Like most good things in life, we have superstitious Chinese gamblers to thank for The Grand Lion, who guards the entrance to the MGM Grand Hotel & Casino on the Las Vegas Strip.
Opened in 1993, the gambling den originally had a cartoonish lion’s head at the entrance, but Asian punters avoided the place because they believed waltzing through a creature’s mouth would bring bad luck.
What a bunch of scaredy-cats!
“It wasn’t literally true (that they entered through the lion’s mouth),” former MGM Mirage executive spokesperson Alan Feldman told Casino.org, noting that visitors actually entered beneath the beast’s chin. “But many customers believed it to have the same negative vibes, and refused to use that entrance.”
I feel the original lion – who was delightfully kitschy – got a roar deal, but let’s keep moving.
In May of 1996, the owners announced plans to scrap the lion and replace him with a new $40 million façade. To be fair, they would’ve made that money back from the first busload of buxom betters from Beijing.
The result was 45-foot, 50-ton bronze critter known as The Grand Lion. Designed by Snellen Maurice Johnson – a convicted con man who traded a life of crime for a life of designing oversized roadside objects – he was unveiled to a bemused, yet anxious public in 1998.
The Grand Lion has gone on to become the face (and paws!) of the Las Vegas glitter strip. I guess you could call him the mane attraction – teehee!
The Chinese gamblers returned. Profits went through the roof. And all was good in the world…
…until zany prop comic Carrot Top turned up.
Top o’ the morning to ya!
“Y’know, Bigs,” a velvety voice purred from behind me, as I posed with The Grand Lion. “That should be a statue of me up there.”
Annoyed to be dragged from my unfettered admiration of The Grand Lion, I turned to see a mop of flaming red hair and an impish grin. It was my old acquaintance – and long-time Vegas comedian – Carrot Top.
I’d played his love interest in the late-90s cult classic Chairman of the Board, but we’d had little interaction since.
“Top,” I groaned. “Wouldn’t that scare away the Oriental gamblers?” “The Oriental gamblers love me, Bigs,” he whooped. “They rub my hair for good luck before heading to the slot machines.”
Top gyrated grotesquely towards a group of Korean businessmen, sending them flying into the night like bugs. I turned to follow them, but Top grabbed me by the elbow.
“I built this dang town, Bigs, with my quirky mix of physical comedy and scathing political satire,” he snapped, placing a pair of underpants on his head. “That lion’s not the king of the jungle – I’m the king of the jungle!” “Are you having an episode, Top? What jungle?” “The concrete jungle, man, the concrete jungle. Meow!”
The ginger-hued madman snarled at a passing family from Wichita, Kansas, sending them scuttling into the nearest overpriced burger joint for sanctuary.
“Top, this is getting ridiculous,” I sighed. “I’m here for the five-storey Panthera leo, not your vulgar buffoonery.”
“I just want to be loved, Bigs,” Top wept, falling to his knees. “Do you think you could ever love me?”
As I backed away in disgust, the last I saw of Carrot Top was him struggling into a banana costume, before rolling past The Grand Lion and out of my life forever.
Doggone it, look at the size of that dishlicker! Yard Dog is 20 feet long, made from corrugated sheet metal, and can be found in Indio’s tranquil Hjorth Bark… oops, I mean Park!
Whilst a bit ruff around the edges, Yard Dog is a fascinating example of recycled street art, but the best thing is the name of the artist who built him.
Ready for it?
Don Kennell. Don Kennell! Which almost sounds like dog kennel – teehee!
Dog… sorry, Don… modelled Yard Dog after his own pet pooch. Completed in 2011, the whopping woofer first lived in the Santa Fe Railyard Park in New Mexico. But this big dog was set for even bigger things.
He was adopted by the owners of the Coachella Music Festival, as the headline act for the 2014 event. I was unable to attend, of course, due to my falling out with André 3000 from pop group OutKast, and subsequent restraining order.
But enough about me and my celebrity feuds. I’ll fetch you more facts about the big ol’ bow-wow!
After the festival, Yard Dog found his forever home in Indio, Collie-fornia in late-2014. Just down the road Coachella but a million miles away from the glitz and glamour of rock stars and travel influencers, Hjorth Park offers the chance to paws and reflect upon life.
Sit back, munch on a bag of kibble, and admire Yard Dog.
A Yard Act to Follow
Whilst I certainly have the pedrigree to tell you about Yard Dog, I’ll hand it over to Mr Kennel for a few words on his bark-sterpiece.
“The piece is based on a very famous sculpture called the Capitoline Wolf, which is this renaissance bronze that depicts Romulus and Remus under the belly of a she-wolf,” Don howled. “It’s a very strange piece and I wanted to do a contemporary take on it. My idea was to put a porch swing under the belly of the dog and then recreate that scene.”
The swing’s since been removed – which is probably for the best, as nobody wants a bunch of swingers hanging out in the park after dark – but the dog’s still perfect for a yappy snap.
“The idea was that we trace our civic heritage back to Rome, but in a sense we’re also always creating our society,” Don growled.
“I wanted to put contemporary people in the position of being these founders, like we all get a chance to refound society. So that’s the highbrow take on the piece, which most people don’t recognise – they’re just like, ‘Wow it’s a cool swing under a dog, how awesome is that!’”
Golly gosh, I suppose every dog has its day!
You ain’t nothin’ but a Yard Dog
With his pensive glare and heavy metal swagger, Yard Dog serves as the perfect guard dog to watch over this sleepy desert town. But if you can’t get down to Indio, Yard Dog has a twin – Barn Dog – who lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I guess there’s no runts in that litter!
A man of peerless work ethic, Don Kennell has built many Bigs over the years, and I double dog dare you to visit them all. There’s Longview, a 35-foot polar bear made from car hoods, who can also be found in downtown Santa Fe.
Over the road is Zozobra, an utterly bonkers 18-foot-tall metal ghoul. And the fierce, fabulous Invincible Tiger lives all the way over in Camden, New Jersey.
Yes, in the dog-eat-dog world of oversized roadside architecture, Mr Kennell stands out from the pack!
Don also has a really big pecker. Oh, get your mind out of the gutter – I mean The Big Roadrunner, who lives just down the road from Yard Dog, in quixotic La Quinta.
As his name suggests, Mr Kennell has an obsession with massive mutts ‘n’ mongrels, such as Playbow in Greeley, Colorado, and Green Coyote at Meow Wolf’s House of Eternal Return in New Mexico.
Geez, he must be dog tired after building all those!
“These sculptures invite the viewer into a fanciful world,” Kennell snarled wistfully. “The viewer becomes a participant, and can construct a narrative or even construe a relationship with the animal in the sculpture.”
You heard the man – go out and start an intimate relationship with a big critter near you, ASAP. You’d be barking mad not to!
Got a burning desire to see all the oversized roadside attractions between Los Angeles to Las Vegas? Then turn off Interstate 15 into the charming hamlet of Barstow, California, where you’ll find The World’s Largest Fire Helmet. Located out front of the local fire station, it’s the town’s main claim to flame.
The huge hat serves as a tribute to the 343 brave firemen who lost their lives in the September 11 terrorist attacks. But this Big Thing wasn’t always a memorial.
The Fire Helmet first arrived in Barstow way back in the swingin’ sixties, and stood atop a gas station hotdog stand. Come for the huge helmet, stay for the foot-long wiener with caramelised onions!
Originally bright red, it was one of dozens of oversized hard hats installed at Texaco gas stations. Bizarrely, they sported a firefighting theme at the time, and even handed out replica fire chief helmets to kiddies.
Just what you want – a bunch of lunatics racing around dressed as firefighters while you’re filling up your Chevrolet Impala!
After firing up sales for several decades, the statue was placed into storage in the ’80s. As far as anyone rem-embers, it’s the only Texaco helmet still around. So, by default, it’s now the biggest fire hat on the planet.
Not surprisingly, a few of the locals are getting a big head about that!
Hell-met’s Kitchen
In 1994, local fireman Nick DiNapoli opened DiNapoli’s Firehouse Italian Eatery, which became as famous for its collection of firefighting memorabilia as its clam linguini. Needless to say, the restaurant set the culinary world alight.
Wanting to draw in more diners, Nick bought the Big Helmet and plonked it out the front. The Firehouse was soon the best heatery in town, and welcomed many extinguished guests!
Whilst diners enjoyed the flamin’ good cuisine (which, sadly, doesn’t include blazed donuts or pyro-pyro chicken – making it difficult for me to force those puns in here), it was The World’s Largest Fire Helmet that truly ignited passions. It wasn’t unusual for lines of hungry diners to be found oohing and ahhing in unison with their rumbling tummies.
After the September 11 attacks, Nick renovated the helmet to look like the NYFD version, and donated it to the Barstow Fire Protection District. For the past two decades it’shosted the town’s 9/11 ceremonies, and continues to draw in visitors like moths to a flame.
Barstow’s single women, meanwhile, are still looking for the fireman big enough to wear the helmet. As they say – the larger the helmet, the longer the hose!
If you can’t stand the heat… get out and see more Big Things!
For any budding firebugs continuing on to Las Vegas, make sure you splash out on a trip to The Big Fire Hydrant. Closer to Barstow, there’s The World’s Largest Thermometer in Baker and a giant ice cream sundae at EddieWorld in Yermo.
Sounds like the perfect way to cool off after a huge day tracking down roadside attractions!
Pull up a chair and sit back to admire The Yearling* – an enormous red seat with a life-sized pinto pony perched on top of it. Nicknamed Scout, the gorgeous gelding offers an impressive sense of scale to the piece as he peers wistfully over the vast plains of downtown Denver.
I’ve got a nagging suspicion he’s going to gallop his way into your heart!
At 21 feet in height, The Yearling is the mane attraction of the Denver Public Library, and was built by the incomparable Donald Lipski. Proving he’s no one trick pony, Land of the Bigs fans will remember him as the provocateur behind Spot the Dalmatian.
Not surprisingly, this very unique Big Thing has been mired in controversy. Back in 1993, Donald was asked to build a statue for a new school in New York. Donald being Donald, he didn’t hold back.
“So I designed this sculpture, and my idea about it was that kids are really interested in scale,” Donald told a reporter from Westword, who must’ve been on the edge of her seat. “Understandably so. They’re little people in a world of big people, and their literature is full of scale references – Alice in Wonderland, Gulliver’s Travels, James and the Giant Peach.”
It would be-hoove you to read those tomes if you want to understand the true meaning of this horsey.
“I had this idea about a horse on some sort of prominent level, looking out. It just seemed like a narrative; there’s something heroic and contemplative about it,” Donald whinnied. “I then came up with the idea of the chair and making it look like a child’s chair, which was easy to do by putting the hand grip in the back.
“Everybody loved it,” chuckled Donald. “Or at least everybody I was talking to loved it!”
Tragically, it wasn’t long before Scout seemed headed for the glue factory.
*Please, please, please do not actually do this. There are many drug-addled homeless people hanging around the library, and they will steal your Hello Kitty lipgloss as you’re stretched out on the sidewalk, staring in open-mouthed wonder at The Yearling. Trust me, I know.
The Colt of Personality
The Yearling was a hit with the kiddies of New York City. But local fuddy duddies didn’t feel the same way. Concerned the sculpture would encourage children to indulge in horseplay, they demanded its removal.
And then the Dominicans got involved.
“For the Dominican people, the horse is a symbol of oppression, because the conquistadors had horses,” Donald lamented. “Everybody loved the chair and wanted me to put something else on it instead of a horse. They wanted a child, a rainbow…. None of the ideas interested me.”
There were long faces all around when the school board decided the giant chair and horse had to go. Fortunately, The Yearling wasn’t put out to pasture, and Donald took back ownership of his masterpiece. In November of 1997, Scout and his big bench trotted up the road to Central Park.
The sculpture soon ran a-foal of a streetwise youth gang, however, and after a few months Donald decided it was time for The Yearling to go west. Well, life is peaceful there, and there is lots of open air.
The good people of Denver, Colorado were looking to add some culture to their fine city, so they ponied up the money for The Yearling and plonked it in front of the library. But hold your horses, because there’s no happy ending just yet.
I’ve been through the desert on a horse with a chair frame
Scout – poor, kind, sensitive Scout – was fried alive by the harsh Colorado sun. He was swapped out for a bronze version, and the original was given to Denver’s Mare John Hickenlooper as a gift. Wowsers, a present like that must be as rare as rocking horse droppings!
John kept the dashing chap in his office for years. Scout v1.0 even joined him in the State Capitol when he became Governor. John probably didn’t a scrap of work done the whole time; he’d just sit there in his equestrian cap, looking at Scout with bedroom eyes and neighing quietly to himself.
When the guv’nor moved on, he parted ways with his bestie. Scout moved to the Denver Coliseum and Mr Hickenlooper, the last I heard, was roaming free in the Rockies with a brace of wild broncos. A short sentence.
As for Donald Lipski, he’s just happy that The Yearling finally has a place to call home.
“I wanted to give kids something that would really be a cause for wonder,” he reflected. And that comes straight from the horse’s mouth!
If I could turn back equine I’d give it all to you!
Sadly, The Yearling is locked away behind a wrought-iron fence to stop overzealous Bigsthusiasts from riding Scout – or Venezuelan gangs from stealing the whole thing.
Of course, I considered climbing over the fence. Scrambling up one of the chair’s legs. Hoisting myself atop Scout for a memorable photo. But then I remembered I was in Denver – where laws are really heavily enforced and criminal activity isn’t tolerated in any way – so I thought better of it.
Without being able to get up close and personal with this Big, it’s hard to appreciate its scale in the way Donald Lipski intended. We must stand and admire The Yearling from a safe distance. Unfortunately, this is what we’re saddled with.
On a brighter note, as I was posing for these happy snaps, I spotted a statuesque homeless chap in a dark wig and fishnet stockings sashaying his way towards me.
“Excuse me, friend,” I cajoled him, flashing my award-winning grin. “But I’m here to see The Big Chair.”
“Oh, my mistake, Bigs,” he splurted, wiping gruel from his square jaw. “I thought you said you were here to see The Big Cher!”
The hills above Fruita, Colorado, are full of dinosaur bones, but it’s in the centre of town that visitors can get up close and personal with Grrrreta, a bombastic, bright-green tyrannosaurus.
Radiating with a pleasant retro zeal, Grrrreta has served as the symbol of this quirky outpost for more than 80 years. From her spot in Circle Park, she watches over Fruita’s laidback coffee shops and bohemian craft beer emporiums.
It’s a bit like Jurassic Park, with slightly less chance of having your head bitten off. Well, unless you’re Mike the Headless Chicken.
Grrrreta’s syrupy smile, however, hides a prehistoric pain. Despite her legendary reputation in western Colorado, the old girl has more than once stood upon the precipice of extinction.
Her story starts way back in the primordial soup that was the 1940s. Local chap Ray Thomas and his wife owned The Dinosaur Store on the outskirts of town, which sold a scrumptious array of candies, sodas and, erm, rocks. Well it was before PlayStations and Tamagotchis, so the kiddies made do with what they had – and Colorado certainly has its share of rocks.
When Highway 50 was rolled out right outside his shop’s front door, Ray knew he needed something BIG to pull in customers, and decided on an enormous dinosaur. The only problem? He didn’t really know what they looked like.
“They wrote to the Smithsonian and asked them to send them specs for a dinosaur,” explained local character Sherry Tice, who later leased the building the creature guarded. “And so they sent the specs and they built that dinosaur out of railroad ties, chicken wire, and ferrocement.”
Looking at the beastie, maybe that should be ferocious-ment – teehee!
Ray named his creation Dinni – but let’s just stick with her current name, Grrrreta, to avoid confusion. Thousands of curious travellers popped in to see her, and the commemorative rock business had never been healthier.
But that’s not all-osaurus, folks!
They said you’d never get anywhere Well, they don’t care and it’s just not fair That you know, that I know Grrrreta
Anyone who thinks ancient lizards don’t have a flair for fashion, has never met Grrrreta. She’s had more looks than Greta Garbo, Greta Thunburg and Greta the disturbingly sensual mogwai from Gremlins 2 combined.
As The Dinosaur Store changed hands over the years, her new owners festooned her with their own quirks and peccadilloes. One year she was green with orange spots, the next a handsome shade of chartreuse yellow. One owner, feeling festive, replaced her eyes with bright red lightbulbs, which must’ve freaked out the local drunks.
“Later on, there was a speaker put in its mouth and a remote control from inside the gas station, and they could press a button and the dinosaur would roar,” Sherry revealed. “One lady was pumping gas and the dinosaur roared and it scared her so bad she jumped in the ditch nearby.”
These days it’s just the gas prices that terrify customers – teehee!
Much like the age of the dinosaurs, however, all good things must come to an end. But instead of a colossal comet, it was the twin terrors of gentrification and corporate gluttony that almost wiped out this prehistoric princess.
In the early-80s a truck driver – terrorised, perhaps, by her jagged teeth and relentless claws, but more likely overwhelmed by lust for her exotic curves and come-hither eyes – got into a tyrannosaurus wreck, destroying Grrrreta’s tail. The tricera-cops turned up to drag him off to the gulag for the crime of damaging a Big, but the damage was done.
When The Dinosaur Store shut its doors for good, Grrrreta was left to decay in the relentless Colorado sun. A metaphor for the downfall of society, the old girl’s predicament became a saur point for the good folk of Fruita.
But, as chubby, bearded gentleman from Jurassic Park would say, “Life finds a way!”
When I say, ‘I love you,’ you say, you Grrrreta You Grrrreta, you Grrrreta you Grrrret
Seizing upon Grrrreta’s cultural value, some art boffins in nearby Grand Junction raised funds to have the dinosaur completely rebuilt. The old one was thrown in a bin somewhere and a brand spankin’ new metal skeleton was crafted, with some sort con-cretaceous poured over the top. With a new lick of paint, Grrrreta was ready to charm the locals for another four decades.
But it ain’t easy bein’ green (or whatever colour Grrreta was at the time).
Shortly after Sherry Tice took over the former Dinosaur Store and turned it into a pizza shop (the marrrrgherita was, not surprisingly, delicious!), the building was condemned. Grrrreta, tragically, was to be torn down. Well, jurassic times call for jurassic measures, and Sherry wasn’t going to let her gal pal become part of history.
“When we found out, I went down to the federal building in Grand Junction and I asked if the federal government would give us that dinosaur for the town of Fruita,” Sherry spluttered.
