Kitsch: (n) something of tawdry design, appearance, or content created to appeal to popular or undiscriminating taste.
My love of kitsch originated somewhere along the TransCanada Highway between my hometown of Winnipeg and Toronto on a road trip with my Dad. It was just the 2 of us and I was 18. We stopped to pose for pics at every landmark and garish roadside attraction.
We gandered at the giant goose in Wawa, and hung off a Sasquatch finger further down the highway. We admired the gaudy seashell lamps placed beside velvet oil paintings in a local gas station.
The details didn’t matter. What was important was the thrill of the hunt, of a new horizon. Things yet unseen. The sense of connection. The shared delight in trivial absurdity.
Fast forward over 20 years, an entire career as a pro wrestler behind me. Working behind the scenes as a coach and TV producer, the travels had continued: airport, arena, hotel, repeat.
But something was missing. Maybe I was missing time that was my own, or the ability to slow it down enough to take stock of the wonders around me.
78 years old, my Dad Ron ventured to Amarillo, Texas, where we’d meet to drive the western half of Route 66: 1139 miles to Santa Monica. This would be our last trip together.
I was reminded what it meant to slow down time, and of the joy that comes with discovery for the pure sake of experience. I was encouraged to take comfort in the adventurer’s spirit and the impulse to create. Life ends too soon to not indulge in the zany and inconsequential.
With Cookie the Cat as my copilot and a Ram Promaster 2500 as my trusted vessel, the quest continues as I take it all in with a sense of wonder, and wander.
“To live would be an awfully big adventure.”
J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
