of this, I became obsessed with finding others. I think we found a few that were suspicious, including a lot of plain granite stones with plaques attached, which seems like a great way to easily change a stone.

The story of Eastern Cemetery is so crazy to me, but I can't help but wonder if its residents aren't the only ones to have suffered such indignities—the cemetery business model is not a very sustainable one, and who knows how long they would have gotten away with it if someone hadn't blown the whistle. If i lived nearby, I would love to volunteer to help maintain the grounds. I'm grateful, however, that the residents of Eastern Cemetery seem to be finally getting the care they deserve, and especially thankful for the volunteer who stopped to share his incredible story with us.

Funtown Mountain: Abandoned

On our way out of Cave City, Kentucky (after a blissful night spent sleeping in a Wigwam) we couldn't resist stopping to check out Funtown Mountain. Originally opened in 1969 as Guntown Mountain (you can see where the G was amended to an F recently), the attraction included a gift shop, haunted hotel and chair lift ride up the titular mountain.

It was reopened as Funtown Mountain in June of 2015, but closed in September of that year when the owner ran into financial trouble and missed some loan payments. Cave City officials declared the park a public safety hazard, and the property went up for auction in April of this year. It sold for $295,000 to a Cave City local who plans to turn it into a destination, a project estimated to cost anywhere from five to twenty million dollars.

We creeped around for a while before I thought I was actually going to die from the heat and insanely bright sun. We climbed up a flight of very rickety wooden steps and discovered an overgrown snack bar car, restrooms, a creepy white-washed bus and what looked like the remnants of some sort of bumper ride. We were sure there was more to the park, but we were running low on time (and cooling mechanisms) and didn't want to push our luck.

The Haunted Hotel and adjacent fortune-telling hut were definitely a highlight. Although we couldn't find a viable way into the "hotel," it was still such an A+ find. Parts of Funtown Mountain feel as if they've been abandoned for years—instead of months—but I can still see why someone with big dreams would be able to see its potential. I'd love to revisit Funtown if it ever reopens, but they might find it difficult to improve on the creepiness of a legitimately abandoned Haunted Hotel.

Asbury Park

Last weekend we had access to a rental car for the day and I immediately started running through a list of potential adventures to take outside the reach of public transportation. The official forecast for Saturday was "as hot as the inside of a dog's mouth," so we decided the only sane thing would be to head to a beach. I suggested Asbury Park for its beach and kitschy boardwalk, a winning combination for us—one nature lover and one lover of all things strange and rundown (*raises hand*). It was my first visit to the Jersey Shore, and despite recent shark sightings and the insanely oppressive heat, it ended up being a nearly perfect summer day trip.

I recently bought a bathing suit for the first time since I was a kid, and although I ended up horribly sunburnt in patches that make it look as if I'm permanently wearing a white (skin) bathing suit, I loved wearing it and was thrilled (through my terror) to be able to cool off in the ocean. I have my various reasons for completely avoiding swimsuits and water activities for a long stretch of my life, but maybe it's the fact that I give less and less fucks the older I get, but here's my sage advice: no one cares what you look like in a swimsuit.

I bought a suit that I loved, felt better in it than I ever thought possible, laid on a crowded beach and frolicked in the ocean and not one person gasped or pointed or stared. Part of me feels silly for letting my anxieties rule so many summers past, but it's nice to now have a whole new world of beach activities open to me. Although perhaps not as wide open as I would like—since my elation at finally feeling comfortable on the beach was cut short once I realized that my invisible ghost body needs to be shielded during all waking hours, and that spray sunscreen is no match for my virgin, translucent skin.

We scored free street parking, grabbed hot dogs and lemonade, lounged on the beach, cooled off in the inexplicably-freezing Atlantic, strolled along the boardwalk and had a drink at the Wonder Bar. We walked by the (now-closed) Asbury Lanes and I grumbled about the missing neon sign, but fell in love with the handpainted, script lettering.

With its abandoned buildings (some repurposed, some just a shell like the Casino) and old-timey beach vibe, Asbury Park felt a lot like New Jersey's version of Coney Island (in fact they even have very similar "funny face" icons). I can imagine how grand it must have been in its heyday, and I admire its scrappiness and ability to survive economic ups and downs, shifting tastes and devastating hurricanes.

Muffler Man: Traders World

After visiting the field of giant corn cobs, and before treating ourselves to a cone (and a float) from The Cone, we were on the hunt for a Muffler Man. I had his location pinpointed on my map, but I had no idea that we were about to hit the roadside kitsch jackpot at the entrance to Traders World.

Traders World claims to be the "midwest's largest and most colorful flea market," and has been in Lebanon, Ohio for more than 30 years. It's pretty far south from where I grew up so I had never heard of it, despite my deep love of flea markets and roadside figurines. They have 16 buildings, 850 inside vendor spaces and 400 outdoor vendor spaces—sadly it was closed by the time we arrived, but it looked enormous.

Luckily, the grand entrance gates are flanked by not only the top-notch Muffler Man, but several other fiberglass animals and beautiful handpainted signs. I was so happy to be able to see yet another Muffler Man in person (my seventh!), and delighted beyond words to stumble upon all sorts of additional critters, who—despite the many signs—did not roar or bite once.