The pollies, empathetic to the plight of a fellow sharp-fanged, scaly creature, gave a resounding, “Yes, ma’am!”
One warm day in 2000, Grrrreta was loaded up on a truck and driven through the sun-dappled streets of Fruita to her new home, as thousands of besotted locals watched on. To ring in this new era, the local kiddies were given the opportunity to rename their favourite dinosaur.
They of course chose Barney, but the town went with their second choice – Grrrreta. I assume the ‘r’ key must’ve gotten stuck when they typed out her nameplate.
Grrrreta the Devil You Know
The old gal was placed behind a sturdy fence to keep distracted truck drivers – and hormonal teenagers unable to restrain their lurid desires – away from her hedonistic curves.
She also had a leash strapped around her ankle to prevent her from going crazy and storming through the streets of Fruita, chasing cars and peeping in windows. Or, at the very least, popping into one of the town’s colourful, yet competitively-priced restaurants for a snack. Just a tip, this dino likes her steak rawwww!
The locals took to dressing Grrrreta up for special holidays. A pumpkin on her head for Halloween, a Santa costume leading up to Christmas, a yarmulke for Yom Kippur, that sort of thing.
Grrrreta’s whimsical nature harkens back to simpler times. No, not the Triassic period, that would’ve been vaguely horrible. I mean a time when men and women across the world built giant roadside dinos, like Tyra and Big Kev and Digby and the marvellous, majestic Ploddy.
Millions of years from now, long after we’re all gone and the Land of the Bigs servers have been shut down for good, the next inhabitants of this planet may, perhaps, stumble upon what’s left of Gretttta and the thousands of other roadside attractions that decorate our lonely blue planet. The only remaining trace of mankind’s existence, they’ll tell the stories of our culture and history, our triumphs and failures and wildest dreams.
Perhaps they’ll stand before Grrrreta, their six mouths agape, 23 eyes non-blinking, antennae wobbling around comically, feeling the same sense of wonder that the rest of us did the first time we saw this prehistoric masterpiece.
Gretttta, my fellow Biggies, is the ultimate expression of what it means to be human.
At Red Iguana 2, a festively-painted cantina on Salt Lake City’s eclectic Temple Street, diners come for Xochitónal, the 33ft-long lizard in the carpark. But they stay for the authentic Mexican cuisine, competitively-priced drinks, attentive service and irresistible party atmosphere.
Red Iguana‘s signature mole coloradito – a luscious blend of chocolate, pine nuts and guajillo chiles, blended with fresh poblano and served with carnitas – is enough to warm the heart of even the coldest-blooded critter.
In a city where a slice of lukewarm pizza is considered gourmet fare (and I can say that because I grew up in Wyoming. And not the fancy-pants American Wyoming, either. The Australian Wyoming, where dinner-and-a-show consists of picking up a few cheeseburgers at Maccas and then splatting the pickles on parked cars), it’s no surprise the locals are willing to line up around the block for a piping-hot plate of cochinita pibil, lovingly garnished with pickled red onion.
But enough about Red Iguana’s exquisite array of quesadillas and fajitas. We’re here to talk about the big guy out the front. After all, this iguana is hard to ig-nore!
Red Iguana co-owner Bill Coker cooked up the plan in 2014, after encountering a concrete iguana – yes, THAT concrete iguana – while on holidays in Mexico with his lovely wife Lucy Cardenas.
“My first intention was to make it concrete; I wanted it to be indestructible,” Bill told the SLC Tribune. “I wanted children to come up to it with their mouths open, asking, ’Daddy, is that alive?’”
Whilst Bill knows his way around a taco, he lacked the world-class artistic skills such a project demanded. Then one day he happened upon an article about a remarkable young man who would be perfect for the job.
That man was Stephen ‘Tusk’ Kesler.
King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard
Tusk hired out a warehouse in downtown SLC and spent the next two years working on the Red Iguana sculpture. Bill – wanting his Big Thing to be as memorable as his food – certainly didn’t skink on the construction costs!
“I chose Stephen because he likes doing realistic animals, not cartoons,” Bill said proudly.
Tusk first built a 1/6 scale model of the Red Iguana out of clay. He scanned that into his computer and, in a process that would bamboozle the world’s greatest minds, created a blueprint for the full-sized critter.
He fed that into a fancy 3D printer, which spat out giant styrofoam pieces that he put together into the shape of the Iguana. Steve then slathered the whole thing in more than 600lb of clay. After that, he covered the varmint in thousands of ceramic rep-tiles.
The Iguana was then sliced into bite-sized pieces once again. Silicone molds were made from those. Fiberglass body parts were made from the molds. The Iguana was then reassembled, and Tusk spent countless sleepless nights painting the lizard its trademark crimson hue.
The critter was christened ‘Xochitónal’, after a gigantic iguana in Aztec mythology who guarded the Underworld.
”Bill and Lucy know what it takes to bring this kind of thing to life,” Tusk said at the time. “I don’t think any other restaurant owners would have had the patience or the understanding to get it done.
“I wouldn‘t do this for anyone. I’m a huge fan of their food!”
The 1000lb squamate was then loaded onto the back of a flatbed truck and, with the help of a police escort, driven through the streets of Salt Lake City.
After months of anticipation, The Red Iguana was ready to be served to famished public.
The Whole Enchilada
After several hours admiring Xochitónal in the balmy Utah afternoon, Bigella Fernandez Hernandez and I had worked up quite an appetite. We popped into the Red Iguana and were seated at an exquisite table overlooking the Oquirrh Mountains.
“Have you tried Mexican food before?” I asked Miss Hernandez Fernandez, who simply rolled her eyes at me.
Peppers popped on an open flame. Margaritas glinted in the golden sunlight. A waitress waltzed over to take our order, and I assured Bigella that I would handle things.
“¡Hola hombre!” I said smugly. “¡No busco tractores y guapos! ¡Quiero un aerodeslizador! ¡Antonio Banderas! ¡Spasibo!”
The waitress just shook her head, obviously surprised to hear a gringo speaking perfect Spanish. As she left in a daze, I turned my attention back to Bigella.
“I picked up a little español while living in the remote Mexican village of Cancún for six days back in 2022,” I informed her. “Let me know if you need any help with the menu.”
Imagine my surprise when, rather than the virgin cocteles I had so expertly ordered, the waitress placed two small bottles of cerveza in front of us. In a moment of madness, I took a sip from the Modelo, and spent the rest of the afternoon fearing that I was tumbling into alcoholism.
“Swap this out for a non-alcoholic piña colada, mami,” I wretched, as the waitress plonked plates of Mexican delicacies in front of us.
“Watch out, Mexican food – though delicious – can be too spicy for a chalupita like you” I warned, tucking into a decadent tostada. Bigella, ever the daredevil, ladled fiery chile verde onto her chimichangas and stuffed them into her mouth. Not wanting to be upstaged, I poured an entire bottle of habanero sauce onto my superbly-prepared gringa and crammed it into my gob.
The pain was indescribable, and for a moment my life flashed before my very eyes (criminy, did I visit a lot of big lizards – such as Joanna the Goanna, The Big Thorny Devil, Gonzo and Lizzo!). When I awoke, stripped to the waist, I was laying in the carpark, with Xochitónal gazing down on me in disgust.
“Señor Bardot, eres el hombre más bobo que he conocido. Si no fueras el experto de atracciones de gran tamaño más famoso del mundo, te dejaría tirado en esa zanja.”
“Wait a second!” I spluttered. “You can speak Indonesian?”
For time immemorial, mankind has asked the question – will it blend? And only one man is brave enough to answer that question – Tom Dickson, founder of Blendec Blenders.
The star of outlandish YouTube show Will It Blend?, Tom broke the internet by feeding everything from iPhones to Star Wars action figures to his company’s wide range of commercial and industrial food blenders.
And the Blendtec blenders took ’em all.
More than anything, Tom loved blending up a rotisserie chicken with a bottle of Coke, a gastronomical delight he called a cochicken. Always one to try new cuisine, I gave it a go and found that, once the listeria poisoning wore off, it was a strangely invigorating drink. Thanks, Tom!
In 2014, Tom and the Blendtec team decided to capitalise on the show’s popularity in a BIG way. The result was The World’s Largest Blender, a 37-foot recreation of their legendary Designer blender, serving as the entrance to their headquarters in Orem, Utah.
Inside the three-storey-tall glass marvel is a small museum paying tribute to Tom and the outrageous history of Blendtec blenders. Pilgrims can be found five days a week poring over the artefacts, weeping with unrestrained joy.
The opening ceremony for The World’s Largest Blender was attended by Michael Fassblender and the guy who played John Blender in The Breakfast Club, and overseen by Utah Governor Gary Herbert.
“So,” smirked Tom as he cut the ceremonial ribbon; holding an oversized pair of scissors in one hand and his horde of his worshippers in the other, “will these scissors blend?”
Return to Blender
After discovering a stack of love letters from one of my old crushes, tensions between Bigella and I were at an all-time high. Sensing an opportunity to get back into her good books whilst simultaneously checking another Big off my list, I surreptitiously made a suggestion.
“I’ll throw the letters in The World’s Largest Blender in Orem, Utah,” I shrugged, sipping on the cold coffee Bigella had served me. “I’ve seen those blenders destroy beer cans and old guitar parts, I’m sure they can handle a couple of hundred pages of lust and longing.” “Are you sure we’re not just going there to see a Big Thing?” “Of course not,” I hooted, grabbing the keys to the Bigsmobile. “Can we stop off for some selfies with The Gonzo on the way?”
And so, 10 tear-filled hours later, I was perched atop the bewitching Blender, the erotic tales of passion and wonder fluttering in the spring breeze.
“I’m sorry, Jesse Plemons,” I whispered as I placed his lovingly-penned dispatches into the massive blender, “but we’ll always have that weekend in Acapulco.”
That chapter of my life closed – for now – I descended The World’s Largest Blender, and Bigella enveloped me in the sort of hug that men cross oceans for. Smiling a sad smile, I wondered whether I’d done the right thing.
“Come on, kid,” I sighed, leading Bigella away from the Blender. “I’ll take you out to dinner to celebrate.” “Oh Bigs,” she gasped. “You’re so romantic.” “Yeah,” I shrugged, “I’ve got a bucket of cochicken in the boot of the car. You can drink it on our way to see The Big Beavers!”
Strike it rich with The Giant Prospector Twins! These 12-foot golddiggers have spent the last 70 years criss-crossing southern Nevada in search of the one treasure that’s always eluded them – a place to call home. And now, moving with times, they’re preparing to dig their way into the hearts of Fallout: New Vegas fans.
The dynamic duo were first installed atop the Lucky Strike Club on Fremont Street, Las Vegas, in 1954. The casino saw an immediate increase in patronage – after all, if you wanna twin big, you’ve gotta go double or nothing!
Designed by legendary Hollywood special effects artist Katherine Stubergh and made from fiberglass by the YESCO sign company in Salt Lake City, the sizeable siblings were originally electrified, and able to rattle their pans from side to side.
Bowing to the whims of a fickle American gambling public, the boys were briefly placed into storage in the early-’60s. They were then sold to the western-themed Fort Lucinda Casino in Boulder City. The major miners once again packed up their picks and pans three decades later when the casino – since renamed the Gold Strike – burned down under mysterious circumstances in 1998.
Don’t worry, The Prospectors won’t tell the cops who did it – they’re good at mining their own business!
There’s gold in them thar hills!
When I encountered The Giant Prospector Twins, they were camped in front of what was once Terrible’s Casino, in a remote scrap of dirt known as Jean, Nevada (population: 0). The slothouse shuttered in 2022. It was in the process of being demolished when I moseyed on by.
It was cold, lonely, and my choice of attire attracted fervent honking from passing truck drivers. The bulky brothers were looking quite the worse for wear. Their gambler hats were tattered, their blouses bedraggled. But not even time and the relentless desert sun could wipe the grins from their bearded faces.
The lanky legends, it seems, held on just long enough for me to visit. They were packed up in May 2024 and relocated to their forever home in Goodsprings, a rustic village 45 minutes south of Vegas. One Twin can already be found sifting through the dirt out front of the Pioneer Saloon, a ribald mix of gnarled wood and live music and flamegrilled burgers the size of your head. The other is still being repaired.
I’d love to help out, Steve, but unfortunately I never completed my fiberglassing apprenticeship.
Fallout Boys
E-sports enthusiasts will recognise the Pioneer Saloon as a location in the popular video game Fallout: New Vegas. The Nevada icon was been painstakingly recreated in the game world as the Prospector Saloon, and has become a must-see destination for fans.
The saloon allows Fallout tragic to live out their fantasies of surviving in a post-apocalyptic world. There’s also a range of Fallout memorabilia inside. Fortunately, however, there’s no deathclaws around to attack you!
And now, I implore the designers to update the game version with a couple of Giant Prospectors by the front door. There’ll be a bit of a Fallout with the roadside attraction community if you don’t – teehee!
Finally, after seven hard decades, The Giant Prospector Twins are at peace… and they need names! So next time you’re at the Pioneer Saloon, nibbling on a pecan-crusted rainbow trout, have a think about it. Just remember that Big John, The Big Goldpanner Man and Map the Miner are already taken.
For a HOLE lotta fun, pop along to Randy’s Donuts in Inglewood, Los Angeles. A pastiche of 1950s counter-culture, Randy’s is one of the most beloved restaurants in America, offering a plethora of pungent pastries. And bake sure to save room for the main course – the iconic, 32.6ft-wide donut on the roof!
Randy’s enormous donut is the first thing many people see as they descend upon the City of Angels. It’s only a few minutes drive from LAX – and the perfect place to carb load after a long flight. Dominating the landscape, the donut is as synonymous with the city as the Hollywood sign, botox, and homeless encampments.
What could be more typical of LA than a Korean tourist and a doo-rag-sporting gangbanger squatting next to each other, eyes agog, cream smeared across faces, after an encounter with Randy’s Donut?
You might recognise Randy’s Donuts from movies like Get Shorty, Iron Man 2, Mars Attacks! and the critically-divisive Earth Girls Are Easy. Don’t worry if you haven’t heard about that last one – it didn’t make much dough at the box-office!
The Donut, sadly, is often draped with advertising banners that completely obscure it. Thankfully, it was naked when I visited. I would’ve hated to be on the wrong end of some good old fashioned police brutality for tearing the signage off Randy’s Donut in order to take these extraordinary photos!
The Everlasting Glaze
The story of Randy’s Donuts is even more scrumptious than the treats they sell (although the fruity pebbles-sheathed donuts come pretty dang close!). Back in the late-’40s, an entrepreneurial chap named Russell C. Wendell launched a chain of takeaway restaurants known as The Big Do-Nut Drive-In.
Needing something to help stand out in the dog-eat-dog world of light refreshments, ‘Wendy’ approached eccentric structural engineer Richard Bradshaw with an outlandish idea. Each shop would be crested by a donut of obscene proportions.
Using rolled steel bars to create the rotund shape, and covering them with concrete, each Big Donut weighed an impressive 15,000 pounds. Which is about how much I’d weigh if I ate there every day, tee-hee!
The second shop opened in 1953, in the blossoming suburb of Inglewood – but I donut know why he chose that location. The restaurant, much like the donuts, was always jam-packed!
The grand opening was like nothing the good folk of LA had ever seen. Chevy Bel-Airs and Ford T-Birds were lined up round the corner. Greasers and socs put their differences to one side to share an apple fritter.
World peace, it seemed, was within our cinnamon-dusted grasp. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, but at this point the tale becomes a little bit stale.
Tired of standing in the shadow of his own big donut, ‘Wendy’ sold the restaurants in the 1970s. Robert Eskow bought the Inglewood location, renaming it Randy’s Donuts after his son. Tragically, most of the other shops closed, their Big Donuts scraped into the bin like yesterday’s leftovers.
In recent years, new Randy’s franchises have sprung up in Las Vegas, Saudi Arabia, South Korea and the Philippines. But none have a huge donut on the roof, so who cares?
Feeling Randy
As a strict adherent to the Atkins diet, I was only able to enjoy a few sumptuous bites from an Oreo-crowned frosted donut before rushing to the nearest restroom to purge myself of the dreaded calories. The creamy, dreamy flavours that swelled around in my mouth, however, were enough to cause my eyes to glaze over.
From bacon maple Long Johns to cinnamon-encrusted bear claws, sea salt caramel lattes to those super cute pink donuts with the itsy-bitsy sprinkles on the top – for any trip to LA, Randy’s is the icing on the cake… uh, donut!
Wiping the decadent chocolate from my lips, I noticed a familiar figure, clad in a sheepskin cloak that left little to the imagination, hobbling towards the donut shop. It was my good pal, beloved character actor Randy Quaid, who I befriended on the set of the Yuletide classic National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation 2: Cousin Eddie’s Island Adventure.
(As an aside, whilst I portrayed Clark – the son of Randy’s character, Eddie – in the film, Randy has come to see me as a father figure over the years, often approaching me for advice during his many times of need)
“Hi Randy,” I chuckled, before pointing towards the oversized donut. “Your order’s ready, and they’ve already written your name on it.”
Randy’s face dropped, and he peered anxiously around the busy car park.
“How do they know my name?” he yelped. His eyes darting from side to side. His tongue flicked across his lips. “And how do they know what I wanted? They’re watchin’ me, Bigs. The guv’ment is watchin’ me!”
With that, Randy – poor, sweet, misguided Randy – stripped off his cloak and then ran, naked, into the unflinching Los Angeles traffic.
Oh well, it’s not every day you get to see Randy’s Nuts!
Moab, Utah, is most certain to please A desert oasis that’s best served with cheese With mountains and shrubs and Arches and quilk And quaint restaurants that serve bumdoozlers with milk
I felt a great leaping of joy in my heart As I swaggered along, seeking oversized art
In no time at all, my stroll turned to a hop I’d spotted a Big Thing outside of a shop And with great skilful skill that would impress a wizard I raced towards something that could be a lizard
As I got nearer I heard a ga-whine! I looked I saw some him perched up on a sign Wearing a Hawaiian shirt, the oddest of creatures Describe him? That’s hard. He had such bizarre features He was largish, and oldish, and bluish and mossy And he spoke with a Utah accent that was sharpish and bossy
“Bigs Bardot!” he said, taking swift action “I am The Gonzo. A roadside attraction I lure in travellers both ancient and young With my palpable sense of both filbus and fun” His tail did flap and his eyes they did spin “Won’t you please join me inside The Gonzo Inn?”
