Corndogs are usually self-explanatory. This was not the case in the Snohomish Fred Meyer, where my reaction upon looking at the corndog I had purchased for 79 cents was, “What in the f*** is this?”

With my photographer Thomas Huston and my editor Lorraine Keeler, I had voyaged out to Snohomish with the sole purpose of witnessing a magic show. The show was to take place in a pizza parlor called Alfy’s, which was located on the left side of the main — only? — road that runs through Snohomish, Avenue D.

“My god,” I remarked as we passed by a massive warm-storage facility, “How can anyone live here?”

Worried about arriving in time, we wound up arriving an hour too soon. An hour was longer than any of us wished to spend without purpose in Snohomish, a town that exists without purpose. Realizing that we had time to spare, we decided to order a pizza at Alfy’s. But when we went in to this dark, dingy parlor and saw the pizza they served, we changed our minds. It was greasy, starchy, over-cheesy, undercooked and not dissimilar to something that might come out of the oven at Pizza Hut, although Pizza Hut doesn’t charge 14 dollars for a small pizza. Aghast, we exited Alfy’s, vowing never to return until we could see George A. Magician perform his show, following which we would absolutely never return.

In Snohomish, time passes slower than everywhere else. It is a place that is on the way to nowhere. Unsure of what to do, we drove around aimlessly. Only vehicular traffic passed along Avenue D. The sidewalks were bare, the drivers obese. From the road we could see strip malls, dilapidated houses, trailer parks, political signs for Republican candidates, fast food restaurants, a solitary high school around which all activity in the town revolves — Gooooooo Pan-thers! — an electrical changing station, overflowing dumpsters, rat traps, swampy badlands, unfinished construction projects, derelict apartment complexes, and a motel that looked like a place where people go to drink themselves to death.

“Look at this!” I said as we pulled into a place called Snohomish Station. “This is where the action’s at in Snohomish.”

Snohomish Station is a newfangled shopping plaza that consists of Fred Meyer, The Home Depot, a Laundromat, Subway, Quizno’s, Starbucks, a teriyaki place, and a sit-down burger joint. Inside Fred Meyer, I pointed at individuals I suspected were residents of Snohomish, while Thomas snapped photos and Lorraine clicked her tongue at me, pretending she didn’t know us. I judged them by general demeanor: the more depressed they seemed, the likelier they were to reside here.

In our attempt to find food, I saw a local woman sitting by herself in the dining area of the Fred Meyer deli dipping her corndog into a sickening quagmire of macaroni and cheese. Horrified, I decided that I would try this meal for myself. I sat there clogging my gastrointestinal tract with cheesy glop and processed pork, sobbing harder with each bite.

“Oh god, what have I become?” I cried.

Thomas informed me that it was nearly time for the magic show to begin. We purchased a delicious-looking frozen pizza from Fred Meyer, and went on our way. We entered the pizza parlor and I went to the front counter to ask two things: had George Magician arrived, and would they be so kind as to heat up this frozen pizza for us?

Magician was performing in the Panther Room, named after the high school football team. (A nearby burger joint is the self-proclaimed “Home of the Panther Burger” and the ice cream parlor serves a flavor called Panther Chunk Fudge. Also, there is a Panther Delicatessen, Panther Automobile Repair, Panther Square, Panther Bait & Tackle and Panther Public Restrooms.) Inside the Panther Room, a birthday party was underway for a 10-year-old girl named Marcy. Magician was setting up for his show when we introduced ourselves. “Great, great,” said Magician, distractedly looking around the room. “Go ahead, grab some chairs, grab a seat, make yourselves at home. Feel free to help yourself, there’s some water, pizza, presents, cake.”

He gestured to the table next to him which held the pizza that had been paid for by the birthday girl’s parents, who were also paying Magician to perform at their daughter’s party, and had not been informed that three teenage Seattleites would also be attending. Every parent in the room was staring at us with a mixture of confusion and distrust.

“What are we doing here?” Lorraine kept whispering loudly to me. “We were not invited to this. We should not be here.”

A parent behind us coldly informed Lorraine that she was right.

The show began and Thomas started snapping pictures with his Nikon D80. Every adult watched apprehensively as he took what for all they knew could have been pictures of their children.

After the show, we explored the parts of Snohomish we hadn’t yet seen. We passed by scrublands, a reptile farm, a freak show and cows, eventually winding our way back around to a downtown area. Here was a plethora of antique emporiums, boutiques, shops spelled shoppe, an ice cream parlor, old-fashioned brick façades, all brimming over with small-town charm.

“Awww,” said Lorraine. “This part of town is cute.”

“My god, no!” I shouted. “I’ve made up my mind about this godforsaken place! I refuse to redeem it by writing about this delightful little downtown.”

Lorraine turned and glared at me, as if to tell me that my journalistic ethics were severely lacking.

We passed by a volunteer fire station where the townsfolk were cheerily washing the engine. There were toy stores filled with children and parents, a soda fountain filled with teenagers and dates.

“It’s like we’ve wandered into the ‘50s,” I marveled. “Or a Rockwell painting.”

We watched from our car as these village people stopped and chatted on the sidewalk, all seeming to know each other, in no hurry, no one cloistered in the bubble of their own errands, everyone amiable and happy to be alive.

“Christ, let’s get out of here,” I said.

Back on Avenue D — Desolation Ave — I noticed a sleek, ultramodern apartment complex made of aluminum and steel. Not unlike a tenement in Belltown, it added a touch of class to this otherwise bleak street, except that it was completely vacant. Not abandoned — no one had ever moved in. Along the bottommost windows, some clever person had spraypainted the words “Poopy D***.”

“The Spirit of Snohomish,” I said, shaking my head as we drove away.