Local Color

Never Go Back Again

A couple miles up Provo Canyon, you’ll encounter one of the loveliest sights Utah has to offer: Bridal Veil Falls, a 600-foot-tall cascade of water that plunges down a sheer cliff face, then rolls across a little terrace and down again, before spreading across a rough talus incline and finally merging gently with the Provo River. I see the falls at least once a summer — Provo Canyon is one of my favorite top-down drives — and they always take my breath away.

These days, if you want to see the falls from any other angle except “beneath,” you need to have a good pair of hiking boots and some technical knowledge, but up until just a few years ago, we, how shall I say it, less physically inclined people could just take the tram to the top of the falls.

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Written on an Etch-a-Sketch

Sean Means, who has assumed the mantle of “culture vulture” in addition to his usual movie-critic role at the Salt Lake Tribune, made a nice observation today in response to the news that yet another venerable SL institution, Squirrel Brothers Ice Cream (which used to be Snelgrove’s, before it was infected with the “cutesy name syndrome” that runs rampant in this state), is closing down:

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Eat at the Diner and See a Drive-In Movie

Over the past couple of days, I’ve noticed some items in the Tribune that may be of interest to my local (or formerly local) readers.

The first is a feature story about the handful of drive-in theaters that still operate in Utah; it focuses primarily on the Motor Vu in Erda, which I briefly mentioned in an entry a couple weeks ago.

The other, somewhat more exciting news concerns the Road Island Diner in Oakley, Utah, which I first wrote about just over one year ago. This is the authentic 1940s-vintage prefab diner that was shipped cross-country from the east coast to a small town at the edge of the Uinta Mountains. To cut to the chase, the renovation is complete and it opened for business this weekend. Details are here. According to the linked article, it’s one of only about 1,200 diners left in the country.

I’ve also found an official website for the Road Island that includes an extensive photo gallery of the renovation. In classic-car terminology, it was a complete “frame off restoration,” i.e., it was stripped right down to the bare bones and rebuilt from the ground up. It looks fabulous now, like a time traveler from the Greatest Generation plopped down right here in the 21st Century. I’m very pleased to see that the new owner went for authenticity after all. (I heard a rumor a while back that he’d planned a huge, two-story addition that would’ve completely overshadowed the original structure, but that was either untrue, or someone talked him out of it.) Of course, it’s not entirely authentic. The Trib article notes that the there are flat-screen TVs, which I could’ve lived without (I realized today just how ubiquitous video displays have become in our society, and how distracting they frequently are; it’d be nice to escape them once in a while), and the tabletop jukeboxes are described as “remote controls for iPods in the back,” but I guess you can only go so far in recreating another time period.

Oh, and it wouldn’t be a Utah attraction if there wasn’t some element of cheesiness to it: all the employees have been given “diner names.” Oy. What is it with this state anyway? It’s like people just can’t help but find some way of being cutesy.

Still, I’m pretty eager to try the place out, even with TVs and cutesy-ness. The Girlfriend and I plan to take a little road trip within the next couple of weeks…

One final note: if you’re interested in reading those articles, don’t hesitate: in only a few days, the Tribune will drop them behind a pay-wall… I really wish they’d follow the New York Times‘ example and quit doing that…

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A Utah Specialty in New York City?

I don’t remember when or with whom I first visited the Cotton Bottom Inn, a divey little bar hidden in a woodsy, upscale corner of the Salt Lake Valley not far from the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon, but I’m certain I started hearing about the place’s legendary garlic burgers while I was still in high school.

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Requiem for a Dancer

One of the more colorful characters that has populated my life the last couple of years is a guy my co-workers and I dubbed “the Dancing Man.” During the warmer months, he was a regular fixture on the plaza outside my office, out there at lunchtime just about every day, boogeying until his silk shirt was soaked through with sweat. Most days, he brought his own boombox and played an eclectic mix of rock, funk, and stuff I don’t know how to classify. Every couple of weeks, the plaza plays host to a live act as part of Salt Lake’s Brown Bag Concert Series, and he danced to the bands as well, regardless of who they were or what they played, as long as there was a good beat. He had some slick moves and was enjoyable to watch, but he could also be a bit unnerving with his intensity, and the occasional weird vocalization he would make, little shouts and popping noises. It often seemed as if he were in a trance or some other transcendent state of mind when he danced; as silly as it sounds, I was frequently reminded of the voodoo rituals I’ve seen in movies.