“Look, Gonzo”, I said. “I don’t see the harm It’s better than sleeping out there in a barn Moab’s quite cold when you’re on your ownly A life tracking down Bigs can be rather lonely So please lead the way, to a room for this brat With a rat, a cat, and a Big Cricket Bat I hope it has carpets, and pillows, and sheets! And curtains! And comfortable, munchable seats!
The Gonzo said, “Bigs! You are crazy with greed A sensibly-priced condo is all that you need!
But the very next minute I proved Gonzo wrong For, just at that minute, I burst into song And the critter found my voice was really quite great Then invited me out on a lovely bro date I laughed at The Gonzo, and gave him a smile “No, all I need is the love of a handsome reptile!”
If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as heck don’t deserve me at my BIGGEST! Marilyn Monroe may have sashayed off this mortal coil six decades ago, but her spirit lives on in downtown Palm Springs, California. There you’ll find Forever Marilyn, a 26ft tribute that perfectly captures the sensuality of the bosomy Hollywood starlet.
The statue’s voluptuous curves and golden tresses evoke memories of the golden age of cinema. Framed by the breathtaking San Jacinto Mountains, Marilyn bakes in the desert sun. But that’s alright, because Some Like It Hot.
The blonde bombshell was crafted by maverick artist Seward Johnson, from painted steel and aluminum. Inspired by Marilyn’s unforgettable scene from the 1955 classic The Seven-Year Itch, where her white dress billows around her, the statue was first installed in Chicago in 2011.
So yes, Forever Marilyn’s getting on a bit, but You’re Only as Young as You Feel.
Just as the real Marilyn fell victim to the whims of randy tough guys, Forever Marilyn was often assaulted by vandals. On one occasion, red paint was splashed all over her porcelain skin, to protest against climate change or video store late fees for something like that.
Come on, guys, Let’s Make Love, not war!
There’s No Bigness Like Show Bigness
Much like Marilyn herself, who never stayed in one place very long and had a string of short-lived relationships, her sculpture has been around the traps. She first arrived in Palm Springs in 2012, before relocating to Hamilton, New Jersey in 2014.
Makes sense – Marilyn filmed The Delaware River of No Return there. Tee-hee!
Marilyn was packed up in 2016 and shipped across the globe to the ultra-chic city of Bendigo, Australia. Known as ‘Tinseltown of the Goldfields’, Marilyn fit right in with the local bohemians, who affectionately called her ‘Maz’.
Sadly, having both a massive Marilyn Monroe and The Golden Dragon Lotus proved to be more than the good people of Bendigo could handle, and nobody got any work done. They’d just sit around, looking up Maz’s skirt to see her Love Nest. So Maz was plonked on the next cargo ship back to the States.
After a spell in Stamford, Connecticut, Forever Marilyn spent a few Dangerous Years in storage. It looked like the credits had rolled on her glittering career. Nature abhors a vacuum, and thus a crass Chinese knock-off appeared next to a Bus Stop in the slums of Guigang. Tall and blonde with a sense of fun and adventure – Marilyn must’ve fit right in with the Chinese peasantry.
Then Bobby ‘The Moonman’ Moon stepped in. The longtime mayor of Palm Springs with the movie star good looks brought Marilyn back to the resort city. This time, Forever.
And that, thankfully, was the end of all that Monkey Business.
Something’s Got to Bigs
And so I found myself standing, mouth agape, between the shapely pins of a much taller woman. Unfortunately, Bigella became quite jealous of the attention I was lavishing upon Marilyn. Oh well, that just goes to prove that Gentlemen Prefer Blondes!
“Settle down, Bigella,” I snapped. “Me and Marilyn are just friends. We’re Not Married!” Bigella, never a fan of classic cinema, didn’t appreciate the joke. She’s probably never even seen Marilyn’s 1952 romantic comedy of the same name.
“Most of Marilyn’s films are so dated that puns based off their titles make little sense to the wider populace,” Bigella snapped. “Just look at that reference to Monkey Business a few paragraphs back. Nobody will get the joke. It detracts from what should be an interesting story.” “Please don’t underestimate the cultural significance of Edmund…” “You have this beautiful website that should have widespread appeal, but instead you fill the entries with obscure jokes and bizarre fantasy sequences that have little relevance to the subject matter.”
Bigella’s cruel words cut through me like a knife, and I sat down beneath Forever Marilyn to have a good, hard think about the direction Land of the Bigs was heading in. Maybe it is too weird, I pondered. Maybe the entries do stray off topic, into outlandish scenarios that amuse nobody by myself. As I looked up into Marilyn’s eyes, I decided to begin a new, more sensible, chapter of my life.
Tee-hee, just kidding! Forever Marilyn inspired me to trot off to the nearest Dollar Tree to purchase a platinum blonde wig and a blouse that left little to the imagination. Taking Marilyn’s lead I tumbled into and out of a number of marriages and high-profile relationships with luminaries from the entertainment, sporting and political realms, before plunging to the depths of drug and alcohol addiction as my career spiralled out of control.
Sometime later, bleary-eyed and with my skirt riding up my backside, I stumbled onto a floodlit stage, pushing an oversized cake and wailing “Happy birthday, Mr President” to a confused elderly man who, I’m hesitant to say, appeared to have befouled his pants.
Poor ol’ Joe just stood there, smiling vacantly as the world rolled on past him, before making a feeble attempt to grope me. My life had, I realised, reached its nadir.
Fortunately I became obsessed with another oversized roadside attraction before I could succumb to a barbiturate overdose.
Heading to Las Vegas to gamble away your life savings and admire a few Big Things? Then make sure you swing by California’s SWEETEST holiday destination – EddieWorld! You can’t miss it, just look out for the 65-foot ice cream out the front.
Rising like a lurid mirage just outside Yermo, The Big Sundae’s euphoric hues – pink and blue and canary yellow – lure in excited roadtrippers and frazzled encyclopaedia salesmen with the promise of treasures innumerable. And the cherry on top is, well, the cherry on top.
Proudly advertised as California’s largest gas station, EddieWorld boasts 26 pumps (I counted them!) and 27,000ft of retail space (I measured it with my trundle wheel – thanks, José, for rearranging the jerky shelves and Frazil ice drink machines so I could get an accurate reading).
There are three world-class restaurants, plenty of souvenirs, and even a shrine to popular local netball team the LA Lakers. EddieWorld also offers more soda flavours than you could shake an insulin syringe at at. Prickly pear, pumpkin crème, and gherkin are personal faves. Yes, EddieWorld’s the perfect place to scoop up a bargain!
EddieWorld also has dozens of charging sor-bays for electronic vehicles. Cool!
The men’s toilets, usually a tribute to the grotesque, prove to be another highlight. It’s not unusual to enter to the celebratory sounds of hoots and high-fives, as each urinal is fitted out with a high-tech electrical game controlled through a carefully-aimed stream.
Sadly, I didn’t partake. I simply didn’t need Bigella getting on my case about having fun in public toilets with strange men again.
On the Sundae of Life
With its retro charm, EddieWorld’s giant gelado is a mouthwatering tribute simpler time. It may surprise you, then, that this wintery wonderland is but a few, delicious years old.
Enigmatic entrepreneur Eddie Ringle opened the first EddieWorld gas station in Nevada in 2001. It was a moderate success, but lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. That missing ingredient turned out to be a six-storey ice cream, which became the focal point of his second gas station, served up to a famished public one warm day in 2018.
Proving that anything is popsicle, EddieWorld quickly became California’s pre-eminent tourist attraction. It was a rocky road to success, but they made it. And don’t worry, this sundae is open seven days a week!
When the Land of the Bigs crew turned up, Bigella wasted little time maxing out the company AmEx on lollies, soda, plushies, commemorative t-shirts and a big ol’ bucket of butter pecan ice cream.
Not wanting to dirupt my strict paleo diet, I bypassed the sundaes in favour of a small bag of gluten free bacon and cheese flavoured crickets. They were every bit as disgusting as you’d expect, and I became ever-so-slightly ravenous as I watched Bigella guzzling her sumptuous frozen delicacies, the decadent snack dripping down her fingers in the waning Californian sun.
Succumbing to my lust for the sugary treat, I lunged towards my comrade’s food in a desperate attempt to ladle it into my gaping maw. I instantly learned that one should never get in between Bigella and a tub of ice cream, because she responded by delivering a severe beating and dumping me, semi-conscious and bleeding heavily, at the base of The Big Sundae.
Feeling famished after a long morning spent searching for Colorado’s Big Things? Then pop into one of Grand Junction’s world-class cafés for a sumptuous plate of jalapeño eggs benedict!
But if you’re hungry for a thought-provoking art piece that will touch your soul, head to the corner of Main and 7th. There you’ll find Breakfast, a delicious effigy of an apple that shall satiate any appetite.
Created by local artiste Terry Burnett, who lives in (where else?) Fruita, this scrumptious morsel is a comical homage to the local fresh produce industry. With its garish colours and surreal juxtaposition against the buzzing traffic, it’s no wonder Breakfast has become the apple of many a Coloradan eye.
At the core of it, however, Breakfast provides a scathing critique of overconsumption. Pear – oops, I mean peer! – towards the base of the attraction to find an ant, eyes bugging out of his head, fresh from gorging himself on an apple many times his own size.
Known to his admirers as António (not to be confused with the Portuguese scallywag I bumped into in North Queensland – boy, was he a bad apple!) this critter has become the unofficial mascot of Grand Junction. Whilst not as large as other creepy crawlies such as The Big Spider and The Black Ant, António’s unabashed enthusiasm for binge eating should be an inspiration to us all.
After all, it’s just as American as apple pie!
A Big Apple A Day…
I was so aroused by António’s gastrological antics, in fact, that I headed into the nearest greasy spoon and ordered everything on the menu. As plate after plate of apple crumble and apple turnovers landed before me, I regaled the other diners with my vast knowledge of oversized apples.
“There are many other Big Apples spread across the United State – although none, curiously, located in New York,” I told anyone within earshot, before ladling more apple strudel down my gullet. “You may also want to trot over to Australia, where you’ll have a fruitful experience tracking down Big Apples in Batlow, Balhannah, Acacia Ridge, Darkes Forest, Yerrinbool and Tallong. I could go on and on, but I’d hate to upset the apple cart.
“By the way, are you going to finish that apple fritter?”
I’m now dealing with a fairly serious eating disorder and life-altering cholesterol, but that’s a small price to pay to experience Coloradan hospitality.
Well, they do say breakfast is the most important meal of the day!
Oh give me a home, where a Big Buffalo roams. Where a Big Lego Man and Big Ant like to plaaaaaaaaay. Well, pardner, it looks like your new home is Grand Junction, Colorado, a leafy oasis that’s just bursting with beautiful Bigs.
It’s right there in the name – they don’t call it Small Junction, after all!
Mosey on down the quirky main street, past the eccentric coffee shops selling kiln-roasted lattes, and you will stop, mesmerised, before a gleaming beast of epic proportions. This, my friend, is Chrome on the Range II, a 7ft-tall buffalo pieced together from shiny chrome bumper bars.
The chrome critter was crafted by Aspen artiste Lou Wille, as the centrepiece of the town’s Art on the Corner initiative. The United Bank, where he was to be placed, took the bull by the horns and tipped in $20,000, with enthusiastic locals matching that effort. He was installed in 1989.
‘Chromey’ stands as a monument to a nation in a state of flux. The untamed past collides with a corporate present. The wild west meets offbeat small-town charm. Brazen yet bashful, vulgar yet wistful, this artwork offers a nostalgic look at the beating heart of America.
As his name suggests, Chrome on the Range II was based on a similar attraction – known as Chrome on the Range I – located a few hours drive away at the John Denver Sanctuary. It’s a rare case where the sequel is even more incredible the original.
I do think, however, they missed a trick by not naming him Chrome on the Range II: Chrome Harder.
There’s No Place Like Chrome
With Chrome on the Range II inviting a higher calibre of tourist into town, Grand Junction evolved into a bohemian enclave. Sadly, like the buffalo that once roamed these pastures, these halcyon days of economic prosperity were driven away by the endless march of time.
A number of banks occupied the building behind Chromey, before the most recent said, “bye, son!” and abandoned it a couple of years ago. The Big, Shiny Buffalo, once an ode to the American dream, now serves as a melancholy meditation on economic and social decay.
But wipe away those tears, because this overgrown cow will stand proudly on the corner of Main and 4th for-heifer.
“Nobody needs to worry,” bellowed Sarah Dishong, project coordinator for Downtown Grand Junction, amid rising concern. “The buffalo has been here for decades and is a part of our permanent collection. The piece isn’t going anywhere.”
So grab a tumeric mocha and spend a moment beside this perfectly-polished buffalo. Look into his big, knowing eyes. Rub his bulbous head. Kiss his glossy, yet mournful, cheek. Sit, cross-legged beneath his learning tree, and allow the history of the United States to wash over you.
Of course, some ‘haters’ claim that Chromey doesn’t count as a Big, because he’s not much larger than a regular bison – but I say that’s a load of bull!
Have you been running round like a headless chicken in search of roadside attractions? Then strut over to Fruita, Colorado, where you’ll find a bonkers statue dedicated to Mike the Headless Chicken!
The bizarre story of a chook who lived for 18 months after having his noggin lopped off – and went on to become a national celebrity – has long enthralled locals and visitors alike. A four-foot effigy to Mike, lovingly created by local artist Lyle Nichols, can be found outside the Aspen Street Coffee Co on the town’s leafy main street.
There’s no need to walk around on eggshells when visiting, because the mother hens at the cafe are really quite lovely. Maybe give the omelettes a miss, though – you might offend Mike.
The headless heartthrob’s no spring chicken, having been revealed to a bemused gathering of admirers back in March of 2000. Carefully crafted from 300 pounds of old metal farm castoffs, including axe heads and sickle blades, Mike fits in with the many oddball artworks scattered around this quirky village.
“I made him proud-looking and cocky,” Lyle cock-a-doodle-dooed, before joking that he gave the Fruita chamber of commerce a discount because Mike didn’t have a head.
Despite living just up the road from another Big, the legendary Grrrreta the Grrrreat Big Dinosaur, Mike certainly rules the roost in Fruita. The locals even throw a festival – or should that be nest-ival? – in his honour every June. With a 5km fun run, chicken dancing competition and displays from the region’s craft breweries, there’s always a few sore heads the next morning.
But I guess that’s better than having no head at all!
Where’s Your Head At?
The legend of Mike the Headless Chicken goes back to September 10, 1945. Fruita chap Lloyd Olsen, long henpecked by his domineering mother-in-law, decided to win her over with a succulent chicken dinner. Taking his prized cock, Mike, into the backyard, Lloyd kissed him goodbye and then lopped off his head with an axe.
And that’s when things got interesting. Instead of laying down to be served with a side of steamed vegetables, Mike went about his day, strutting around and fluffing up his feathers. Lloyd, who couldn’t believe his cluck, fed the decapitated bird with an eye-dropper. It was then that he saw signing signs.
Leaving his mother-in-law was unfed, Lloyd scooped up his headless chicken and rushed off to the University of Utah. There, the resident boffins proclaimed that Mike had just enough of a brain stem left to go on as if nothing had happened.
Well, it’s not as though fully-intact chickens are solving the secrets of the universe, anyway.
Lloyd hired a manager for Mike, and the bonceless bird immediately beaked the curiosity of the public. Soon he was travelling across America and appearing on the front cover of everything from Life magazine to Bird Fanciers Quarterly. Thousands – if not millions – lost their minds when they chooked him out.
Mike was the cock of the walk. Tabloids of the day caught him partying with Hollywood bad boy Gregory Peck, and stepping out with actresses Ingrid Birdman and Vivi-hen Leigh. The biggest star since Cluck Gable, many thought him destined. But one should never count one’s chickens – headless or otherwise – before they hatch.
One windswept night in Arizona, after a year-and-a-half without a head, Mike choked to death on a kernel of corn.
Beakle-Mania was over. Lloyd’s mother-in-law finally received her chicken feast.
Mike was immortalised in The Guinness Book of Records (as the longest surviving headless chicken), and the docu-hen-tary Chick Flick: The Miracle Mike Story. Pop royalty penned ballads about him. Mike the Headless Chicken by Sandy Lind lit up the charts, as did Headless Mike by The Radioactive Chicken Heads (An instant celebrity/He toured the country in an auto/Probably the greatest thing/To ever come from Colorado).
Mike brought newfound respect to chickens worldwide. He inspired other Bigs such as California’s Chicken Boy, and Charlie, Chickeletta and The Big Chook over in Australia.
Quite a chicken-feat, but nothing serves as a greater tribute to his legacy than the BIG statue in his hometown of Fruita. Cheeky, handsome and truly individual, you’ll have egg on face if you don’t see it!
Downtown Las Vegas has gone to the dogs, because it’s home to the 15-foot-tall canine bathroom – also known as The Big Fire Hydrant. Standing proudly outside the pooch park on Fremont Street, this bright yellow beacon of hope is fully functional and able to spurt out water at the pull of a lever.
Sensible and practical it may be, but the story behind The Big Fire Hydrant is absolutely bonkers.
Back in 2013, the owners of upscale doggy daycare centre The Hydrant Club were looking to stand out amongst the glitz and glamour of sin city. Enter venture capitalist and all-round oddball Tony Hsieh. He suggested building a Fire Hydrant of epic proportions, and had the connections to make it happen.
Building Bigs was, apparently, Tony’s modus operandi. He also installed a massive metal mantis just up the road to promote a local restaurant precinct.
“The idea is every block or so have something interesting,” Tony told an enraptured journalist. “We’re building the world’s largest functioning fire hydrant next to the dog park, building all sorts of things. And the idea is to get people to walk one more block, because Vegas has been a very car-focused town.”
Tony, sadly, never got to enjoy the fruits of his labour. He descended into madness shortly after the completion of his magnum opus, squirrelling himself away in his house to suck on cans of nitrous oxide and starve himself of both food and oxygen for the fun of it. I guess the pressure of topping The Big Fire Hydrant was just too much for him.
He also took to smearing poo all over the walls, with close friend Jewel – yes, that Jewel! – describing the inside of his home as “Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory”.
Ewwwwww!
The lunacy came to a chaotic crescendo in November 2020 when Tony, high on goofballs, set fire to his backyard shed and then locked himself inside. He didn’t survive, and the world was robbed of a true Big Thing visionary.
