Dane, Benson and the Train of Death

I was watching the Dane Cook “Rough Around the Edges” special on Comedy Central the other night (I assure you, there was absolutely nothing else on) and the first thing I want to say is: Dane, buddy, I know you’ve been at this standup thing for a few years, so you should know better by now—when your comedy special airs on basic cable, it might be a good idea to make sure they don’t have to bleep every other word out of your mouth. Kinda makes it hard to appreciate the gentle comedy.

But here’s the good thing about the show: Dane’s opening bit was about a place in New Hampshire called “Benson’s Animal Farm.” Now, for any of you who didn’t grow up in New England, I’m sure that reference is lost completely on you. In fact it might even be lost on some of you who did grow up in the area. Benson’s was my very first amusement park experience. Well, I think “amusement park” is a tad too grandiose a description for the place, which was really little more than a glorified fairgrounds with cheesy midway rides and a sad little zoo thrown in for good measure. But what did I know about quality entertainment when I was all of three years old?

I don’t remember much about that day at Benson’s Animal Farm save for two things. First, I remember thinking (seriously, no joke) that it must have been Robert Guillaume’s day off. But the more important memory—Benson’s was also my very first experience on a roller coaster.

Though again, “roller coaster” is perhaps a wee bit too generous. I mean sure, it was an open-air train on a track that went up an incline and coasted down at an increased rate of speed, except the total distance traveled was little more than three hundred feet at best. The fact that they let me ride it at three-years-old gives you some idea of the G-forces it was pulling. It was intended to be just a bit of low level amusement for kids and their parents, much like the rest of the park. But that didn’t stop me from screaming my head off the entire time.

It wasn’t the speed that got me. I knew perfectly well what I was getting myself into in that arena. And I remember being really excited when I got onto the roller coaster with my mom. We sat right up front so I could see and experience everything. The ride started and we climbed the ramp, crested over the top and started down. And so I started screaming. A happy little scream at first, simply because I knew that’s what you were supposed to do on a roller coaster. But that all changed as we approached the bottom at maximum speed. You see, the builders must have realized just how lame their ride was, and so as an added gag they stuck a mini section of track onto the bottom of the hill which shot out a few feet and abruptly ended. Ha ha funny, it looks like we’re going to fly off the track!

Yeah, I didn’t get the joke. As our car rushed toward the “end” of the line, and the potential end of my life, my innocent little scream turned into pure, unadulterated terror. Holy god, we’re going to die! The train, of course, veered to the side at the last second and we hurtled in a small circle over a couple bumps and around a few curves before coming to rest at the bottom of the incline. I managed to calm down almost immediately, even as the train started back up the hill (the circuit was so stinking short they had to send us around several times just to make it worth the effort of a line). The train crested the hill again and started down. Once again I saw that small chunk of track terminating into thin air and I howled, tears streaming from my eyes, certain I was about to plummet to my death. But at the last second the train swerved and we were safe. By the third, fourth and fifth time around, you’d think I would have picked up on the pattern, if not the humor in it. But at the age of three, I was not what one might call a “logical positivist.” Just because the sun had risen every day since the beginning of time did not mean that I would not die a horrible painful death as hard jagged metal sheered through the soft tissue of my body. So I screamed and cried and screamed some more until the thoroughly evil man finally stopped the ride and let us off. I’m pretty sure I got ice cream out of the ordeal so it wasn’t all bad.

Benson’s closed it’s gates in the mid-80’s and has become something of a mini-ghost town. After watching Dane Cook’s oft-bleeped routine, I’m suddenly rather curious to take a stop back at the old ‘Farm and see if the memories of my first palpable fear of death come shrieking back to me. Jeez, do any of you really wonder that I’m such a neurotic mess?