[ In October 2008 I spent some time in Georgia. At first, I thought every thing was going to be alright. Granted, I was there for all the wrong reasons, but at the time I thought I knew what I was doing. The benefit of hindsight has shown me that I was on a disastrous path leading me to... well, you'll just have to read about it. And that is where part 2 is going to pick up. Until then, I present part 1 of 3 ]
On my flight into Georgia I fully expected my plane to crash in a ball of flames with my charred corpse tether-balling around the plane wreckage. Somehow, I ended up landing with zero turbulence and my plane intact. When I arrived in Atlanta the first thought that popped to mind was, “all the stereotypes about the South are true”. There were black people covered neck to toe in Fubu and Southpole on one block, inbred, redneck Southerners with confederate flags on their pick-up trucks on the next block, and every once in awhile there was a completely confused transplant trying to figure out what the fuck he was doing in Georgia. That confused transplant was me.
Instead of focusing on Georgia’s inability to catch up to anything modern, I decided to focus on their Southern hospitality and delve into all the finer culinary aspects the South has to offer. I started with Waffle House sausage melts and graduated to the glorified Carls Jr. clone, Hardees. Hardees chili dogs made my life seem like I had suddenly entered the pearly gates of Southern Heaven. I never thought hot dogs could romance my taste buds like that. I ate a few home-cooked Georgia meals, but nothing “too Southern” to write home about. Nonetheless, it was all good.
On the flip side, I promptly needed to find a bathroom to expel all the greasy greatness that my stomach could no longer hold. Another great thing about the South: the vacuum flush toilets could suck down a human infant. All my fears about clogging a toilet dissipated like a fart in a hurricane. I never felt better about becoming a glutton.
In San Diego, every street corner is littered with a liquor store or check cashing joint. In Georgia, every street corner is covered with a church. This makes it frustrating for a Cali-boy transplant like myself because I like booze. And I like my booze any time, all the time, and preferably on the nearest street corner. But in Georgia that’s a no-go. I couldn’t buy any liquor on Sunday. In my small little town, we had to go to the next city to purchase hard alcohol. What the fuck is up with that? However, if I wanted to go to church my options were limitless.
When I was lucky enough to find a place to buy my cheap swill, I would chuckle at the laughable booze selection. It was bad even for my cheap malt liquor standards: Natural Ice, Colt 45, Budweiser, IceHouse, and Schlitz. I’m pretty sure the hillbilly resident behind the checkout counter would blast me with a homemade sawed off shotgun if I besmirched the good name of Budweiser around these parts.
The only locally recognized sports in South Georgia are Nascar and sometimes, when Nascar is over and the locals are drunk enough, college football. I think “shootin’ thangs” would be the next sport, but that depends on what county you are in… and apparently how close you are to a church.
The animals around here are different as well. In San Diego, the local alley cats are finicky eaters that sneer at my Friskies duck pate. In Georgia, the cats will eat anything. And I do mean anything. I fed a pound of cheesy mushroom casserole to a five month old cat that weighs more than my upper torso. In fact, in another couple of months, that Georgia alley cat would be able to eat my upper torso if it wanted.
Also, there are bears in these parts. The locals tell me the bears stay away from the gun-wielding city folk, but every now and then, Smokey The Bear will maul somebody, which is morbidly funny. Then all the locals go on a bear-huntin’ killin’ spree until they are satisfied the bear-uprising has been put down.
On every front lawn is a ‘Vote For [ Name here ] for sheriff’. I don’t think they hold any real elections here. From what I gathered, the sheriff’s have a duel and the survivor becomes town sheriff for life. Or at least that is what the locals tell me. Needless to say, I’ve made friends with these people. A sheriff by the name of ‘Taft’ said to me, “yew arr dat Cali-fawn-yah boy, ain’t chew?“. All I could muster was, “yes sir, yes I am”. “Well boy, welcome to Thomaston!”. Then Taft spit out his dip and sped off in his cruiser, probably to beat on some black people or something.
I have yet to make up my mind about this place. It’s either a real simple town where I can live peacefully, or it’s a place I can find myself in a shit storm of trouble. Either way, this place is like the Twilight Zone on prison-grade mescaline–and everybody is armed and presumably dangerous.
I think I’m gonna have some fun here.