Golly gosh, if only Tony had built some sort of enormous water-spurting contraption outside his house – teehee!
Come On Baby, Light My Fire Hydrant
The years following the Fire Hydrant’s inauguration were good ones for Las Vegas’s dogs (and their humans). They had space to play, a place to do their business, and lots of pet-friendly cafes in which to enjoy a frothy puppaccino.
Then terror descended upon this peaceful corner of Las Vegas. Ruffians took up residence in Fremont Streets, and things would never be the same again.
“The kinds of threats that really lead me to the decision that this neighborhood was no longer a safe place for a standalone small business were things like gun violence,” The Hydrant Club’s owner Owner Cathy Brooks told an appalled journalist. “Things like large groups of unruly individuals.”
“When 100 guys drinking tall cans, getting hammered and getting stoned, are riding bikes right down the middle of the street,” Cath continued. “Then they throw their bikes all over your property and you ask them really politely, ‘Hey would you mind moving over so you are not obstructing the business’ and I get called all manner of names… What am I going to do?”
To make things more tragic, the bikes in question, shockingly, weren’t even big. They were just regular bikes. Faced with unimaginable brutality, the owners of The Hydrant Club shut the doors and never returned.
“Two hours after the last dog left the building, two people were shot about two blocks away,” Cathy wept.
The Big Fire Hydrant, once a symbol of downtown Vegas’s bright future, lay abandoned. It’ll take more than a few maniacs to stop Bigella and moi from admiring a giant working fire hydrant, however.
But our trip to The Big Fire Hydrant very nearly cost us our lives.
How I Wet Your Brother
Shortly after arriving at The Big Fire Hydrant, a tribe of bad boys in sequinned leather jackets rode up on a three-person tandem bicycle and started mincing around in front of us. Bad intentions danced in their eyes. This crew had run the owners of The Hydrant Club out of town, and now they’d come back to finish the job.
When one of them tossed an empty can of beer at the base of the Hydrant, I decided things had gone far enough.
“Boys, I should warn you,” I snapped, rolling up the sleeves on my custom-printed Land of the Bigs tunic. “I get pretty dang mad when people don’t show respect to The Big Fire Hydrant. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m mad.”
“Pffft,” snarled the lead thug, shaking his mohawked head. “You call that a big fire hydrant? It’s not even the largest in the continental USA.” “Yeah, there’s a 24-foot working fire hydrant in Beaumont, Texas that is far more impressive,” added another tough guy as he swung a metal chain around. “And that one’s painted like a Dalmatian, if I’m not mistaken,” claimed a third delinquent, who had a skull painted on his face and peg-leg. “I feel it adds a kitschy ambiance that is most welcome.”
Bigella had heard enough of their bigotry. She stepped up to The Big Fire Hydrant, then paused for dramatic effect.
“You boys still look a bit wet behind the ears,” she boomed, reaching for the fireplug’s oversized handle. “Say ‘hy-drant’ to my little friend!” Then, with a flick of her wrist, she released a torrent of icy water upon the goons, giving them a jolly good soaking.
“Wow, Bigella, you’ve really made a splash around here!” I chuckled.
The trio of punks huddled together like drowned rats. The leader stepped towards us, sopping cap in hand, shoulders slumped.
“We’ve learned a good lesson today,” he lisped, wringing out his crop top. “Maybe it’s time for us to give up on crime and violence, and turn our attention to something valuable – like preaching the gospel of America’s incredible Big Things.”
The five of us, different people from different worlds, came together for a group hug in the middle of Fremont Street. Tony would’ve wanted it that way.
And that, my friends, is how Bigs Bardot and Bigella Fernandez Hernandez solved Las Vegas’s gang problem.
Wander through the Nevada desert long enough and you shall come across Claim Your Destiny, a colossal beer can that just might hold the answer to all life’s mysteries.
Or just take the Ely exit as you’re driving out of Vegas, trundle along Las Vegas Blvd North for six miles, head up the dirt track on the right as far as you can go, swagger across the abandoned train tracks, and there it is. You can’t miss it.
Claim Your Destiny was created by enigmatic graffiti artist Aware, who painted an abandoned water tank to look like a tin of the popular Pabst Blue Ribbon lager. This remarkable example of guerilla art, completed sometime in 2019, serves as a commentary not only on alcoholism, but on the wider ills of American society.
Although the paintwork has been lashed by the intense Nevada sun, nothing can dilute the power of its message. The words encircling the base of the big beer can provide a sombre, biting meditation on life and the human condition, and read thusly:
Drinking tin flavored piss water is as American as small-pox covered blankets, shooting unarmed black men, diplomacy by drone, date raping drunk sorority girls with impunity, or over consumption of everything always.
Golly, and they say that no one ever found any answers at the bottom of a can of economically-priced Pilsner!
Bigs Bardot and the Vial of Destiny
Resting in the shadows of Claim Your Destiny, the hot wind sending tumbleweed trundling across the scarred landscape, I was forced to confront my own morals and question my contribution to society. What was I doing, traipsing around the cosmos in kaleidoscopic clothes, taking photos with Big Things and writing about them through a patchwork of puns and outdated cultural references?
I ruminated on my existential crisis for hours, until the smouldering sun sunk behind the tangerine hills and a chill crept over my body. The desert stars unfurled above me, timeless and sober. I searched within myself until I came to the centre of what it means to be Bigs Bardot.
Turns out, I like Bigs Bardot. And I’m proud of what I do.
If I’ve shone a light on forgotten artworks from across the globe, and told the stories of those who built them. Made someone laugh in troubled times. Preserved a little piece of our history. Worked hard. Created something meaningful and kind-hearted and informative and real. Then it’s all worth it.
If I’ve brought back cherished memories of childhood. Inspired just one person to push past their boundaries to explore the weirder corners of our planet, and see Bigs that nourish the soul. If I’ve made an effort to showcase the good, not the bad. Then I’ve done my part, however small, towards building a better world.
SlotZilla! SlotZilla! Follow the joyful screaming to downtown Las Vegas, where you’ll find the world’s largest slot machine. A dazzling display of bright lights that overwhelms the senses, SlotZilla rises 12 storeys above Fremont Street and is home to one of the world’s most incredible thrill rides.
The wondrous one armed bandit opened to much fanfare in the summer of 2014 and was designed to reinvigorate the area, which had fallen into disrepair. That goal was most certainly met. The end result is a Big Thing that’s garish, outlandish, and kind of beautiful – just like Vegas itself.
SlotZilla is flanked by two scantily-clad showgirls, each 35 1/2 feet tall. Known as Jennifer and Porsha, they aren’t to my taste, but certainly draw the attention of the masses.
A stream of Elvis impersonators and sun-kissed tourists spill from SlotZilla’s mouth like sparkling coins, thanks the landmark’s award-winning zipline. This breathtaking ride quickly established itself as Las Vegas’s premiere tourist attraction, providing a welcome distraction for those who have thrown away their life savings on blackjack and outrageously-priced food and drinks.
Dozens of celebs have taken the plunge, including pop royalty Katy Perry and my old friend Norman Reedus. He dropped his tough-guy façade just long enough to enjoy a hair-raising flight from that zooms past five city blocks.
The owners shan’t be able to add the name Bigs Bardot to that list, however. No, it’s not that I’m terrified of heights. It’s the $69 ticket price that scares me. But I suppose they had to do something to recoup the $17 million construction cost.
Unlike Godzilla, the horrifying green monster it was named after, SlotZilla doesn’t want to broil you alive with a high-powered laser beam. It just wants to empty your pockets of any spare change you have and leave you homeless and destitute, begging for quarters on the streets of Las Vegas in order to feed your gambling addiction.
Trust me, I know.
You’ve got to know when to hold ’em Know when to fold ’em Know when to walk away And know when to run
Standing beneath SlotZilla, the hypnotic bells and whistles cutting through the Las Vegas night, one can’t help but be swept into the seductive world of high-stakes gambling. With my addictive personality, I did my best to resist, but felt a tidal wave of neon anticipation washing over my quivering body.
(I’m no stranger to risk, of course, having long ago plonked my life savings into a little website named Land of the Bigs. On a completely unrelated note, please consider contributing to my Venmo, CashApp, PayPal, GoFundMe, Patreon, Kickstarter or BuyMeACoffee. Please, I’m desperate here.)
But with the promise of untold riches spilling from the bosom of SlotZilla, my resolve weakened.
One dollar can’t hurt, I thought to myself, my forehead slick with sweat. And the local economy is, after all, built on the misery of others. So, in a way, I’d be stealing if I didn’t gamble. They might even lock me up and throw away the key.
As appealing as an evening with heavily-tattooed Mexican gangbangers and drunken American frat boys was, I shrugged my shoulders and succumbed to my deepest carnal desires to wager everything I had on the whim of a machine. Plucking a shiny coin from my slacks, I turned to the nearest one-cent slot and hoped for the best.
To my delight I won a small amount. The celebratory klaxon filled me with the sense of achievement and companionship I’d been yearning for my whole life. Plonking another coin into the machine, I settled a little deeper into my chair. A mocktail was ordered from a passing waiter. My downfall was imminent.
The following hours are a blur of dopamine and shame. At some point I stumbled to a pawn shop to trade whatever trinkets I had on me for extra cash. The poker machine soon devoured that as well. A burly security guard hurled me, financially and emotionally ravaged, into the windswept street.
Peering up at SlotZilla through my tears of shame, my bank account bereft of funds and my few real-world friendships destroyed by the calamity of gambling, I wondered whether it was all worth it.
Of course it was, I thought to myself, rifling through a bin for a coffee cup to shake at strangers. It might’ve cost me my financial security and any residual feeling of self respect, but I got to see a big slot machine, and that’s all that really matters.
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at SlotZilla.
Look at me and my big, black friend! Of course, as a progressive gentleman I’m proud to have many friends of colour, including Larry Fishburne, Halle Berry, and that dude who sings in Counting Crows.
Wait, maybe he’s not black. But he does have a great set of dreadlocks, so I’ll count him anyway.
Anyway, back to Big John, the 18-foot-tall coal-black miner who stands silently outside the local library in Helper, Utah. With his square jaw and robust physique, John has watched over the sleepy main street for decades, with the Uinta Mountains rising solemnly behind him.
And, I’m pleased to say, Big John’s story is every bit as extravagant as he is.
Back in the early-60s, the proud people of this historic village were in a state of flux, as Helper transitioned from coal mining hub to tourist mecca. With the Western Mining and Railroad Museum – widely known as ‘the Utah Disneyland’ – ready to open, a committee decided that a major miner was the best way to capitalise on the waves of holidaymakers. Sounds like a drill-a-minute experience to me!
The Helperians approached the good folk at International Fiberglass – yes, those responsible for Harvey the Rabbit and Chicken Boy – to construct a collier of extraordinary proportions. Starting with a mould of Paul Bunyan, the team swapped out the axe for a prodigious pick and packed him off to the mines.
With their tall, dark and handsome prospector on the way, the good people of Helper just needed to sit back, relax, and wait for the tourist dollars to start pouring in. But first they needed a name just as big and bombastic as as their hero…
You were always on my mine
Ev’ry mornin’ at the mine you could see him arrive He stood six-foot-six and weighed two-forty-five Kinda broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip And everybody knew, ya didn’t give no lip… to Big John!
In 1964, the streets of Helper hung heavy with the dulcet tones of Jimmy Dean and his poignant hit, Big Bad John. The tale of a brawny coal miner who meets his fate at the bottom of a pit, the song resonated with the hardworking locals. And so it was only fitting that their shiny new Big would borrow the name.
Although the Helperians did drop ‘Bad’ from the name, possibly to avoid a copyright claim from Jimmy Dean’s notoriously dogged legal team. Or maybe because there’s nothing naughty about this fellow at all. Big John is a kind, considerate and surprisingly sensitive giant, with a broad smile for all who wander the dusty streets of Helper.
Sadly, Big John’s not allowed into the bar up the road, because they don’t serve miners – teehee!
As he stands afore the well-stocked library, I took the opportunity to stretch out ‘neath John’s size-72 boots and polish off a few chapters of Between a Rock and a Hard Place, a romance novel set in the coal mines of 1870s Utah.
Of course, with that cheeky grin beaming down at me, I found it impossible to concentrate and kept reading the same page over and over again!
Johnny Be Good!
Big John’s just as coal as a cucumber and certainly never boering. So it comes as no surprise that he’s inspired several other Bigs around the globe – and you won’t have to dig deep to find ’em!
Standing in John’s towering shadow, one can’t help draw comparisons to another ruggedly gorgeous pitman on the opposite side of the world. Map the Miner, a 23-foot copper excavator, guards the South Australian hamlet of Kapunda. Two big, strong, working chaps who all the boys want and all the girls want to be.
Over the years John’s helped Helper grow and flourish into a quirky, artistic outpost with some high-class restaurants if you’re into fine mining. It’s also become a town that prides itself on ethnic diversity. With a noble black man as its most famous resident, how could it be anything but?
Big John, the Utahn miner with a face full of soot and a heart full of gold, has shown the world that there is a light at the end of the tunnel. We can achieve racial harmony through oversized roadside attractions.
I wanna rock ‘n’ roll all night, and visit St George every day! That’s because this leafy Utah town is home to a big, bad and bombastic scrap metal guitar known as Ready to Play. Melding small-town sensibilities with snarling city swagger, the incredible instrument has really struck a chord with the locals.
At 21 feet from titanic tuners to behemoth bridge, this Big Guitar dominates St George’s well-maintained Town Square Park. You can find it right next to the library, but don’t fret, the librarians won’t come out and shush you, which should come as music to your ears.
Ready to Play was composed by the rock god of Big Things himself, Deveren Farley. A local legend responsible for many heavy metal artworks such as the nearby Giant Spider, Dev really turned it up to eleven with this one.
“As an artist, I strive to take what others imagine and bring it to life for them by creating a piece that is as unique and beautiful as the idea itself,” Deveren harmonised.
People strumming and going from the park can’t help but stare in wonder at the six-string’s kooky details. Just look at that repurposed hacksaw. Oh, oh, oh, and there’s even a regular-sized guitar in there! Sorry if I’m amped up, but it’s riff-possible not to get excited about a work of guit-art this large.
Much like Ready to Play, I’m quite highly strung – awwww yeah!
God gave St George Utah to you Gave St George Utah to you Put it in the soul of everyone!
St George is the spiritual home of American rock ‘n’ roll, and thousands of audiophiles have made the pilgrimage to worship at the base of Ready to Play. It’s a fully-functional guitar with working strings, so I plucked up the courage to shred some chords.
Channelling my heavy metal heroes like Boy George and Gary Glitter, I strummed away like my life depended on it – and, in a way, it did. Sweat poured down my brow and then, amidst the chaos, I saw a lithe, blonde figure moving towards me. A legendary guitarist with the voice of an angel had heard my siren call.
“OMG, it’s you,” I gasped. “Utah’s very own Jewel!” “Yes, it’s me,” the vixen cooed, flipping her strawberry blonde hair our of her eyes. “Utah’s very own Jewel!”
“Golly gosh, I listened to Pieces Of You on repeat whilst struggling with my identity as a youth. And even though your latter albums are widely regarded as derivative and bland, I tolerate them, too.” I paused, tears welling in my eyes. “Jewel Kilcher, I love you!”
The waif looked at me as if I’d stepped in something unpleasant.
“Uh, I’m Jewel Sanchez from the library,” she shrugged. “Your car’s getting towed.”
“Oh well,” I thought as I swaggered out of town towards the impound lot. “I always considered myself more of an urban hip-hop visionary, anyway.”
Let’s Get the Band Back Together!
Has Ready to Play awakened a carnal yearning for music that can only be satiated by visiting other big musical instruments? You’re in luck, because the Land of the Bigs is home to rhythmic roadside attractions to suit all tastes.
Moody, depressed admirers of grunge music can stare impassively at the mercurial Sonic Bloom in Seattle. For something with a little Latin flava, boogie across the border to Mexico City, where I’m sure you’ll find Monkey with Banjo to be Chimp-ly Irresistible!
More of a hillbilly cowpunk fan? Then the melodic village of Kin Kin in Queensland, Australia is home to a bulky set of banjos with expertly-tuned metal strings just begging to be plucked.
If your woman done left you and your dog done died, the country music mecca of Tamworth, Australia is home to the immense Big Golden Guitar. Continue south, into the heart of bumpkin country, to play a few licks on The Big Playable Guitar in Narrandera. Yeeee-haw!
And if your significant other keeps complaining about all the noise – I’m looking at you, Gordon! – waltz over to Newcastle to find some huge headphones to plonk atop your handsome head. You can even attach a Bluetooth speaker, so you can blast your music just as loud as you want.
Oh, and would you like a VIP experience with a massive rock star? Then you’ll dig Utah’s very own Big John the Big Miner.
Hopefully that list hit all the right notes – teehee!
Leave it to Beaver to create a couple of the cutest, cuddliest critters you’ve ever seen! The handsome rodents call the local Shell gas station home, and the good people of Beaver – an eccentric village nestled high in the Mineral Mountains of Southern Utah – are just as proud as punch of them.
Nicknamed Justin and Sigourney by besotted locals, The Big Beavers sit abreast a comfy bench overlooking the snow-capped ranges. Whittled from locally-sourced lumber and sporting a cheeky, comical charm, they make for the perfect photo op.
No wonder the town was named after them – just look at those chubby cheeks!
Whilst neither beaver is as large as their famous counterpart in Australia, they have inspired a merchandising empire. The gas station offers a range of beaver-related nik-naks such as magnets and caps, but is best known for one particular item – their patented ‘I ♥️ Beaver’ shirts.
The tees seem like the perfect keepsake from a memorable vacation to Beaver, but have a darker side. The slogan is actually a tasteless pun, serving as a putrid commentary on the female form.
Honestly guys, grow up. You have two of the loveliest Bigs outside your front door to revere and exploit, but you’d rather wallow in the gutter of puerile wordplay. Those disgraceful garments better be gone next time I mosey through Beaver, or there’ll be trouble – and you’d better beav-lieve that!
And then I saw her face. Now I’m a Big Beaver!
Unfortunately, this particular Shell gas station has been the subject of several unsavoury reviews over the years. Local tough guys are known to seek out clueless goobers at the bowser, claim that their tyres have deteriorated, then lead them to the mechanic workshop across the way for an outrageously-priced new set.
