He doesn't have to look both ways before he crosses the wind-swept asphalt — there aren't any cars to avoid. He doesn't have to ready his congenial nod for passers-by — there aren't any people to greet.

What would be a bustling beginning to another workday in most towns feels more like the wee hours in Soap Lake, where an unbroken calm hangs over the shuttered stores, empty streets and barren shoreline where thousands once gathered to soak in the namesake lake's healing waters.

Halfway down the road to becoming a ghost town, Soap Lake is one of many communities trying to wring money out of a dried-up town. Folks out here are looking for something — anything — to bring on a little revitalization.

Like maybe a proposed $3 million, 60-foot lava lamp.

Oh. You missed the connection with Soap Lake?

"The region is one of the last areas of the Earth to have had a massive flow of lava," reads the official giant-lava-lamp Web site.

"The development of The Lava Lamp theme structure returns 'Lava' to the region in a rather unusual and incredibly interesting way."

Main Street in Soap Lake would never be the same again if this artist's rendering of a proposed giant lava lamp becomes reality. Then again, the attraction might be erected by the lake or mounted in a plaza.

The lake's unique mineral content used to draw the ailing and health-conscious alike to its frothy shores, while restaurants and businesses devoted to wellness competed for space on the one-block main drag.

But advances in medicine have left such home-grown healing behind, and the lake's minerals were diluted by flooding linked to construction of the dam, which was completed in 1942. Businesses are up for sale, and half the town's storefronts are deserted.

Davis, 67, has been running the Soap Lake liquor/bait-and-tackle/variety store for the past 22 years and has had a front-row seat to watch the town's decline.

"All small towns are going that-a-way," he said. "We need more businesses to draw people. There's nothing to draw them anymore; the lake don't."

For blink-and-you-will-miss-it Soap Lake, the answer just might be that giant lamp.

"I personally do think it's going to happen," said George Sharp, tourism-development manager for the state.

"No one else has one of these, and one of the keys in marketing is to be there first."

Brent Blake figures no one gets things done without thinking big.

"I see this as a wonderful place that could be even more wonderful," he said. "It just needs to have a little more than what it's got. So I said, 'What about a giant lava lamp. Eh?' "

What could have been written off as a "dude-I've-got-this-great-idea" idea has captivated the tiny town — maybe because the lava lamp, no longer just an old hippie accessory, is enjoying the kind of renewed popularity that Soap Lake seeks.

The plan Blake is pushing, along with Soap Lake resident John Glassco, calls for a 60-foot, 60,000-pound lamp built smack dab in the center of Main and Canna streets.

Or it might be by the lake, or be mounted in a plaza, or just stand alone. Blake, 60, isn't too clear on the details, just the vision.

Splitting his time between Soap Lake and Gig Harbor, the Harley-riding, ponytailed architect has found that selling an enormous lava lamp to a tiny town is practically a full-time job.

Some Washington towns, such as Wild West-themed Winthrop and the bite-sized Bavaria that is Leavenworth, have turned to that sort of Disneyland feel to attract tourists.

Long Beach, for one, has practically cornered Washington state's "World's Largest!" market.

Not only does it feature "The World's Largest Frying Pan!" and what is certainly one of the world's largest wooden razor clams, it boasts possibly the world's largest — and only — mummified merman.

They're not promoting Jake the Alligator Man as such. But he's the biggest draw in this old salmon-fishing and oyster-harvesting town of 1,385, and he attracts an estimated 80,000 visitors a year.

Across the street from the museum that houses Jake, the World's Largest Frying Pan! reigns, propped up in a tidy park and sharing space with the giant wooden clam.

The clam spits faithfully every hour, and the pan is the backdrop for about 300 photo ops a day in the summer. And hey, it brings in the customers at nearby businesses, according to James and Candy Brooks, owners of the MiniCook restaurant, one of many businesses eking by on the out-of-town dollar.