The weirdness ran deeper than his tendency to lose himself in the dance, though. Some of my co-workers interviewed him a while back for an in-house film project, figuring they’d just get something fun about a local eccentric. They got more than they bargained for when he started rambling about vampires and evil spirits and how he knew al-Qaeda had infiltrated a Salt Lake grocery chain and was planning to poison our food supply, but he couldn’t get the FBI to listen to him. After that film made the rounds of the office intranet, everyone’s enthusiasm for the Dancing Man cooled a little. We all wondered what his real story was, if he was dangerously nuts or just a guy with some funny ideas about how the world works.

Sunday afternoon, while I was in Pittsburgh, the Dancing Man — whose real name was Douglas Cottrell — was killed following a harrowing high-speed run from the police. The case has everyone a little baffled, because he wasn’t wanted for anything serious; the officers just wanted to speak to him about a complaint made by someone who claimed that they’d paid Cottrell to do a job and he’d blown off doing it. It appears that he deliberately rammed his car into a semi-truck after racing up and down Parley’s Canyon a couple of times with the cops in pursuit. According to his sister, Cottrell has suffered from schizophrenia most of his life, which no doubt explains his paranoid beliefs about terrorists in the produce section. It maybe also explains his devotion to his lunchtime ritual; maybe he only felt free when he was dancing.

I didn’t know Doug Cottrell as anything other than a funny bit of scenery in my daily routine. But I hope that wherever he is now, there’s a really smokin’ band and that he’s got a good pair of shoes. I can’t speak for everyone else around work, but I, for one, am going to miss his performances…

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Mormon Horror Movies

Eric D. Snider, a BYU alum who managed to escape from Happy Valley and find happiness and success as a film critic in the Pacific Northwest, still enjoys making the occasional good-natured jibe at the culture he left behind. Today, he offers us his suggestions for a whole new genre of filmmaking: the Mormon horror movie…

[Ed. note: these probably won’t make sense to anyone who hasn’t grown up behind the Zion Curtain, but trust me, to those in the know, this is good stuff…]

“Children of the Quorum”
“Friday the 31st” (aka “Home Teaching Day”)
“Pet Seminary”
“Enrichment Night of the Living Dead”
“I Know What You Did Last Summer, and I’m Telling Your Bishop”
“The (CTR) Ring”
“Rosemary’s Baby, Which is Her Fourth, and She’s Only 23″
“The Hills Have Tithes”

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A New Discovery: The Empress Theatre

Far out on the west side of the Salt Lake Valley — about as far west as you can go without piling into a mountain, actually — there’s a little town called Magna.

My local readers probably all just snickered; Magna doesn’t get a lot of respect around here. It began a century or so ago as a company town housing workers for a nearby mine and smelter, and it’s never managed to live down its humble roots or its rough-and-tumble reputation. It’s certainly not a place you’d think to go in search of an enjoyable night of live theater. But that’s exactly what The Girlfriend and I experienced Friday night at a charming little place called the Empress Theatre.

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Friday Afternoon Tidbits

Just checking my various news feeds here as I while away the last few minutes of a long work week…

I see that Roger Bergendoff, the crackpot who was making ricin only a stone’s throw from my house, has pleaded not guilty to charges of possessing a biological toxin and various weapons. That’s interested, considering his Vegas hotel room was full of nasty little toys. Maybe his logic is that he was in the hospital at the time those things were discovered, so he technically wasn’t in possession of them. Or something.

Meanwhile, in a related story, Thomas Tholen, owner of the Riverton home where Bergendorff was brewing his poisonous crap, threw Bergendorff out after he figured out what his cousin was doing down in the basement because he “feared for his family’s safety,” but he didn’t report Bergendorff to the authorities because he didn’t want to get in trouble himself for the guns and explosives that were stored on his property. Real heroic there, Tom. He faces charges for “falsely telling federal agents he knew nothing about his cousin’s production of ricin.”

Sticking with local news, a new report from the American Lung Association places Salt Lake and Logan, Utah, in its list of the top-ten most polluted cities in the country (at least when you’re talking about short-term particle pollution). Another Utah city, Provo, shows up at number 12. You know, when three of your state’s four or five biggest cities are in the top 15 most polluted cities nationwide… well, it makes a guy proud.

