It's like a theme zone from TriadCity: Wild West KitschLand, where the animals are all Jackalopes and the art is all 3D.
The worst is the restaurant, where frozen julienne carrots are served authentically boiled then left to become cold.
I'm acutely conscious of my elitism. Many, many, many American love this place. They do: the parking lot is packed with vehicles from every state. My Arkansas grandmother, who boils vegetables till soggy then serves them cold, would love this place. This experience was designed for her. It hasn't caught up yet with the fact that tastes on the coasts have become more sophisticated over the decades.
This is part of the origin of the GOP's success recruiting working class people in the so-called red states. They see us as snobs, and, they're right. We see them as backward, and we're right about that, too.
In the restaurant I burst into grins as a retired woman with a broad New York accent says, "This is the worst meatloaf I've ever had." We bond over this-is-a-terrible-dinner jokes. For the rest of the evening she's my bud, as we bump into each other in the Wild West Trading Post, the Wild West Photo Parlor, the Wild Rest Tour of the Canyon ticket counter, the Wild West Hard Liquor emporium, and finally the Wild West Parking Lot, where there are not one but two covered wagons.