America, You Sexy Bitch (25 page)

The Chateau is gorgeous, in an Epcot Alps kind of way, and my guilt at not offering Cousin John a room in its homey interior spikes. I ask Michael if we should combine resources and make an exception to our tightly orchestrated budget, and he tells me that he tried last night to no avail. This makes me feel a little bit better, and I can look forward to washing my tank tops somewhat guilt-free.

 

Michael:
I practically run into the hotel to get out of this stifling air, bringing up the rear behind Meghan and Stephie, who are already chatting with the check-in girl, who is
really
cute. One thing I did not expect to find in Branson was attractive people of a healthy weight, yet the very first person I meet is somebody I would consider leaving my wife for. She’s doing an internship here while studying for her hotel management degree at the University of Kansas. Meghan is up in her grill asking inappropriate personal questions: Does she like it here? What’s the dating scene like? How long does she have to stay here? The girl and Meghan chat for a bit. I hang back, not saying anything because pretty young women make me nervous, as evidenced by my experience having Phoenix rub her tits all over my face in Vegas. So I just kind of wait for her to go, “Hey, you’re that dude from VH1!” and then ask me to stick my tongue down her throat. This does not happen.

The hotel itself is fairly upscale, including a “glorious ten-story atrium lobby with a setting that mimics the beauty of the Branson outdoors.” And glorious it is! Lots of greenery and burbling water features. I love it. This has to be Branson’s finest hotel. (“Four Diamonds,” as rated by the AAA.)

First order of business: laundry. My linen pants and T-shirts are starting to get a little raggedy, even for me. I throw some stuff in
the machine and walk around the hotel a bit with Stephie. We amble over to the in-hotel candy and ice cream bar, saunter outside to the fancy swimming pool, and then decide to stroll down to Table Rock Lake. Unfortunately, there is no direct walking route to get there, which means we have to clamber down the winding drive for about a half mile or so, which is not easy to do in heat and Crocs. But it’s worth it. The lake is lovely, and its shoreline is filled with happy families doing waterfront activities. I guess that’s called “swimming” or something. I don’t know because I avoid it as much as possible, but we do roll up our pant legs and wade into the warm water. Mmmm. It feels great.

All around us are well-behaved people having outdoor fun on a sweltering July afternoon in Missouri. Despite my best efforts, I can find no fault with any of them. Everybody’s getting along, and unlike in Vegas, it doesn’t seem to be a competition for “fakest-looking human being.” The people here are unselfconsciously flabby. They look, dare I say, like people. The first tendrils of shame start to crawl up my spine; why is my first instinct always to make fun of everything? These are just regular people on vacation. Why do I have to bring them down? Why do I have to be such an asshole all the time? I have no good answers. Sometimes I find myself to be such a caricature of an elitist East Coast liberal that it’s embarrassing. Standing in the shallow water with my pants rolled up to my knees while looking around at all these pasty white families is one of those times. Right now,
I’m
what’s wrong with this country.

 

Meghan:
When we walk into the hotel, it really is quite nice. It has a real concierge, glass elevators, and a giant waterfall and river/ pond with drawbridges going over it in the main lobby area, and most important, a laundry room.

After we check in, I immediately open up my self-admittedly way too large suitcase, and my clothes nearly explode out of the bag because it is packed so tight. I am woman enough to admit that I really did bring too much crap on the trip, but as of yet I am the only one not reusing shorts and underwear, so that has to count for
something. I pack all my dirty clothes in my computer bag and purse, and carry the rest in my arms down to the laundry room.

Naturally, between the time I cruised the empty machines, gauged how much laundry I could get done, sorted it, and brought it back downstairs, someone has already taken up two of the three machines. I’m pretty sure I can see a pair of linen pants swirling around, and seriously consider stopping Michael’s machines and taking his wet clothes out until mine are washed. But then I consider the greater good for humanity of letting his clothes finally get what they deserve, and push my whites into the open machine, hauling my darks back to my room. I’m thrilled to see the huge stone-tiled shower and put myself through a thorough wash cycle, exfoliating, shaving, and conditioning the hell out my body. Not since my Vegas sex shower have I felt so squeaky clean. I already love Branson. Branson is the Mecca of the Midwest.