"As they walk away (from the frying pan), they see our sign," Candy Brooks said. It hasn't made them rich, she adds. "But we're happy."

One of the three small towns near the Grand Coulee Dam has an attraction yipping for attention in the shadow of the massive concrete structure that bills itself as the "Eighth Wonder of the World."

Not to be outdone, Coulee Dam, a city of 1,130, boasts "The World's Largest Sand Pile," a 12-million-cubic-foot mountain created by construction of the dam.

It hasn't generated much revenue, or interest, for that matter. Nevertheless, some visitors might seek it out, said Craig Sprankle, spokesman for the dam.

"People do travel around and like to go see the 'World's Largest Ball of Mud' and all those little attractions that don't make the big headlines."

And the sand pile, by the way, is a lot more practical than a giant ball of mud.

"We use it to sand the roads in the winter," Sprankle said with a laugh.

"And probably every kid that's grown up around here has had a sandbox filled with sand from it."

In Winlock, Lewis County, an age-old question becomes moot because, either way, all that's left is the egg — "The World's Largest Egg." That's what they call the 8-by-11-foot fiberglass egg, though it may not even be the largest in the nation. Mentone, Ind., and Newberry, S.C., also claim that title.

The Southwest Washington town used to be a huge player in the egg game, and by 1950 was shipping a boxcar full a day. But the last egg farm shut down in the 1960s, and the door-and-window manufacturing town of 1,337 has been struggling since.

The biggest building in town, a barn-size structure housing a food bank and small hardware store, is a nod to the city's past — emblazoned with "Washington Co-operative Association," freshly painted on its weathered finish.

City officials had no figure on how many tourists the giant egg (painted like the American flag) draws or how much it might generate in tourist revenue. But it is a popular site for picnicking families and loitering teenagers.

"Yeah, people make a big deal out of it 'cause I guess it's the world's largest," said local resident Olga Korenkov, 15, munching on a corn dog while sitting below the mounted egg.

"They come from Mossyrock, Centralia, Toledo — all over."

Reputed to be the one of the biggest cows in the nation, the Carnation cow seems to play only a small role in the East King County community.

The "World's Champion Milk Cow Statue" pays homage to a hard-working Holstein that produced a record 16,500 quarts of milk and 1,400 pounds of butter in 1920. That's more than 10 times the average cow.

Since 1928, Possum Sweetheart has stood a few licks up the road from the couple of stores that make up the town's center. Grazing just outside of the Carnation Research Farm, the cow appears to be its best-kept secret — no one interviewed in town seemed to know it existed.

When it comes to economic revitalization, Soap Lakers know a giant bottle with colored, coagulating, heated oil isn't going to do it alone. A Native American-inspired beachfront sculpture is in the works, and a 144-seat theater funded solely by private donations is halfway to curtain call. All the town needs is a little lava love.

"You think, 'Oh, it's too silly,' " Blake said. "But then every time I talked to someone about it, it just put a smile on their face, and I thought, 'Maybe it's not such a crazy idea.' "

But there is the question of money. Neither the city nor the county has anything to spare to light the lamp, and most of the town's residents are barely hanging on.

Appeals to the state are in the works, and Blake is working with the Business and Tourism Development Office to draft a business plan for the lamp's future, looking into loans and grants to give the project legs.

The concept recently got the green light from the Soap Lake City Council as well, although admittedly, the council's support didn't go so far as to include a contribution from the public trough.

"It's different, let's face it," said Lesley Slough, a council member. "But I'm for anything. We really do need a shot in the arm."

Around town, the consensus on the lamp was a resounding, Well, why not?

Blake's selling his idea all over Soap Lake, sitting the folks down in his living room one at a time and changing their shrugged shoulders to dawning nods of agreement.

"I think it might fly," said Mayor Kenneth Lee. "It's just unique enough to be different, and it would draw people, that's for sure. Or at least they'd stop in.

"Stranger things have happened."