The problem is the Wasatch Front’s infamous “inversions,” the cold-weather phenomenon that occurs when high-pressure zones in the upper atmosphere trap stagnant air at the bottom of our mountain valleys… which, of course, are where all the cities are located. We’ve always had cruddy air in the wintertime because of those damned inversions, but it’s gotten much, much worse in the last couple of decades, a direct result of the booming population along the Wasatch. (Briefly, for my online friends who’ve never been here, just about all of Utah’s population clusters in a line that runs north-south through the middle of the state, snuggled up nice and cozy against the Wasatch Mountains, hence “Wasatch Front.”) I have a lot of reasons for hating all the development in the Salt Lake Valley that has transformed the rural pasturelands of my youth into a wall-to-wall (literally, since we’re surrounded by mountains) subdivision, but the fact that we can’t even see our beautiful mountains for a good chunk of the year now because the air is so filthy is right up there at the top of the list. If I could only turn back the world like Superman…

Finally, a Japanese company called Cyberdine has prototyped a robotic exoskeleton called HAL which is intended to help augment human strength or move paralyzed limbs. According to this article, the thing can even operate autonomously based on data stored in an on-board computer. That all sounds really cool… unless you’re a sci-fi fan, of course. Then you can’t help but think about that other Cyberdyne and HAL and it all becomes rather ominous, doesn’t it? Hell, the exoskeleton even looks vaguely like stormtrooper armor, complete with some glowing bits like in Tron! How can an autonomous exoskeleton that looks like a stormtrooper, is built by the creators of Skynet, and is named after a murdering AI not lead to some kind of trouble?

On these happy notes, have a good Friday, everyone…

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Ricin Maker Charged

Roger Von Bergendorff, the guy who lapsed into a coma after handling deadly ricin in a Las Vegas hotel room, has been arrested and charged with possession of a biological toxin, as well as possessing unregistered firearms and firearms not identified by serial number. According to this article, he also had a couple of homemade silencers and drawings of a device for injecting the ricin into victims. He has supposedly admitted to making the ricin in Utah, “possibly in the basement of his cousin’s Riverton home” — which, if you’ll recall, is only a short distance from my own home.

All in all, Von Bergendorff comes across as something of a poseur, a guy with a big mouth and a vivid imagination rather than a genuine killer, something like the character in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil who is always threatening to pour poison into the city’s water supply just to make himself seem more important. But still… it does give me a bit of a chill to think that somewhere right in my hometown, there was a guy who nursed private grudges and cooked up vengeance plans that sound like something out of a John le Carre novel. It’s all too easy to imagine this guy roaming the aisles of Peterson’s, the local grocery store, poking people with his little poison-spitter, and then laughing a few days later when the TV news is doing around-the-clock coverage while authorities try to figure out what the hell is going on with all the sick and dying people in an otherwise unremarkable bedroom community on the south end of the valley…

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Ricin Story Update

There’s been a new development in that story about the guy who was playing with the deadly toxin ricin in a Vegas hotel room, which I first wrote about here. The short version: an indictment has been issued in the case, but surprisingly not for Roger von Bergendorff, the man who was apparently brewing the stuff for god-only-knows-why and who fell into a coma after handling it. The indictment was actually for his cousin Thomas Tholen, the man who owns the house here in my hometown of Riverton where von Bergendorff lived for a time. Tholen is alleged to have known that his cousin was making the shit but he failed to report it and, further, made an “untruthful statement” in order to conceal it.

Authorities still won’t say what they found in the Riverton house, or what von Bergendorff was planning to do with the ricin.
I understand, of course, that they have to remain mum until charges are brought — if there are charges forthcoming, of course — but I’m feeling very frustrated by the silence. After all, this was going on right in my own back yard; I’d like to know what was happening and why. The media seems to have all the details — not to mention a conviction, at least as far as public opinion is concerned — within hours of some perv killing a little kid, but when it comes to something that could have potentially sickened or killed half a damn town, nobody’s saying a word. (That’s not to say the death of a child is insignificant, only that there’s a real disparity in what the public hears about and what it doesn’t, and I don’t really understand why. It seems like somebody’s priorities are out of whack to me.)

I’ll continue to impatiently monitor the news feeds for any new details on this… I don’t really have much choice, do I?

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