 

Michael:
We are going to see the comedian Yakov Smirnoff tonight. Yakov has been a Branson staple since 1992, when he opened his own theater here. For those, like Meghan, who have no idea who he is, a brief history: Smirnoff is a Russian émigré who came to America in 1977 and, very quickly, became one of the nation’s most popular comedians. His schtick was to point out the differences between America and the Soviet Union, always wrapping a joke with the catchphrase “What a country!” He even had his own short-lived sitcom, creatively called
What a Country
. When the Soviet Union collapsed, so did his career. He moved his act to Branson a couple of years later, and twenty years on he’s still going strong here.

When we mapped out our itinerary, I thought it would be great to interview Yakov. He’s a true American success story, a guy who came with nothing and ended up making his American Dream come true. Plus, I figured he’d want to talk to us. I do standup, Meghan is a professional talking head; we’re not just a couple of fans looking to get an autograph. We are practically comrades. The good kind.

Stephie wrote him a lovely email in advance of our arrival asking if we could interview him. He blew us off:

It is a somewhat gracious blow-off but I am still irritated. Yakov, don’t even give me this shit about how you “do not have the time” to meet with us. We both know you live in Branson; you definitely have the time.

Also, it would have been good for him to sit down with us. Our book is a love letter to America. He is the recipient of American love. Plus, we have so much in common: I too am of Russian Jewish heritage. I too am a comedian. I too am an American patriot. And Meghan’s dad IS America.

Irritating.

But I will not allow my annoyance with the man ruin the show for me. I am determined to love Yakov even if he doesn’t love me back.

 

Meghan:
I was born in 1984, which I have come to learn was right around the time of Yakov’s career heyday, so I had never heard of the man before our trip.

I google him and discover that he’s in one of my favorite movies,
The Money Pit,
which makes me think it’s going to be a family-friendly fun night. I like family-friendly humor, and Yakov is in fact living the American Dream. I love any stories of success about immigrants who ended up making it big in this country, so I figure we are probably in for a pretty good show.

There is, however, one little dent in our plan. Before we head out to see Yakov at his theater, Stephie tells us that Yakov has blown off our emailed request for a meet and greet. Of course there have been times in my life when I myself have been guilty of doing the same thing, so I shouldn’t be annoyed that Yakov blew us off, but I am. Even though Yakov’s email is a nice enough blow-off, I think it’s a
little shot to Michael’s and my egos. Nothing like a “celebrity” who’s been off the radar for twenty years not knowing who the hell you are—or worse, not caring who the hell you are—to make you feel insignificant. To be fair, an hour ago I didn’t know who the hell he was either.

“Total blow-off,” Michael repeats, clearly a bit wounded that a fellow comedian wouldn’t want to trade tales. “He’s not even trying.”

“But he signed it ‘love and laughter’ and he wishes you guys success,” Stephie says, ever the sweetheart.

“Yeah,” I say, my excitement over going to the show a little deflated. “It’s still a blow-off.”

 

Michael:
The first thing I notice about the Yakov Smirnoff Theater is its size. The place is bigger than the Sapphire Club back in Vegas. As you drive in, there’s a huge Yakov billboard featuring a giant sculpted Yakov head and, in case you didn’t know, a banner that reads “Famous Russian Comedian.” I feel a pang of fear.

The entrance to the theater also has an oversized Yakov head, maybe seven feet tall, and wearing a bright-red clown’s nose. It’s a great place to pose for pictures, which we do.

As showtime approaches, we venture inside. The theater’s walls are lined with grotesquely patriotic paintings, all signed “
Yakov
.” I did not know that Yakov is also a painter, and in fact was an art professor before coming to the United States. You can buy his paintings in the Yakov gift shop, which also features Yakov CDs, DVDs, T-shirts, books, and all manner of Yakov Smirnoff ephemera. I do not purchase anything nor, as far as I can tell, does anybody else in the building. Nobody wants to take a little piece of Yakov home with them.

Not that there are a lot of people here. There are not. Showtime is only minutes away and the place is deserted. There was more bustling activity going on in the Lower Ninth Ward.