It’s an otter disgrace, really.
Bigs Bardot, your fearless guide through the Land of the Bigs, is not an easy target. So when a chubby chap in a Utah Tech sloppy joe trotted over with a big smile on his face whilst I was pumping gas, I didn’t hesitate in taking him down with a perfectly-executed kimura clutch (taught to me by the late, great Kimbo Slice during one of our many visits to the License Plate Guitar in St George).
Whilst that devastating maneuver was enough to disable the crook, Bigella took it upon herself to beat him really quite severely with her purse. Well, don’t get between a fiery Latina and a couple of oversized mammals!
Minutes later, whilst a shocked yet enthralled crowd cheered us on, the thug rolled over, sighed in agony and held up a pen and paper with trembling hands.
“Bigs, Bigs, I just wanted an autograph, my guy!” he spluttered through a maw of broken teeth. “I’m a huge fan of your website and admire you on a personal and professional level. I knew that if I waited here by The Big Beavers long enough, you’d eventually turn up. It took six long years, but it was worth it. You’re an inspiration!”
Turns out he was just another infatuated fan. Oh, how we laughed at the misunderstanding!
Unfortunately, I can’t post the photos we took with our new friend as they’re rather unsettling. But I hope you had a great day, Chester, and best of luck with the recovery. The next 18 months of intense and invasive physiotherapy will fly by!
An Un-beaver-lievable Fact!
Beaver is the birthplace of country ‘n’ western bad boy Butch Cassidy, and Philo Farnsworth, the chap who invented television. But nobody really cares about them because they’re completely overshadowed by The Big Beavers.
Dogs love chasing cars, but this pooch actually caught one. Of course, it helps that she’s 38 feet tall! Spot the Dalmatian is the pet project of roguish sculptor Donald Lipski, and can be found loyally guarding the Hassenfeld Children’s Hospital in Manhattan.
Playful, joyous and large enough to stand out amongst the chaos of the city, Spot’s not only man’s best friend – she’s man’s BIGGEST friend!
A remarkable example of urban roadside architecture that blends the comical with the hyperreal, Spot consists of a stainless steel frame covered by a rather fetching fiberglass dog body. Toyota donated a full-sized Prius taxicab to balance upon her snout and, whilst the engine has been removed, the headlights work when it’s dark and the wipers wave whimsically during inclement weather.
Donald, ever the altruist, designed the doggy to take the spotlight off the tribulations of the hospital’s young guests.
“It’s a privilege to be able to do this for the kids,” the artiste growled. “I wanted to make something so astounding it would distract even those arriving for the most serious procedures, and so loveable that young patients coming back again and again with chronic conditions would see it as an old friend.”
The local kiddies are probably begging for a broken leg or a case of the sniffles!
“I like to think that the parents, the doctors and nurses and staff, the neighbours, will all be smitten by this playful, heroic young dog doing the impossible,” Don yapped. “Art has actual healing power. That’s a fact!”
Proving that you can, indeed, teach an old dog new tricks, Donald saw this as an opportunity to spruce up an aging part of Manhattan. The massive mutt was adopted by the city in 2018 and given the humorous moniker of Spot, surely a commentary on the inhumane naming conventions of modern American pets.
Personally I would’ve called him Bark Obama, or named him after that famous New York pop artist, Andy War-howl!
Dog-tor, dog-tor, gimme the news I got a bad case of lovin’ you!
Laughter is the best medicine, but a two-and-a-half storey dog must be a pretty close runner-up. Fortunately, you don’t need to be sick to see Spot, just bound through the East Side of New York and you’re bound to spot her. But please consider printing off a map before you leave your hotel, as phone reception can be quite spotty – teehee!
When I visited Spot, she was wearing a mask – probably to ward off COVID canine-teen! She’s a good girl and very approachable, but there are a few ambulances around, so be patient. And remember, Dalmatians to the hospital are always welcome!
Oh, and if she’s not there when you visit, don’t bother putting up a giant lost dog sign, because Spot’s probably swanning about in the Meatpacking District!
Come on, these jokes surely deserve a round of a-paws!
There may be 101 Dalmatians, but there’s only one Spot. There are, however, many other Bigs around the Big Apple, such as Private Passage and Adam. Forget dining in Michelin-starred restaurants or taking in an acclaimed Broadway show when you’re in New York – do what your old friend Bigs Bardot did and spend all your time traipsing through the traffic in search of oversized architecture.
Of course, if Spot has you frothing at the mouth at the prospect of seeing more massive mongrels, you’re in luck. From The Big Golden Dog and Pat the Dog to Big Dog and Joaquin the Dog and California’s Yard Dog, the world really has gone to the dogs!
Hey Mr DJ, put a record on, I wanna dance with my puppy
As I worshipped at Spot’s prodigious paws, a pair of slender hands covered my eyes from behind, their owner struggling to suppress a giggle.
“Guess who,” came a syrupy, yet all-too-familiar voice. The hands were removed and I turned to see my close friend, beloved character actor DJ Qualls. You might know him as the skinny guy from the 2000 comedy classic Road Trip. I just know him as Deej.
We first met, quite appropriately, at a dog obedience school out in Calverton. Neither of us owned a dog, it was just a good way to meet people. And it worked, because it was puppy love at first sight.
“I certainly hope you’re here for the enormous Alsatian, and not for something more serious,” yelped Deej in his trademark southern cadence, and my heart broke as I saw genuine concern in his chocolatey eyes. He may be a renowned Hollywood hard man, but DJ Qualls does indeed have a softer side.
“He’s a Dalmatian,” I replied with an impish grin, drawing Deej to my bosom for a hug. “And I’ve never felt more alive.”
The details of our conversation shall accompany me to the grave but that afternoon, in the blooming shadow of Spot the Dalmatian, DJ Qualls and Bigs Bardot – two wandering souls thrust together by happenstance – explored life and love and the metaphysical realm that flows between us all.
And dogs. We talked a lot about dogs.
Hours later, Deej yawned one of his complex yawns, and looked from the yellow cab atop Spot’s nose to me with those eternal puppy dog eyes. “Well Bigs, I have a taxicab confession to make – I’m beat,” he uttered. “Hopefully we’ll run into each other beneath another Big Thing soon.” “I’m sure we will, Deej, I’m sure we will.”
We lingered in each other’s embrace for a sumptuous moment, then DJ Qualls scurried up Spot’s back and ripped open the taxi’s door. After one final sleepy grin, he climbed inside and curled up on the front seat, safe for the night.
Well, New York is notoriously expensive, even for a Hollywood heartthrob.
New Yorkers, I’m sad to say, are a pack of perverts. Adam here simply wants to live a peaceful, naturist lifestyle amidst the hustle and bustle of The Shops at Columbus Circle. With his robust physique and cheerful disposition, even his lack of genitallic girth can’t wipe the optimistic smile from his dial.
But it seems the locals can’t stop molesting him.
Adam, 15 feet of brawn and bravado, was created by the irrepressible Fernando Botero in 1990 and took up residence in The Big Apple in the early 2000s. He’s paired with the equally statuesque Eve but, ew, who would want to look at a gigantic naked woman? Especially one as bosomy as Eve.
Since Adam first came, so many sickos have rubbed, clutched and stroked his doodle that the bronze paint has been stripped away, leaving a shiny gold penis in its place.
Honestly, New Yorkers, act your age and not your shoe size!
Making things worse is the fact the Center’s management do nothing to stop this dispoliation of such a congenial Big. In fact, they encourage this foul behaviour, claiming that groping poor Adam might bring good luck.
I can assure you that anyone I catch giving Adam an unwanted hand shandy won’t be blessed with any good luck at all. They’ll find themselves sleeping with the fishes in the Hudson River, wearing a fancy new set of concrete slippers – so keep your hands to yourself.
The Man with the Golden Gun
My threats of ultraviolence towards those who interfere with Adam’s willy proving futile, I sought the advice of beloved New York thespian Paul Reubens, who I befriended whilst bussing tables together at the Dairy Queen in Yonkers back in the early-80s.
Nobody back then could’ve guessed that we would each reach the apex of our chosen careers – Paul as a quirky character actor and I as the world’s foremost expert on Big Things and roadside attractions.
Paul’s ballooning ego in the wake of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure had driven a wedge between us, of course, but we’d since rekindled our friendship during a bawdry soiree thrown by our mutual friend – and fellow Dairy Queen alumnus – Bronson Pinchot.
Oh, look at me, dropping names quicker than an upper-eastside lawyer drops her standards after her second cosmopolitan!
Paul had been ordered by a court of law to ‘keep his hand off it’ after a moment of madness in a movie theatre several years earlier, so I felt he was the man for the hand job.
Paul’s words, however, touched me in the most private parts of my soul.
“Bigs,” Paul said in his sweetly sanguine cadence, as we wandered down Fifth Avenue, munching on freshly-baked pretzels. “You can’t fight nature. Trying to stop the people of New York from abusing Adam’s appendage is as futile as asking the East River to stop flowing.”
“Wise words from a wise man. But surely there’s something we can do? Soon that remarkable man’s pee-pee shall be worn away to a nub. A nub!”
“Mauling Adam’s member is the one small sliver of hope and joy in these people’s lives. Without that, who knows what may transpire? Adam’s reproductive organs are, indeed, the thin gold line between tranquility and anarchy in this city.”
“You’re right, as always,” I squelched, biting into the pretzel’s piping hot flesh. “The very fate of New York rests betwixt Adam’s zaftig thighs.”
Pee-wee’s BIG Adventure
With the final, decadent inches of pretzel dangling precipitously from my gaping maw, I pushed my prejudices to one side and approached Botero’s husky masterpiece. The penis, resplendent in the fading afternoon light, beckoned me with its whimsy and candour.
I gulped, not noticing the pretzel fall to the marbled floor, and reached out for the famous phallus. Time stopped as I touched it for the first time. The cold, yet supple metal warmed my very essence, and a sense of peace washed over me that I had been seeking my whole life.
If touching a a blubbery bad boy’s golden gigglestick is dong, I don’t wanna be right!
To poke Adam’s pecker is, in fact, to live. To waggle Adam’s weenie is, in truth, to love. I learnt more about myself in that single moment of casual groping than I had in a lifetime of electroconvulsive therapy and substance abuse.
Taking me gently by the elbow, Paul flashed one of his trademark smiles. “I knew you would see the light,” he cooed. “Now, let me shout you to a movie to celebrate. There’s a cinema out at Uniondale that hasn’t banned me… yet.”
“Are you paying for the choc tops?”
“Of course, Bigs,” Paul smiled warmly. “Anything for you.”
A word of warning…
If you’re the sort of creepazoid who thinks you might be able to paint yourself bronze and stand next to Adam in the desperate hope that someone will accidentally fondle you instead, don’t bother.
All you’ll get is some really unfortunate remarks from New York’s brutish schoolkids and a swift beating from some overly aggressive security guards.
Ayy, I’m drinkin’ here! Grab a slice o’ pie and raise a zesty glass of cab sav as we toast Private Passage, a bottle of wine so massive it’s sure to arouse even the most grizzled New Yawker.
I’m your sommelier, the irrepressible Bigs von Bubbles; effervescent Upper East Side socialite, lifelong substance abuser, and self-indulgent wine snob. But then you already knew that, ya putz!
Private Passage is a truly bombastic vintage, carefully curated by Malcolm Cochran in the sun-dappled summer of 2005. Eminently approachable yet amply idiosyncratic across the tongue to demand introspective exploration, this most remarkable variety can only be experienced at the evergreen Hudson River Park.
The regal, almost clandestine shape of the bottle is emphasised by its rhapsodic proportions – measuring 30 feet from classy cork to bulbous bottom. Womanly curves are, at once, both sensual and functional, luring in the unsuspecting with an irresistible siren call.
Tapered edges and bold, zaftig angles create a sense of place and space, consummately connecting Private Passage to its Bohemian surroundings.
“I was able to work closely with the landscape architects,” Malcolm Cochran explained, “to site the bottle smack in the middle of the granite esplanade and without visible support to suggest impermanence. That it might have washed up or could float downstream into the Atlantic. Passage is intended both on a literal and figurative level.”
Or something like that. Hick!
Malcolm in the Middle (of a lot of Big Things)
For Monsieur Cochran, a proud Ohio man who has dedicated his life to fermenting oversized attractions, Private Passage presented an opportunity to return to the very womb of his cultural and artistic gestation.
“When considering this commission I knew I would want to explore my personal relationship to the Hudson River Park site,” the vionary wined. “In 1955 my father had a Fulbright to teach English in Helsinki. We sailed from New York to Europe that summer (I was six years old) and returned the following year on the Maasdaam, a Holland-American liner.
“The interviews for artists were held at the HRP Trust offices in Pier 40. I realized on entering the lobby that it was a former Holland-American Line terminal; I had disembarked in that building 45 years earlier.”
You truly were destined to birth this exquisite design, my friend. Just as it’s destined that I shall guzzle three bottles of Cab Franc this evening and then crash my Prius into a hot dog vendor’s cart over by 45th and 3rd. Hick!
You’re always on my wine
Those adventurous enough to peak betwixt the Bottle’s stately portholes shall be treated to an opulent representation of an interior stateroom from the legendary ocean liner, the Queen Mary. Fashioned from sheet metal in a monochromatic colour scheme, it’s sure to leave you dripping with nostalgic wonder.
“The cabin is outfitted for a single individual, and it contains no personal effects,” Malcolm pulpiteered. “I aimed to create the sense that the room was ready to be occupied, that the viewer could project her-or-himself into the space and imagine a solitary journey.”
Fearless yet considered, vibrant and complex, this carafe de vino is a truly sumptuous expression of purity and balance. A decadent experience across the palate with fine, quasi-baroque tannins, Private Passage provides the perfect accompaniment to a debaucherous platter of ocean-fresh shrimp and a visit to the nearby Spot the Dog statue.
With subtle hints of dark cherry, gooseberry and black olive, this most elegant of the Bigs boasts earthy nuances and a zesty bouquet of urine and hobo socks.
Yes, there are other varieties of Big Wine Bottles, such as those found in less civilized regions of the world, such as the comparatively ghastly Pokolbin and Rutherglen in Australia. But honesty, as a member of New York’s cultural elite, I’d rather slurp water from a dog bowl than be seen with swill like that that.
Whilst your common New Yorker, with his brash and braggadocious attitude, may bristle at the suggestion, I believe it’s time to distance this cultural hub from a nickname so boorish as The Big Apple. The Big Bottle of Full-Bodied Merlot Boasting Deep Purple Hues and Incandescent Memories of Nutmeg Complemented by Herbaceous Notes and Oaky Flavors, Quirky Textures and a Velveteen Finish sounds about right to me. Hick!
A word of caution
If a slightly overweight gentleman in a trench coat approaches you late at night and asks to see your private passage, don’t take him down to the docks for a historical tour of New York’s most unusual tourist attraction. That’s not what he’s after, and he’ll have little interest in an oversized wine bottle other than to use it as the backdrop for his sordid shenanigans.
Beg, borrow or peel, because the time is ripe to orange a visit to the sweet seaside village of Dania Beach, where The Big Orange is open all year rind. Squeeze be advised that this mandarin-credible roadside attraction can be found round the side of Alex’s Flamingo Groves & Gift Shop. Pre-pear for a bargain, as prices have been rejuiced!
You might find my jokes pith-etic, but pomelo out, dude. I reckon I’m hi-spherical!
Whilst The Big Orange offers a nice place to citrus and think, or maybe even get a suntan-gerine, the sense of neglectarine is pulpable. It really is a lime against humanity, because all this pipular tourist trap seeds is a little love. Hey, hey, don’t fruit the messenger and stop threatening me with valencia – I mean you no harmalade!
The Big Orange doesn’t quite measure up to Fort Lauderdale’s other Big Things, such as Thrive and Pegasus, but I probably shouldn’t manda-bring them up. Honestly, that would be like comparing apples and… well, some other sort of fruit.
Well that’s enough navel-gazing from me, so all the zest!
Fort you’d seen everything Lauderdale has to offer? Then allow Thrive to cement your decision to return to this tropical paradise. This 27-foot-tall bombshell, designed by delightful South African artiste Daniel Popper, can be found begging for attention on a dank street corner beneath an apartment block – but she’s certainly no street walker.
Well, she doesn’t have any legs, does she?
What Thrive does possess is supple lips, luxurious hair and perky bosoms, making her Flori-dang gorgeous. And whilst Thrive may have a heart of stone, she’s willing to lay it bare for anyone willing to peer inside her torn-asunder chest. Cripes, if all women were this open then perhaps some of us wouldn’t have grown up so confused.
Thrive is a remarkable example of urban art; an exquisitely-realised sculpture who brings life and wonder to an otherwise drab area of town. The city itself, impersonal and grey, seems to have taken human form in order to embrace those who live amongst its cold cement and senseless steel.
Impossible to ignore, it’s common to see an eclectic mix of tourists, office workers and street urchins ogling Thrive’s voluptuous physique . I even saw a local drunk trying to chat her up! Oh, my silly friend, don’t you know she’s asexual?
“In many ways it’s a symbol of hope and transformation which has been central to many people’s worlds during 2020,” ‘Poppy’ said of Thrive, whilst sadly misgendering her. “I hope they will continue to interact with it and enjoy it and that the message and feeling continues for many years to come.”
I’m not sure you’d be saying that if you witnessed the way the local drunk was trying to ‘interact’ with your masterpiece!
Sister Act
Thrive may seem like a unique butterfly, a paragon of unmatched magnificence and grace, but she does have twin sister. The hedonistic Ven a la Luz lives in the Mexican party mecca of Tulum, where she was installed by Poppy in 2018.
With her salacious wooden peritoneum and fiery Latina temperament, Ven a la Luz provides a natural and carefree counterpoint to Thrive’s modern-day sensibilities. The two look so similar but couldn’t have more disparate personalities – one sagacious and glamorous, the other passionate and free-spirited.
Despite their idiosyncrasies, I’d love to see Thrive and Ven head out on a double date with fellow legless giants Ernie and The Viking.
Well, where did you think baby Big Things come from?
‘Stayin’ with Thrive’ by the Bee Geez-She’s-Big!
