Skateland

Skateland

Estherville, IA

Reviewed April 8th, 2008

Did you know that the color of Skateland's skate floor is orange? Did you know that if you fall forward with your arms extending, your arms will break? Did you know that drinking glowstick fluid is, "totally nontoxic but will make you go to the bathroom for a week," so "lets keep all glow sticks out of our mouths?"

That's exactly what I thought. These "fun facts" were verbalized by the drill sergeant/ owner of Skateland, who proceeded to disseminate this and other bizarre "information" to a captive audience of a few dozen Iowejan children loudly and without a trace of humor.

The Skatehag also informed the children about numerous ways in which various limbs could be broken or the many objects which will cause them to choke to death, lose eyeballs or spontaneously exfoliate while rollarskating.

In between blowing a shrill, phys-ed teacher whistle and demanding that people spit out their gum, stop twirling glowsticks or take off their hats the Skatehag sat in a booth that resembled a shag carpeted, disco throne. There she sat perched, Skatezilla Queen of the Damned, lording over her dimly lit, orange hued kingdom, overseeing her various trolls, minions all of whom were her own spawn, whilst chainsmoking nasty cigarettes that were probably purchased at the downtown Estherville Kum N' Go.

If that ain't happiness, I know not what is.

We went to Skateland to help celebrate the birthdays of my little nieces. However, throughout our four hour afternoon, it appeared that the higher purpose was the showcasing of the Skatehag's cult-like family, her mind-controlled children and their various and sundry talents. During a "backwards skate" I did my dutiful best to make an entire lap around the skating rink, inching my backend forward, my butt thrust out tentative, asymmetrical, off balance while my left and right feet wobbled away in different directions. Twice I landed hard on my tush to the sound of blasting gangsta rap while more able bodied five-year-olds zoomed by. At the conclusion of my lap, I decided that I would use the notes from my sojourn to write a travelogue titled "Around the Rink In Eighty Days." Picking myself up, I exited the rink under the watchful glare of the Skatehag, who then got on the PA system to declare, "okay, we're going to do another backwards skate but this time only serious skaters please!" Of course, at that point, the Children of Skateland had the floor to themselves while all the other tots, old men and Iowejans limped lamely off the day-glo orange floor, shamed and humiliated by their lost and lacking coordination.

On numerous other occasions, the Skatehag's daughters could be seen in the middle of the rink, their glazed over expressions belying a lack of free will. There they performed interpretive dance moves like 1970's go-go chicks, demonstrating the effects of ABBA, LSD and Laffy Taffy. "What are they doing?" I heard several people ask. "Are they having seizures? Should we get help?"

I think whatever they were doing, choice had nothing to do with it. I could almost hear the inner thoughts of the Skatehag. "Dance my little monkeys, dance! I command you!" Toward the end of the afternoon, I half expected to see a hidden backdoor with heavy warning signs on it leading to a chamber where vats of fetuses were floating in giant tanks like human-sized sea monkeys, waiting to emerge from their nutrient rich pools of luminescent orange goo, to take wobbly, baby-gazelle-like strides on limbs that end in rollarskates instead of feet. "Mamaaaaa!" they all moan in unison like zombies, until they burst forth onto the rink seeking to feed on the brains and spinal tissues of the unwary, hyperactive, ruddy tots, the unsuspecting poodle haired moms and their listless, fart-happy husbands. "Say? Oh? Come again?" are the final words exiting damned, parting lips of the bib overalled farmers trying to get off one last sody pop belch before forcibly entering a void even deeper, blacker and more remote than the Southern Minnesota/ Northern Iowa border region.

The restrooms are an extension of the experience here. The women's was void of amenities and the men's smelled like the result of hundreds of newly potty trained tots with terrible aim. Piss mingled with concrete has a very distinctive odor. Oftentimes it is encountered at highway rest stops or crumbling park and rec bathrooms in remote, abandoned looking county parks. Here, one has the privilege of gliding gracelessly on wheels through pee puddles into piss stained walls. It is not a privilege that I took lightly. Everything in the men's was tot-sized, and the sole toilet was separated from the tiny, egg shaped urinals by a bomb-proof, doorless concrete barrier. I find white a strange color choice for such a place, where the corrosive effects of splashback is an ever present threat to even the highest rated enamel latex paint products.

Skateland is adjacent by a block or two from a National Guard Armory, but gazing over the barbed wire perimeter at the few green trucks and jeeps I did not see any vehicle or weapon large enough to put Skateland out of its misery. So for now, the story of Skateland and its hill dweller refugees will continue forward, until the gene pool evaporates entirely, like a piss puddle in a dirty diaper laying at the edge of highway 15 on the hottest day of deepest summer.

- Justin Teerlinck

RESTROOM RATING: 3
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