An usher shows us our seats, which are close to the front. Third or fourth row. Behind us is a vast and largely empty theater. I’m guessing the place holds over a thousand people. If it’s 15 percent
full, I’d be amazed. It’s a legitimate bummer. But the show must go on, and soon we are enveloped in the irritating strains of traditional Russian music. A troupe of four “Russian” dancers comes out, kicking and clapping and occasionally yelling, “Hey!”

 

Meghan:
I pretty much want to visit every single attraction possible in Branson; it all sounds like fun. I cannot help but be a little pumped about this place, as Branson really is stunning: the trees, the lake, its sunset, and even the Yakov Smirnoff Theater. When we arrive, Stephie’s future in-laws, Ken and Cathy, and their friends Burt and Nancy are already there, waiting for us. They all live in Lee’s Summit, which is within driving distance of Branson.

I love Ken and Cathy almost immediately. They are an absolutely adorable, warm, friendly couple, exactly what one imagines “the sweet couple down the street” in Middle America to be. They have been married thirty years.

Cathy co-owns a hair salon in Lee’s Summit, and Ken is a battalion chief in the Lee’s Summit Fire Department. When Stephie double-checks these basic facts with Ken and Cathy over email after our trip, Cathy says, “And, we just got back from square dancing, Meghan. You can put that in the book too.”

We make small talk about Branson, their work, their son’s and Stephie’s upcoming wedding in the fall, and voting for my father. I speed-dial my dad so he can thank Ken personally, something I love to do when people seem to be particularly big fans of his. The look on Ken’s face makes it totally worth it. Who doesn’t want everyone to love their dad? After all the strippers, hipsters, bohemians, and Suicide Girls, Ken and Cathy are a nice change of pace and I welcome the dynamic they bring to our group. Even snarky Michael seems charmed by their easy ways, and of course, Stephie is clearly excited to see them. It’s just nice to meet nice people sometimes.

Michael, Stephie, and I pose for pictures in front of a giant sculpture ofYakov Smirnoff’s head, just as the Griswolds certainly would have done. The mouth on the Yakov sculpture slowly opens and closes and we all ham it up, trying to make a sculpture of a comedian’s
head look interesting. I tweet one of the pictures and immediately there is a flurry of “What a country” and “In communist Russia” tweets, including one from Joel Stein, the
Time
magazine columnist. I feel like I’ve been missing out on the Yakov party, and think the show is probably going to be especially entertaining because it will all be new for me.

Apart from the Yakov gift shop, the lobby also features a ton of paintings, all of which are “America-inspired” in some way. There are American flag hearts, pictures of the Statue of Liberty, paintings of eagles and stars, and so forth. All of these paintings were painted by Yakov because he is also an artist. I love American flag anything. Put an American flag on a beach towel or expensive art, it doesn’t matter. I will buy it. I actually really like this art; Yakov is a talented painter, and I would have bought a piece if I didn’t have to haul it the rest of the trip in the RV.

I sit down with everyone in the only-maybe-quarter-full theater and the show begins. Before Yakov comes on there is a reel of all his highlights: Yakov on Johnny Carson, Yakov hosting a talk show of some kind that looks particularly eighties, Yakov meeting President and Nancy Reagan, a clip of Yakov acting with a very young-looking Tom Hanks in
The Money Pit
. I go from not having a clue about him to feeling as though I grew up with him living next door.

For whatever reason, the clip of him shaking hands with President Reagan sticks out. I love President Reagan, as all good Republicans do. I think at this point, not loving him in the Republican Party is equivalent to not loving Jesus. It’s incredibly poignant for me to see Yakov with one of my idols while both were still so vital.

But then the show starts and Yakov spends half the time telling cheesy, but in a good way, jokes. Not really my type of humor—I mean, look at the comedian I picked to write a book with—but harmless, G-rated, family-friendly humor nonetheless. A lot of it feels dated. Like Yakov maybe hasn’t written any new material since he met President Reagan. Before long I can’t quite tell if the joke he’s just told was in one of the clips, or if he already told it at the top of the show. It all starts to blur and I clench my jaw, anxious,
and I start to get fidgety. Yakov makes jokes and people in the audience sort of half laugh. I try to laugh and feign interest in his humor, but it all starts to feel very uncomfortable.