Well, you can tell by the way Bigs walks I’m a concrete woman’s man, of her I talk Bosoms large and smile warm, she grows from the ground She is enorm And now it’s alright, it’s okay I guess if I’m love her I can’t be gay We can try to understand This Florida giant’s effect on man
Yeah I might be a brother with issues about my mother But I’m stayin’ with Thrive, stayin’ with Thrive The love we’re makin’ has my booty shakin’ And I’m layin’ with Thrive, layin’ with Thrive Ah, ha, ha, ha, playin’ with Thrive, playin’ with Thrive Ah, ha, ha, ha, I’m finally alive Oh, when you walk
Once upon a time there were three Biggie Goats Gruff, who lived inside a giant pineapple in the magical Kingdom of Australia. There was a handsome Biggy Goat Gruff, an even handsomer Biggie Goat Gruff, and a third Biggie Goat Gruff who was so super handsome that women – and even some of the more emotionally-resilient men – would weep at his feet as he swaggered past.
After months of daring exploits, the three Biggie Goats Gruff found themselves in the gleaming emerald city of Seattle. Wanting to meet their good chum, LGBTQI+ icon Vladimir Lenin in the whimsical village of Fremont, the Goats stood before the rickety old George Washington Memorial Bridge.
The untamed Lake Union churned and turned beneath them and, finally, the handsome Biggie Goat stepped cautiously onto the span. He’d taken but 73 steps when the bridge began to rattle and roll, and a terrifying voice rang out throughout the hills and valleys of the evergreen Pacific Northwest.
“Who’s that trying to cross my bridge?” the voice slurped. The handsome Biggie Goat Gruff peered over the edge to see an enormous, one-eyed goblin. By the Biggie Goat’s estimation he stood 18 ft (5.5 m) high, weighed 13,000 lb (5,900 kg), and was made of steel rebar, wire, and concrete.
“It’s just me, the ever-handsome Biggie Goat Bardot, Australia’s foremost expert on Big Things and associated oversized roadside attractions,” the dashing chap replied confidently.
“Hi Bigs, I’m the Fremont Troll,” beamed the beast, giving the Biggie Goat a fist bump. “I was sculpted by four talented local artists: Steve Badanes, Will Martin, Donna Walter, and Ross Whitehead. By the way, I adore your website and your quirky, individual fashion sense. Please, go ahead to Fremont and enjoy the plethora of unique exhibits. Make sure to say hi to The Undaunted Spirit for me, and remind him that we’re playing gin rummy on Thursday.”
“Shouldn’t you be playing bridge?”
“Oh, Bigs, you’re a delight!”
And so, with a spring in his step, the handsome Biggie Goat Gruff crossed the George Washington Bridge to enjoy the sights and sounds of exotic Fremont.
Trollin’ With The Homies
Seeing the handsome Biggie Goat Gruff frollicking through Fremont, the even handsomer Biggie Goat Gruff worked up the courage to cross the George Washington Memorial Bridge. With a cocksure swagger, he’d taken but 74 super masculine steps when a cacophony rang throughout the crisp afternoon.
“Who’s that trying to cross my bridge?” something mysterious growled. The handsomer took a gander over the edge to see a beast of unimaginable size and strength. In his hand was a genuine VW Beetle, which may or may not have been plucked from atop the bridge. What the Biggie Goat didn’t see was a time capsule, which he guessed had been stolen at some point in the past.
“It’s just me, the even handsomer Biggie Goat Bardot, Australia’s foremost expert on Big Things and national poodle grooming champion for the past three years,” the Biggie Goat replied charismatically.
“Because it had become overrun by drug addicts, prostitutes and other ne’er-do-wells?”
“Exactly, Bigs. You’re not addicted to anything, are you?”
“I’m only addicted to your kisses, my dear Troll.”
And so, with the daintiness of a Bulgarian gymnast, the handsomer Biggie Goat Gruff traversed the George Washington Bridge to revel in the glitz and glamour of fascinating Fremont.
It’s A Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna See the Troll)
With both of his amigos ensconced in the comforting bosom of the bohemian wonderland of Fremont, the handsomest of the Biggie Goats plucked up the fortitude to negotiate the George Washington Memorial Bridge.
With a grace belying his robust physique, he’d taken but 75 cat-like steps when the peaceful evening was shattered by enraged yodelling from the depths below.
“Who’s that trying to cross my bridge?” squirted the unseen ogre. The handsomest of the Biggie Goats adjusted his custom-made, prescription Havaianas sunglasses and peeked over the edge of the bridge to see a mythical creature with a gleaming eye and a smile that could melt the coldest heart. The Biggie Goat was hardly surprised by his appearance, as Trolls have been a large part of the local culture for almost a century.
“It’s just me, the handsomest Biggie Goat Bardot, Australia’s foremost expert on Big Things and former backup dancer for, and confidante of, music darling Guy Sebastian,” the Biggie Goat replied chaotically.
“Asalaam alaikum, Bigs, I’m the Fremont Troll,” came the cheery response. “Apologies for my egregious display of toxic masculinity, but I’ve been vandalised many times over the past three decades, and so have to be on my guard against delinquents, thugs and hooligans.”
“But can’t you just eat them, Fremont Troll?”
“Aw, shucks, no. I’m dating a yoga instructor and she’s got me on a vegan diet. I was sceptical at first, but the taste, texture and nutritional value of plant-based meat replacements have improved dramatically in the last few years, and I’m actually feeling healthier and happier than I have in years.”
“Fremont Troll, I’m not your yoga instructor girlfriend. You can be honest with me.”
“I ate three Korean tourists for breakfast!”
And with that, the handsomest of the Biggie Goats Gruff took the Fremont Troll by his enormous concrete hand, and they skipped across to bustling Fremont. There they enjoyed an assortment of craft beers and poke bowls with the other Goats and all the giant roadside attractions, including Vladimir Lenin, who looked exquisite in a corset and fishnet stockings.
Next time you’re in Seattle, make sure to catch The Mitt! At nine-foot-tall and 14-foot-wide, he’s very hand-some and stands outside the northern end zone of T-Mobile Park, home of the be-glove-d Mariners baseball squad. If you’re a sports lover, you should be dribbling in anticipation for this one!
Needing an icon for their new baseballing facility when it opened in 1999, the Mariners scrimmaged together the money for The Mitt. Local artist Gerry Tsutakawa wanted to create something playful and whimsical, perhaps to take fans’ minds off their team’s lack of success on the pitch.
“I’d seen so much art that was ‘do not touch’ — very beautiful but just to look at,” Gerry said of his slam dunk effort. “I wanted something people could embrace and enjoy and be part of.”
The Mitt has a hole in the middle so that Mariners fans – known as Seamen – can pop their happy little faces through for a photo. Oh yes, they’re pucky to have such a wonderful Big Thing right outside their coliseum, to go along with the Big Spider, Hat n’ Boots, Dreamer and Sonic Bloom in the vicinity.
It’s fair to say Gerry scored a touchdown with this one!
Mitts ‘n’ Giggles
Forever wanting to live like a local, I too lined up to poke my head through The Mitt’s gaping chasm for a snapshot. I even had my private photographer Tommy Emmanuel take some cheeky pics of me pretending to throw a few googlys out front of the stadium.
As I was winding up for another wild inswinger, I noticed a well-dressed gentleman of the African American persuasion watching me in awe. As one of the world’s leading historians on Big Things and roadside attractions, adoration is nothing new to me, so I waved the man over.
“Who should I make the autograph out to?” I asked, leaning in to scribble all over the man’s freshly pressed suit. To my surprise he didn’t seem welcoming of it, pushing me away gently yet firmly.
“The name’s Ken – Ken Griffey Jr,” he grinned. “And Bigs, unfortunately I’m not here to revel in your vast knowledge of oversized artworks. A few members of the team went out to the Paul McCartney concert last night and they’ve turned up a little the worse for wear.”
“Yes, I’ve seen that happen to Too Many People.”
“You could say the Band Gave them the Runs,” Ken Griffey Jr added, and I did my best to grin at his lamentable attempt at humour. “Anyway, hell of an arm on you, kid. Can you fill in for us today? The good people of Seattle will thank you for it.”
You’ve Gotta Be Mittin’ Me!
“Ken,” I sighed, drawing the sports legend closer. “Today I’m playing wicket keeper for the Seattle Mariners, tomorrow I’m the five-eigth for Manchester United. Honestly, Ken, where does it end?”
“Bigs, you might be a little confused,” Ken winced. It wasn’t the first time I’d been told such a thing. “I meant we’ve lost a few of our hot dog vendors, and you look like you can handle a foot long.”
“I don’t appreciate the potty humour, Ken, but I’ll take the job. And not just because of my growing gambling debts, but because millions of Seattleites need me.”
“Thanks, muscles,” Ken cheered, flashing me those pearly whites as he handed me my dirty apron and soiled cap. “With an attitude like that, maybe one day they’ll put up a statue of you outside the stadium.”
“Do you really think so, Ken?”
“I mean, they made a statue of me because I’m the greatest ball player of all time and an inspiration to tens of millions of people. People chant my name and have my face tattooed on their bodies. And I also own the team. But sure, squirting some ketchup on an undercooked sausage is an achievement, too. Now get in there and start tossing wieners.”
And that’s how the inimitable Bigs Bardot became a hot dog vendor for a mildly successful Major League Baseball team before dramatically quitting during the second innings of the Mariners versus Wildcats tie after facing a torrent of abuse regarding his frugal dispensing of mustard and theatrical, at times borderline-feminine demeanour.
Are you teddy for a good time? Then track down this snout-standing bronze bear, who is paws-ibly the hairiest, scariest, most delicious chap in Seattle. Trust me, you’ll fang me for it later!
Known as The Undaunted Spirit, the giant grizzly can be found outside the un-bear-lievably bargain-priced Brown Bear Car Wash. They boast centres across the hiber-nation, most with ultra-sized ursidaes out the front. I guess they just like panda-ing to bear lovers.
This ferocious fourteen-footer was created by local artist, horseman and naturist naturalist Lorenzo Ghiglieri. He fell in love with the rugged Washington landscape decades ago, and dedicated his life to recreating it through his art – often working bearfoot.
Never bear us apart!
This cute little cub has been on the lookout for a big, strong, handsome bear to growl old with. Upon meeting The Undaunted Spirit, I threw restraint out the window to bear my very soul to him. Sadly, despite being un-bear-ably handsome, this hirsute hunk can also be a little aloof, and rebuffed my advances. I guess he might be a bi-polar bear.
My visit to the Brown Bear wasn’t a complete waste, however. Not having a car to wash due to an international driving ban that American authorities take surprisingly seriously, I strolled through for a much-needed shower after weeks of wandering the highways of the United States.
Yes, I ended up with industrial strength bleach in my eyes and the bristles left several serious lacerations on my face and thorax that may never heal, but it was nice to chat with people afterwards without them wincing at my musky stench.
Fremont really does have anAn em-bear-assment of riches when it comes to Big Things. The Undaunted Spirit isn’t fur from the tendentious Lenin statue, and the Fremont Troll is also claws by. It seems like every street offers a kodiak moment!
Don’t know if words can say But Marlin I want to play With you in the endless turquoise sea But it isn’t meant to be ‘Cos you’re a work of wooden art And in the ocean you will fall apart
Oh Marlin’ I dream about you often my pretty Marlin’ (Marlin’ you’re so fine) I love the way you lure tourists into Ohana Island Creations Where they can buy wooden crustaceans
I feel like half a man Next to you, because you’re so grand Your pointy beak thing is really rad Sexiest fish I ever had Gonna love you every single night Until your owners hide you outta sight
Oh Marlin I dream about you often my pretty Marlin (Marlin you’re so fine) I love the way you’ve been painted purple and blue If I ever marry a sea creature it will be you
Woah oh oh oh Every night Marlin Gonna love you every single night, as you wish What’s the difference between a marlin and a swordfish?
Oh Marlin I dream about you often my pretty Marlin (Marlin you’re so fine) I love the feel of your wooden fins A kiss from you makes me forget all my sins
Oh!
Thanks to pop stalwarts The Beach Boys for inspiring this article with their ditty Darlin’.
Vladimir Lenin was responsible for the brutal slaughter of five million people, but this tribute to the deranged dictator is plenty of fun to take photos with, so I’m sure we can all look past that!
Yes, it’s unusual – although far from unheard of – to find a massive recreation of a cold-hearted killer, and the story of how he arrived in the liberal enclave of Fremont is absolutely bonkers. Honestly, if the real ‘Lenny’ turned up on The Masked Singer to perform a surprisingly spritzy rendition of We Don’t Talk About Bruno whilst dressed as a crab, it would be less odd than what’s already happened.
The Communist Party of Czechoslovakia (which was apparently a lot less fun than it sounds) commissioned the statue for $US210,000 in 1981, to be displayed in the grim city of Poprad as a warning to anyone flirting with the twin ideas of democracy and decent living standards.
Slovak artist Emil Venkov took more than seven years to complete his work – just in time for the fall of the republic, at which point Lenny was toppled by enraged locals and dragged through the streets. Hope you got paid up front, Emil!
“The way to crush the bourgeoisie is to grind them between the millstones of taxation and inflation”
Vladimir Lenin, Draft and Explanation of a Programme for the Social-Democratic Party
Coming to America
A quirky American named Lew Carpenter (no relation to the much-loved Neighbours character) found the statue in a Czech scrapyard sometime later, and was shocked but impressed to discover a homeless chap living inside. Lew grabbed a big stick and whacked the statue a few times and – rychle! – no more homeless chap.
Hopefully the hobo landed on his shoeless feet, because it’s so hard to find a good vanquished leader to live inside these days.
Lew Carpenter had grand plans to take the statue back to his hometown of Issaquah, Washington, to lure customers into his struggling ethnic restaurant, Crazy Lew’s Slav Shack. Sure, it would’ve been easier to offer two-for-one borscht on Tuesdays, but where’s the fun in that?
After years of legal wrangling, he finally received the go-ahead to transport the much-feared dictator to the Land of the Free. At a cost of $US80,000, Lenny was sliced into three pieces and shipped off via Rotterdam. Who knows why he had to stop off in The Netherlands; maybe Lenny just wanted one more reign of terror in Europe before heading into retirement.
Lew and Len, tragically, would never embrace again, with the rambunctious restaurateur driving his car off a cliff whilst practising his speech for the statue’s unveiling. Make that five million and one deaths for ol’ Vlad!
“Give me four years to teach the children and the seed I have sown will never be uprooted“
Vladimir Lenin, What the Friends of the People Are and How They Fight the Social-Democrats
Yankee Doodle Lenny
With the good people of Issaquah voting to ban the giant hate symbol from their town, Lew’s relatives decided to melt down the statue and have it resurrected as something more palatable. They didn’t, however, count on the owner of the foundry being a student of Marxist theory and a lifelong admirer of Vladimir Lenin.
Peter Bevis (don’t ask him where Butthead is!) refused to recreate the ending of Terminator 2: Judgment Day by dropping Lenny into a fiery pit of molten magma. He instead bothered the Fremont Chamber of Commerce into agreeing to put the statue on display until someone bought him. So now Vladimir Lenin hangs around outside a taco shop, engaging in illuminating conversation with the stoners who turn up at 2am.
With a bargain price of just $250,000, it’s a surprise nobody’s snapped Lenny up, considering the price of real estate in Seattle. You couldn’t even get a two-bedroom Leon Trotsky for that price!
“There she was just a-walkin’ down the street, singin’ ‘Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’. Snappin’ her fingers and shufflin’ her feet, singin’ ‘Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do’”
Vladimir Lenin, Once Again On The Trade Unions, The Current Situation and the Mistakes of Trotsky and Buhkarin
Vladimir Lenin: Gay Icon
In statue form, as in life, Lenny has proven to be a divisive figure. There are those who claim a statue of a deranged child murderer who brought widespread misery and mayhem has no place in a loving and accepting town such as Fremont.
Like their Czech cousins, they want to tear poor ol’ Len to pieces and drag him through the streets. Those people haven’t seen the kinder side of Mr Lenin, who is often seen sporting reindeer antlers, clown facepaint and flags of the local sporting franchises.
Lenny isn’t afraid to exhibit his feminine side by dressing in drag, and has been seen with an oversized penis protruding from his pants. If one of the most bloodthirsty demagogues the world has ever known can show his softer side, to lay himself bare to judgement, to become a beacon of hope in the LGBTQI+ community, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.
After a wide-ranging conversation that covered everything from the Bolshevik Revolution to the disappointing Queer Eye revival, Vladimir Lenin and I sat silently in the brooding Seattle evening. The last bus back to my hostel had long since left. The taco shop was slopping out its last scoop of guac. I yawned, Lenny yawned, and he peered down at me as if to say, “Go on. If a homeless man can sleep inside me, so can you.”
And that’s how I spent a surprisingly comfortable night inside Fremont’s divisive Vladimir Lenin statue.
Little Bigs Bardot Sat in a meadow On a lovely Seattle day There came a Big Spider, Who sat down beside her And frightened Bigs Bardot away
Seattle’s monumental Big Spider is a load of rubbish – and I mean that in the kindest way possible!
Your valiant reporter, the inimitable Bigs Bardot, was swaggering through the lively streets of Georgetown on my way to see Hat n’ Boots. Suddenly, shockingly, I was accosted by a terrifying creature. There, squatting upon one of the many well-maintained garages the area is famous for, was an arachnid of epic proportions.
The eight hairy legs! The dozens of beady eyes! The bloodthirsty fangs! The putrid beast clambered towards me, drool pouring from its monstrous maw. I squealed with panic and turned to run, only to find myself ensconced in the arms of a burly stranger.
“Relax,” he said calmly, “it’s not a real spider.” “It’s…not?” I asked timidly, burying my face in the stranger’s shirt. “No, it’s just an old Halloween prop I rescued from the trash.”
Who’s your Daddy Long Legs?
When I finally gathered the confidence to pluck myself from the Samaritan’s grip and take a closer look at the beastie, I realised he was right. The spider, despite being ferociously realistic and anatomically correct, wasn’t chasing me. He was nailed to the roof for the amusement of passersby.
This curious stranger sports an impish grin and a roguish disposition (the spider, that is, not the gentleman who owns him – although he is not without his rustic charms). A tsunami of lust washed over me, much as it did upon meeting this spider’s Aussie cousin, Itsy Bitsy. What can I say, I have a thing for creepy crawlies!
The spider’s owner went on to assure me that yes, he would be refurbishing the giant bug to return him to his former glory. There are even plans to turn the house into a horror attraction, thanks to dozens of other props he’s rescued over the years. He might even set up a website for the Spider.
Maybe they’ll have to rename the city ‘Se-aaaaagh it’s a spider-tle!
There once was a Big Thing named Dreamer Who was created by Patti Warashina She looked quite delish Admiring her fish Oh, what a positive demeanour!
On the corner of Westlake and Republican Dreamer tempts like no other can She’s 18 feet long And great at ping pong! With tootsies larger than those of a pelican
One day came a boy from Australia Whose hunt for Big Things was no failure Bardot was his name Large women his game With a song, he came, to regale her
When Dreamer didn’t react, there was panic Bigs’ behaviour became quite manic He screamed and he wept In a gutter he slept Then he remembered her ears are ceramic!
A visit to the World’s Largest Trophy Cup is always an awarding experience. The gleaming golden goblet rests atop Athletic Awards in downtown Seattle, and serves as a source of hope for this proud sporting city.
The shop has been around in one form or another since 1949, but it wasn’t until they lifted the prodigious prize in 1983 that business started booming. Since then, their cuppeth hath runneth over with succeth!
“My dad and I built that trophy,” enthused Monty Holmes, the amicable President of Athletic Awards, in a recent interview. “We wanted it to be a landmark. We had this crane that lifted it up. Channel 5, Channel 4, they were all here. We were all set and then Channel 7 comes up and says, ‘Oh we’re late, we missed it!’. And my dad said, ‘Oh we’ll take it back down and put it back up again!’”
I asked them to do the same thing when I turned up 39 years later, but they weren’t so accommodating. It pays to be part of the mainstream media, I suppose.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner!
Having struggled with polio in my youth, and later seeing a promising competitive hip hop career derailed by doping accusations, I’ve never actually won a trophy of my own. I even missed out on a participation trophy in Year 5 because the teacher said I was too eager when taking the stage to receive it.
Understandably, my encounter with the World’s largest Trophy Cup proved to be a rollercoaster of emotions – especially as I was already overcome with passion after visiting the nearby Dreamer and Sonic Bloom.
Blasting an a capella version of We Are The Champions by influential pop group Queen from a portable speaker, I pranced around as if I’d won both the Super Series and World Bowl before collapsing to the street in tears, as the dereliction of my life washed over me.
Why couldn’t I have been born with Ian Thorpe’s robust physique and popularity with the women? Why?!!
Eventually a rugged Seattleite leant out his apartment window and, in the no-nonsense style the city is renowned for, gave me the option of either shutting up or having the World’s Largest Trophy Cup permanently relocated somewhere very unpleasant indeed.
One question remains, however. When the World’s Largest Trophy Cup was officially declared the World’s Largest Trophy Cup, were its owners presented with that very same World’s Largest Trophy Cup to mark the occasion?
Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Macklemore. Seattle has produced some of the world’s greatest musical acts, so it’s no surprise that even their Big Things love to sing. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Sonic Bloom onto the stage!
Wander cautiously up to one of these 40-foot-tall flowers and he or she will regale you with a melodic ditty. Each of the five blossoms has a unique personality and distinctive sound so, if you have a few friends, it’s possible to create your very own poppy song.
Who knows, if you come up with a good pe-tune-ia, you might end up with a marigold record!
The installation was created by Dan Corson in 2013, and stands right next to the somewhat lesser-known Space Needle and just down the road from Dreamer and the World’s Largest Trophy Cup. Sonic Bloom is made from steel, fibreglass, custom photo voltaic cells (which certainly sound impressive), LEDs, sensors, an interactive sound system, energy data monitoring equipment, and a partridge in a pear tree.
“The project was conceived as a dynamic and educational focal piece that would extend the Science Center’s education outside of their buildings while engaging the public with an iconic artwork prompting curiosity and interactivity both during the day and night,” Señor Corson explains on his website.
“The title Sonic Bloom refers not only to our defining location on the Puget Sound, but also to the artwork itself, which sings as the public approaches each flower.”
Plus, the name Soundgarden was already taken.
I’ll never be your monkey wrench, Dave Grohl
After some unpleasantness at my hostel the previous evening, I was unable to convince my fellow travellers to form a floral five-piece for a visit to Sonic Bloom. Never one to be discouraged by the utter disdain of others, I rocked up alone, pushed some children out of the way, and put on an impromp-tulip concert.
Racing from flower to flower, I created an inspirational harmony that had hundreds of Seattleites snapping their fingers and grooving to the irresistible beat. Some even started to chrysanthe-hum along.
When I finally came up for air a handsome man with long, dark hair and a goatee sauntered over to shake my hand.
“Bigs, I’m a huge fan of your work,” he smiled. “I’m Dave.”
“Dave who works at the Big Mango in Bowen? I didn’t recognise you without your Mango costume and dyed orange hair. Did Meryl ever find her cat?”
“No, Dave Grohl from popular Seattle-based alternative rock group Foo Fighters. We’re looking for a new drummer and, after that wonderful performance, I’d like to offer you the position.”
Echoes, Silence, Patience and Really Big Flowers
Chuckling lightly to myself, I patted Dave on the back. It wasn’t the first time I’ve been asked to join a multi-platinum pop group, and it certainly won’t be the last.
“Well keep looking, Dave Grohl,” I told him. “Unless your next world tour stops exclusively at venues with oversized roadside attractions, I’ll have to decline.”
Dave Grohl buried his hands deep in his pockets and kicked at the verdant grass growing beneath the Space Needle. His little heart was breaking, but I didn’t want to string him along.
“I guess we could rearrange the schedule, swap out Madison Square Garden for the parking lot next to the World’s Largest Dinosaur…”
“I was trying to let you down gently, Dave Grohl.”
“Of course, of course,” Dave Grohl mumbled, turning away so that I couldn’t see the tears budding in his chocolatey eyes. “I guess I’ll see what Travis Barker’s up to.”
Sleepless in Seattle
Dave Grohl, a world famous rock star reduced to a boy in light of my rejection, shuffled away with his handsome head hanging low. Not seeing where he was going, he bumped into one of the massive flowers. Dave Grohl was immediately ensconced in its fluorescent glow and happy-go-lucky harmonies, bringing a welcome smile to his face. I joined in by bopping a nearby bloom.
Dave Grohl and I moved in unison, creating a sonic landscape that brought warmth to the coldest Seattle evening. Soon Layne Staley of hard rock group Alice in Chains swaggered over and joined in. Then Eddie Vedder.
Finally rap maestro Sir Mix-A-Lot jived over to provide the group with a much-needed ebony edge by becoming the fifth member. We rocked those flowers into the wee hours, until the burning sun crested the emerald hills of northern Washington.
When finally we finished, having brought about an age of peace and love through our music, Dave Grohl slung one powerful arm around my sweaty body and kissed my cheek.
“So does this mean…”
“Oh, give it a rest, Dave Grohl,” I huffed, pushing him away. “For the last time, I’m not joining your band!”
The picturesque Portland suburb of Fairview cutlery-cently welcomed an enormous fork that, at 37 feet from gleaming handle to quad-pronged bottom, is the very largest on Earth. Yes, Fairview has always been a knife town to visit, but now it’s the plates to be!
It’s even larger than Australia’s most massive forks, so just imagine the size of the potatoes you could skewer with it. Although I wouldn’t want to be tasked with doing the dishes afterwards!
Despite being truly colossal, the silver stunner has un-fork-tunately been relegated to the furthest reaches of the cutlery drawer that is East Portland, far from Harvey the Rabbit and Paul Bunyan.
Apparently there’s a food market next to it sometimes, with disappointingly normal-sized produce for sale. When I visited, however, the place was barren and windswept, with barely a dozen well-wishers admiring the Big Fork.
I guess the local council didn’t want to fork out for more expensive real estate.
A forks to be reckoned with
Why a fork, you ask? Over to you, eccentric local mayor, Brian Cooper!
“So, the fork came about because we wanted something on the corner, whether it was a water tower or a windmill or some sort of piece that’s going to be on the corner, and then one of the design teams said, let’s just put a fork here and we’ll come back to it,” Brian explained to an exasperated reporter from KATU-TV.
“Over the course of a couple months, it just kind of stuck in the brain. And you can come up with an entire marketing scheme of ‘Take a left at the fork,’ ‘The Fork in Fairview.’”
Fairview has done just that, rebranding themselves as Forktown, USA. Fork enthusiasts from across the globe descend on this charming suburb to worship their most beloved utensil.
They’re often pleasantly surprised to discover it’s larger than they’d imagined, which is always a pleasant experience.
“The stainless steel fork is actually 40 feet tall,” blabbered Ken Fehringer from P&C Construction, “but its four tines will pierce the ground by about three feet. The fork has a large F stamped into its handle. Whether that stands for food, fork, or Fairview is up to the beholder.”
If I was a lesser-mannered individual I’d suggest it stands for ‘F’n huge’, but I’m not crass so let’s just go with ‘fabulous’.
Taking the spring out of Springfield
As the good people of Fairview dance in the streets, basking in the glow of their record-busting scrap of metal, the warm-hearted forks – sorry, make that folks – of Springfield, Missouri have been plunged into a desolate depression from which they may never emerge.
Springfield, Missouri has dropped out of most lists of top 10 US holiday destinations. The direct flights from San Forkcisco, the Forkland Islands and New Fork City have been reduced to just four or five a week.
Even the gift shop is facing forklosure.
Their Fork, which once drew crowds so large they would stop traffic, is now surprisingly easy to take a photo with. If you do, suggest rolling up and pretending to be a meatball!
But that’s just the circle of life when it comes to oversized roadside attractions. They grow, capture the world’s imagination, then fade away into the background as the next Big Thing comes along.
My suggestion to the people of Springfield is that they build a really big spoon, just to stir things up!
Has anyone seen a giant, half-naked cowboy? No, no, I’m not looking for a date, I just want to let him know he left his Hat n’ Boots in a suburban park in Seattle, Washington. We’ve all been there before!
The cap-tivating Hat n’ Boots have become icons of the Emerald City, but look ridiculously out of place in the nascent Oxbow Park, just down the road from the Big Spider – and not just because of the surprising deft of cattle rearers in the area.
They absolutely dwarf the jungle gym and loom large over the nearby houses, and there’s barely enough lace – sorry, I mean space – for them at all. There is, of course, a fantabulous story behind how they ended up in this scrap of a playground
Way back in 1953, local oddball Buford ‘The Candyman’ Seals decided to build a western-themed shopping centre named Frontier Village by the freeway in the suburb of Georgetown. With visions of gunfights lighting up the Pacific Northwest, The Candyman wasted no time tapping fellow dreamer Lewis Nasmyth to design a centrepiece for this Cowpoke Disneyland.
It wasn’t Lew’s first rodeo and, fifteen minutes later, his masterpiece had been carefully sketched on the back of a napkin. A single, bright red cowboy hat would shelter a gas station, with two monstrous cowboy boots serving as public toilets. Wee-haw!
You’d think such an experience would bring these two visionaries together for life, but it wasn’t to be. Buford – a well-known blabbermouth – went a-head and told anyone who cared to listen that he’d designed the Hat ‘n’ Boots. Lewis, a man of honour and principle, never spoke to him again.
Hats off to you, Lew!
You can leave your hat on
The fedorable Big Hat would measure 19 feet high and 44 feet across, with Lew singlehandedly bending each of the 24 cantilevered beams. The cowboy boots were a true feet of modern engineering, with the weight of public expectation spurring Lew towards greatness.
One was 21.5 feet high, painted light blue, with room inside for cowgirls. The other, slightly taller at 24 feet and painted dark blue, was for the cowboys. Lew put his heart and sole into his work, spending hours manipulating the boots’ steel mesh structure so they’d look like John Wayne had just kicked them off.
Unfortunately the plumbing was quite poor, and the toilets often became clogged – ha!
The western-themed service station, known as Premium Tex, opened in 1954, bringing with it a stampede of hillbillies, bumpkins and slack-jawed yokels from the surrounding hills. There were several gas types to shoes from and, For A Few Dollars More, customers could buy a toaster as they filled up. Worth it for those who had the bread, I suppose.
Buford, a well-known spendthrift, declared bankruptcy sometime later and fled to San Diego. On the positive side, he no longer had to cope with getting the stinkeye from Lew Nasmyth every time he stepped out of the house.
These Boots were made for walkin’
Apart from a poorly-stocked supermarket, the rest of Frontier Village never came to be, and the gas station was later sold and renamed Hat n’ Boots. Personally I think it was a missed opportunity not to call it Pumps n’ Pumps, but anyway. When the centre a new freeway bypassed the station in the late-70s, the writing was on the wall – and, sadly, on the Hat n’ Boots, which were regular targets of vandalism.
The toilets closed in 1980 – although ne’er-do-wells would attempt to sneaker in late at night – and the gas station followed in 1988. The Hat n’ Boots fell into disrepair, as has happened to so many of our beautiful Big Things over the years, such as Harvey the Rabbit, the Big Prawn and the Big Pineapple.
But saddle up, pardner, because the epic tale of Hat n’ Boots is full to the brim with twists and turns that will bring you tears of joy.
Once Upon a Time in the Pacific Northwest
The good people of Georgetown were fiercely proud of their colossal cowboy clobber, and their downfall was mirrored by the fortunes of the suburb. There was nary a smile to be found, and it seemed like a dark cloud constantly cast the town in shadow. Oh wait, that’s just how it is in Seattle.
The locals wanted to restore the Hat n’ Boots to their former glory and thus kicked off a decade-long effort to save them. Led by self-confessed Big Thing tragic Allan Phillips and his beloved wife, La Dele Sines, the little people of Georgetown took their fight all the way to the big-wigs in City Hall.
Battling bureaucracy and the unbearable crush of progress, they refused to give up, often shutting down the city for months at a time in their quest to save these cultural icons. Which is, apparently, just how they do things in Seattle.
Finally, sanity prevailed, and the city sold the Hat n’ Boots to the good folk of Georgetown for the princely sum of $1. They were loaded onto a truck and sequestered four blocks to their current home in 2003. It took another seven years to complete the restoration process. Maybe if they spent less time flapping their tongues, and more time painting the Boots’ tongues, it wouldn’t have taken so long.
Lew Nasmyth, who still had samples of the Hat’s original paint scheme, oversaw the restoration… which led to one final Mexican standoff. Prosperity and positivity attracted bad guys like moths to a flame, including one conman who had seemingly left town for good many years earlier.
The Good, the Bad and the Buford
High noon hung over Seattle when Buford Seals pulled up in his shiny white limousine, stepped out in his garish snakeskin boots, and moseyed right on into Oxbow Park, the new home of Hat n’ Boots.
The menfolk gasped and scurried out of his way. Some of the womenfolk screamed; the others fainted right there on the spot. Buford Seals, his smile whiter and brighter than ever, dragged a darkness into this happy place.
Overhead, a single vulture circled hungrily.
“Alright folks, let’s make some money,” Buford enthused, rubbing his plump fingers together with glee. “I see a hotdog stand over here, only the hotdogs will have little cowboy hats on them. We’ll sell ’em for $15 a pop – the rubes won’t know what hit ’em! We’ll have to get rid of the playground to make room for the souvenir shop, and…”
“Buford,” Lew spat, breaking decades of silence as he stepped out of the shadows. “This family park featuring an oversized cowboy hat and matching cowboys boots ain’t big enough for the two of us.”
The good people of Georgetown crowded in behind Lew Nasmyth, supporting their fearless leader. Buford’s smile dropped as the townsfolk appeared from everywhere. They crowded atop the Boots in their dozens. Children and grannies and dogs were perched from the brim of the Hat. They stared in silent unison at the coward Buford Seals.
Somewhere, in the distance, a lone crow called through the silence.
They say that, when the wind blows just right past the Hat ‘n’ Boots, you can still hear the screams of Buford Seals as he was run out of Georgetown for good. He passed away, far from the Hat ‘n’ Boots, in 2008. His lifelong rival, Lew Nasmyth, swaggered off to the big filling station in the sky in 2016, a hero to the people of Seattle until the end.
For more than half a century, Harvey the Rabbit has brought love and laughter to the good people of West Portland. The quirky 25-foot-tall bunny stands merrily beside the Tualitin Valley Highway in scenic Aloha, offering a big wave and a warm grin to generations of Oregonians.
Most pass by, honk, and think no more of the brief encounter. But those brief moments are all that keep Harvey standing.
To spend time with Harvey – I mean really spend time with him – is to discover that this bunny’s smile is merely painted on. Behind the gaudy clothing and outrageous whiskers is a thoughtful, if deeply troubled, individual with a traumatic past and a poet’s soul.
Harvey’s been tortured, abused, abandoned, and felt the crushing weight of hatred and prejudice. He’s survived a brutal sexual assault that would bring most roadside attractions to their knees. Yet even as the world crumbles around him, Harvey, putting the happiness of those passing by before his own needs, keeps up the façade.
And now it’s time for the true horror of Harvey’s life to be cast into the Oregon sun.
“That man with the hat and the eyebrows has been dead a long time,” Harvey told me in an honest and wide-ranging interview. “Deep down, I always knew I was different from the other Big Friends. I’d look at my reflection in car windows and think, ‘Where are my pointy ears and fluffy tail? But it wasn’t easy to be yourself back in the 1960s. I was filled with inner turmoil. A tsunami of self-hatred raged within me.”
In 1962, the winds of change blew through Oregon. A massive storm brutalised the ‘old Harvey’ and sent him careening upon a journey of self-acceptance. The statue’s owner took his broken Big Thing to Harvey Marine for repair, leaving him with owner Ed Harvey as he stepped out for ‘a pack of cigarettes’.
He never returned.
“The storm broke my head in half,” Harvey lamented, ” but my father abandoning me broke my soul in half. I gave up on life for a while after that.”
Harvey lay amongst the verdant Portland grass for more than a decade, peeling in the sun, forgotten and neglected. The few bright spots in his mundane existence came when Ed would take him to a nearby lake to use him as a boat. Harvey, craving any kind of acknowledgement, simply went along with this deplorable act of emotional manipulation.
Man, I feel like a rabbit
During the free-lovin’ summer of 1974, Ed Harvey became obsessed with a movie about a giant invisible rabbit named Harvey and, late one night, decided to make his own. It was 1974, after all. Ed crafted a monstrous bunny-head out of fibreglass and plonked it atop the Big Friends’ broad shoulders, then erected him outside his shop.
The response was immediate, with thousands of fanatical supporters enthusiastically honking their horns as they drove past. Love letters poured in, and it was common for bouquets of roses and boxes of chocolates to be found at Harvey’s oversized feet.
Harvey, finally, seemed to have found the love he so craved.
“I waved at 10,000 motorists a day, and 10,000 motorists waved right back at me,” Harvey enthused. “People travelled from around the world to meet me. I had my photo taken with the Beatles, Muhammad Ali and Elvis Presley. I was even engaged to Farrah Fawcett for a few weeks, until she sobered up. It was good, man, it was good.”
There’s nothing bunny about what happened next
The good times, unfortunately, were short-lived. Harvey, as a trans-specied rabbit in a predominately white, heterosexual neighbourhood, was the target of disgusting bigotry. His fingers were broken off. His ears were stolen. And then the unthinkable happened.
During a cold, moonless evening in the mid-90s, a gang of depraved perverts descended upon Harvey. Not prone to prejudice, Harvey greeted them with his customary smile and wave, but the creeps wanted something more. They wanted Harvey’s innocence.
The particulars of this deranged encounter have, thankfully, been lost to the ravages of time. Harvey acknowledges that something happened but, understandably, does not want to relive the darkest period of his life. All we know is that when Ed arrived at work the next day, a grotesquely oversized phallus had been attached to poor Harvey.
Ed and his family were physically sickened by what they saw. Portland was shocked, with a slow procession of cars passing by to honk solemnly. Harvey, of course, went right on smiling as his whole world fell apart.
Down the rabbit hole
Harvey’s life spiralled out of control. He was used by the FBI as a meeting place for informers. He underwent extensive plastic surgery to radically alter his appearance, as if distancing himself from the lacerations of his past.
“With my physical limitations, I wasn’t able to look in a mirror – and I doubt there’s one big enough, anyway,” Harvey trembled. “But if I had been able to, I wouldn’t have liked what I saw. I wanted to erase any trace of my former self.”
Portlanders turned their attention to alternative rock and craft beer. The number of honks decreased into nothingness. Ed Harvey passed away in 2017, and Harvey Marine closed its doors for the final time. The giant rabbit was discarded once again. He now stands beside an empty building, promoting nothing, beaten by time and the relentless Oregon rain.
Despite the horror show of his life, Harvey is still an impressive specimen. He’s incredibly quirky and distinctive, and his size induces a real sense of awe – much like the nearby Paul Bunyan. The giant bunny’s a work of art by any definition, an icon, a part of the region’s rich history. He’s fun to take photos with, and as welcoming as any Big you’ll ever find. He can even be quite playful and cheeky if caught on the right day.
Just understand that this is one Big Thing who has been through hell and has the scars to prove it.
Don’t worry, be hoppy
Knowing our time together was coming to an end, Harvey and I stood in silent unison for the longest time. The only sound was the beating of our hearts and the occasional honk from a disinterested local. I tried to find the right words but, for once, they wouldn’t come.
“You know, Harvey,” I stumbled, “it’s going to get easier.” Harvey stood there in the mist, waved at a passing SUV, did his best to hide the single tear that rolled down his plump cheek. “No,” he replied sadly, “it won’t.”
I patted Harvey on his muscular calf, gave him a sad smile of understanding, and walked away forever.
As an admirer of all things Big and an ally of repressed minorities, I’m hesitant to present a roadside attraction that discriminates against those of us unable or unwilling to grow a full head of hair. My buzz cut is a fashion choice and I could boast a luxurious mane of amber curls at the click of a finger, but I stand in solidarity with my follicly-challenged chums.
But here it is – the World’s Tallest Barber Pole, a thorn in the blistered scalps of baldies everywhere.
Honestly, I hope my good friend The Rock never wanders into suburban Forest Grove. The sight of this 72-foot barber pole, which resides on the sporting grounds of the respectable Pacific University, taunting him and his handsome-yet-hairless head, would break his little heart.
Alright, so the World’s Tallest Barber Pole was built to honour the town’s proud history of producing world-class barbershop quartets, but that’s not the point. Why not create a 72-foot barbershop quartet? Or go one step further in the fight against bigotry, with a 72-foot-tall bald barbershop quartet?
As an added bonus, they could use their chrome domes as solar panels!
The World’s Tallest Barber Pole, sadly, also perpetuates negative stereotypes of barbershop quintets. If five-person a capella singing groups weren’t demonised, perhaps I wouldn’t have been unceremoniously dumped from hit Australian pop group Human Nature in the early ‘90s and replaced by Michael Tierney.
Yes, Michael’s super talented, kind, handsome, rhythmic and sexy. Maybe the good people of Forest Grove should just build a giant statue of Michael bloody Tierney and stop picking on bald people.
Meet Paul. He’s an outdoorsy, approachable fellow who enjoys artisanal pale ales, daring facial hair and the smell of fresh flannelette in the morning. Oh, and he’s also a 31-foot-tall giant who brandishes a monstrous axe with which to protect the good people of the Pacific North West.
All together now; “Hi, Paul!”
The mythical Mr Bunyan is a hero to people across America and Canada, and his lumberjacking exploits have entered the realm of folklore. Together with his offsider Babe the Blue Ox, the wondrous woodsman is said to have cleared entire regions of trees in the most deplorable of conditions.
I’m going to assume he doesn’t swap Christmas cards with too many environmentalists, then.
Paul’s hardworking attitude and no-nonsense fashion style epitomise this stunning part of the world, and no visit to Oregon’s emerald hills is complete without seeing this enormous tribute to the hirsute heartbreaker.
Paul’s a lumberjack and he’s OK
Not surprisingly, there are dozens of Paul Bunyan statues scattered around North America. Rest assured, however, that this depiction of the big fella really is Bun in a million.
The larger-than-life lumberjack was designed and installed by the Kenton Businessmen’s Club, taking pride of place in North Portland in 1959. He was unveiled to much fanfare as the centrepiece of Oregon’s centennial celebrations, and was apparently the subject of much attention from the port city’s single ladies.
This handsome chap can be intimidating due to his immense size, but he’s a warm-hearted individual who greets thousands of Oregonians with a cheery smile each morning. I must admit I was in awe when I first saw him from a distance, peering through Portland’s leafy avenues.
If there’s something strange in your neighborhood Who you gonna call? Paul Bunyan!
Portland’s in the grip of a disturbing rise in homelessness and crime at the moment, and sadly the area surrounding Paul can be a little dangerous. Be careful, because nothing ruins a date with a Big Thing like being violently robbed of your iPod Nano.
When an unkempt dude in torn jeans and a filthy band t-shirt – who was either a crack-addled lunatic or a tech startup millionaire, it’s hard to tell them apart – stumbled over to scream obscenities during my photo shoot with Paul, everything told me to flee in tears.
Instead I stood my ground, adjusted my scarlet tunic, and stared the fiend straight in the eyes.
“Babe, if you’ve got a problem with me, you’ve got a problem with him,” I purred, as my bearded bodyguard peered over my shoulder. The street urchin looked at Paul with such reverence, such child-like wonder, that I clasped him to my bosom and assured him everything would be alright.
Of course, when I swaggered off I realised he’d fleeced me of a crisp $20 bill and a collection of James Joyce short stories I’d been pretentiously reading in a coffee shop and had subsequently tucked safely in my back pocket.
Oh well, it was a small price to pay for the honour of meeting Paul Bunyan!
McLatchy Park, home to a happy-go-lucky turtle and a rag-tag selection of oversized fruit and junk food, seems like the happiest place on Earth. It’s hard to imagine that this tranquil slice of Californian suburbia was the site of one of history’s most tragic events.
Joyland Amusement Park opened to a flabbergasted public in 1913, boasting a giant racer, swimming baths, and a zoo. There was even a turtle named Howie, who provided much joy to the people of Sacramento until perishing from loneliness in early 1914.
Men, women and children would ride the streetcars to the park on Sac’s outskirts, looking to escape the crushing banality of a world before the Big Bike and Big Hands were around to amuse them. Then, in 1920, fire tore through the park, destroying the rides and wiping out many of the remaining animals.
Howie, it seems, had the best of it.
Guess who’s back, back again? Howie’s back, tell a friend!
The charred remains of the fair were purchased by a Mr Valentine McClatchy, who named it James McClatchy Park after his father. At the time of publishing, I’ve been unable to confirm whether the ‘Park’ bit is because it was a park, or whether his father was actually named James McClatchy-Park.
It was soon gifted to the city and turned into public recreation grounds. The current-day playground was installed a few years ago, with its design heavily inspired by history. The slide looks like a rollercoaster, there’s a huge box of popcorn… and there’s even a turtle.
A century since his passing, Howie is back to charm and enthral the people of Sacramento with his cheeky grin and oddball personality. Though slightly smaller than his Aussie cousin Colin, this turtle has won the hearts of a new generation of thrillseekers.
And the best news is that this is one turtle unlikely to die of depression, because children (and grown men who act like children) are constantly climbing on him. McLatchy Park is, finally, the very happiest place on Earth once more.
Kamehameha the Great united the warring islands of Hawaii in 1810, bringing a new age of peace and prosperity to this tropical paradise.
The inimitable Bigs Bardot united the world’s Big Things and roadside attractions under one website in 2021, bringing love and happiness and greater awareness of roadside attractions to every corner of the world (yes, even Нады́м, Россия – did you think I forgot about you, Yevgeny?).
Finally, in an event celebrated from Hilo to Honolulu, these icons met. Two kings, separated by centuries, ruling over their subordinates with brutal yet mostly fair fists.
Hail to the King, baby
The 14-foot-tall tribute to the Great One lives in the well-presented Wailoa River State Park, and is one of four similar statues scattered throughout the United States. There’s one in Honolulu, another in Kohala, and a third all the way over in Washington, DC. I certainly hope that one’s got a jumper!
This version, just outside Hilo’s quirky downtown is, however, by far the tallest – and boasts a most peculiar history. He was sculpted in Vicenza, Italy, way back in 1963, but wasn’t erected until 1997. The nearby isle of Kaua’i was intended to be his forever home but, astonishingly, the locals violently protested his arrival as the real-life King had never actually conquered their home.
I suppose, sadly, xenophobia is alive and well in Kaua’i.
But this tale has a happy ending. The statue was handed over to the the people of the Big Island of Hawai’i, the real King’s home. He was carefully placed in front of the splendid Wailoa fish pond, where Kamehameha had often fished for ‘ono and diligently perfected his hip hop dance manoeuvres.
When much-loved Sacramentonian cyclist Andy Yokoyama joined the big peloton in the sky in 2012, his death took the air out of the city’s tyres.
But instead of spinning their wheels in mourning, the community jumped back in the saddle to create a fitting tribute to the bikable fellow. The result is A Life’s Ride, an astonishing piece from local artist Terrance Martin that’s chained up near Sac’s famous Tower Bridge.
The titanic two-wheeler doubles as a bench, making it the perfect spot to not only reflect upon Andy’s inspirational existence, but to also watch the seals play merrily in the glistening Sacramento River. If you’re lucky, you might even see some homeless men have a knife fight.
Andy’s widow, Cathy, enjoys recycling just as much as he enjoyed cycling, and insisted the monument be crafted from materials found on her hubby’s farm. Thankfully that didn’t mean building it from wilting zucchinis and Brussels sprouts, with two-thirds of A Life’s Ride comprised from old tractor wheels and other bits and pieces her beloved once worked with.
“We asked Terry to use parts from the farm, if he was good with that idea,” Cath enthused. “He was!”
Isn’t it heartwarming to see everyone working in tandem!
The Ride of Your Life
It was Andy’s long-time friend and official spokesperson for the project, Carol Davis, who really set the wheels in motion. Not only was she the one who had to wheel with city council to allow the tribute to be parked on public property, she also approached the artist to gauge his interest.
“We told Terry we wanted a bench,” Cathy velodromed on. “Carol had seen his benches at the Sacramento Zoo [and probably a turtle]. We were thinking of the form of a bicycle because Andy really enjoyed biking.”
Señor Martin, surely inspired by similar prodigious pushies in Sydney and Lac d’Annecy, was only too happy to help.
“I want to do stuff that makes people walk up and smile,” Terrance told a star-struck journalist, and it seems like he wasn’t pedalling lies. “The next thing they’re going to start doing is talk to the person standing right next to them.”
Tragically the bike has been a regular target of vandalism over the years, with the dregs of society seeing it as a canvas in their futile battle against ‘the man’. Honestly, why not take the advice of the nearby Peace statue?
During my visit I encountered a gang of heavily-tattooed tough guys drawing crude depictions of genitalia on the bike. They simply didn’t get the significance of A Life’s Ride.
Filled with rage I stormed over to teach them a lesson they wouldn’t soon forget. When they pulled a gun on me I simply complimented their artistic vision and rode off into the sunset.
Yes, the rumours are true! Your friend Bigs Bardot has been seen swanning around Waikiki in the arms of a larger lady.
This big, beautiful woman represents the storytellers and traditional keepers of Hawaii’s rich, diverse, exotic culture. I’m Australia’s leading historian on giant bits of fruit and animals the size of houses, so it’s no wonder we got along!
The Storyteller, also known as Ha’i Mo’olelo, was lovingly birthed by living treasure Shige Yamada. He’s the wunderkind responsible for the nearby Water Giver statue. After visiting both statues you should have experienced enough Polynesian culture to placate your guilt from lazing about by the pool drinking Mai Tais on their stolen land.
Having never known my real mother and receiving only the basest physical contact as required by law from my litany of foster parents, it was enlightening – and also deeply distressing – to discover how safe and secure it feels to be clutched betwixt someone’s arms.
Still, I fell madly in love with this giant Hawaiian woman – which I suppose makes me Polyamorous!
Give peace a chance… or should that be give peace a HANDS. This massive set of mitts was created by the ever-talented Stephen Kaltenbach, and can be found right near the State Capitol in downtown Sac.
When the world needed a hero, Steve was there to lend a hand, knuckling down to bring Sacramentonians a message of glove and harmony. The results, as you can see, are simply irre-wrist-ible.
Thumbing his nose at bigots, haters and other ne’er-do-wells, Steve hopes his statue – known simply as Peace – will teach us to hold each other a little tighter, regardless of race, gender, sexual orientation or the fact they’ve decided to dedicate their life to tracking down Big Things, rather than getting a job and a girlfriend and moving out of the spare bedroom. Do you hear that, Mum?
Peace brought a new era of goodwill to Sacramento – and the United States as a whole – in 2006, and was soon joined by A Life’s Ride. The piece was surely inspired by another influential set of digits, La Mano in Punta del Este. Steve, however, palms off comments his work is a copy.
Steve’s also responsible for a woman’s severed head just up the road. Of course I mean a statue of a woman’s severed head – known as Matter Contemplates Spirit. As far as I’m aware he’s never decapitated anyone, male, female or other.
I can’t shake the feeling that, no matter what he tries his hand at, Steve makes a real fist of it!
Many a tourist has left their heart in San Francisco, so of course there’s a Big Thing dedicated to love and romance right next to the Bay Bridge.
Created by lovers Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen in 2002 and measuring an un-bow-lievable 18 metres from tip to amorous tip, Cupid’s Span quickly surpassed the Golden Gate Bridge as the bay city’s most photographed landmark.
It’s common to see clusters of curious Korean tourists quivering with excitement as they pose in front of the monument. It’s said that anyone who touches the arrow will soon find their bow-loved – or at least some no-strings-attached fun.
Cupid’s massive tool was made from fibreglass and steel for an undisclosed cost – so I assume it was quite ex-span-sive. According to the artists, the tip of the projectile plunges into the fertile Californian soil to defunctionalise the weapon, positioning it as a symbol of peace and hope.
If you don’t understand Claes and Cass, then you need to stop being so arrow-minded!
Cupid is as Cupid does
A visit to Cupid’s Span elicits memories of a slightly smaller, yet no less beloved, bow and arrow set in another of the world’s most popular tourist destinations, Lake Cathie. Yet those responsible want to point out theirs is no nock-off.
Yes, that might sound like a load of bullseye, but let’s go with it.
Sadly, Cupid’s arrow didn’t fly straight for me during my trip to San Fran, with my date with Yahoo programming wunderkind/Starbucks barista Devon failing to yield the lifelong love and companionship I yearn for.
Still, the clam chowder was delightful and the disco I attended in the Castro afterwards taught me several valuable life lessons that I’ll be discussing with my therapist for years.
Aloha, and greetings from the tropical wonderland of Hawai’i. Millions of people travel to this Pacific paradise for the golden beaches, bottomless drinks and topless women. But the most popular reason for visiting this alluring archipelago is the assortment of Big Things, with the Water Giver at the top of the list.
Just look at his rippling muscles, square jaw and G-string that leaves little to the imagination. This hunky Hawai’ian surely has the Waikiki to your heart!
Don’t be surprised if you fail to match with him on Tinder, though. Word has it this sensitive new age water giver has shacked up with the nearby Storyteller.
Officially known as the Gift of Water, this fine fellow lives outside the Hawai’i Convention Center. He was created by local artist Shige Yamada in 1997 to say thank you to the native people of the area for being so generous to the many newcomers.
Personally I feel like the natives would’ve preferred that their island paradise wasn’t trashed, polluted and overpopulated by foreigners in the first place. But I guess a huge statue of a semi-naked hunk with a bum that makes you say, ‘Oahu!’ is a pretty good consolation prize!
Sittin’ in the San Fran sun The Crab’ll be snippin’ when the evenin’ comes Watching Bigs Bardot roll in Then he’ll make an excuse and scuttle away forever, yeah
I’m sittin’ with the Crab for the day Wondering which way he sways, ooh Because it’s scientifically proven crabs can be gay Crustacean time!
I left my home in Gosford Headed for the Frisco Bay ‘Cause I’ve had everythin’ to live for As there’s a Big Thing to visit every day
So I’m just gon’ sit with the Crab for the day Watchin’ the way his his cephalothorax sways, ooh Shopping at the The Wharf Store is a good way to save Crustacean time!
My obsession with the Big Crab may seem strange But trust me when I say I am sane I want him to pinch my bum even when I say not to But he doesn’t want to play that game, no
The poor ol’ Big Crab has no bones Without him I fear I’ll die alone, listen I’m 20,000 miles from home Kissing a crab statue highlighted in chrome
Now I’m just gon’ sit with my beloved Crab for a day Until he inevitably scurries away, ooh yeah Why will nobody I love stay My whole life has been a waste of time
