I will not suffer a Tryanny of Meatheads

This happened over a month ago, I just haven't gotten around to writing it until now.

Related to this post regarding athletes in high school and continuing on, I am here to relate the story of the Redneck Meathead who I encountered early Sunday morning as I left my house to go to my neighbors to let their dog out. (Side note: I'll update this post with a photo when I can capture said meathead).

Anyway, there is a very large Marine (meaning steroided up without a neck Marine) who lives in the neighborhood and he has a dog. A little one. It's actually kinda cute to see him walking with a tiny dog because of the dichotomy of the two images. The problem is that he never, and I mean never, cleans up after the dog poops. He just leaves it on whoever's yard the dog happens to poop on.

My neighbors and I have noticed this, and have often commented on either confronting him or writing a letter to the Home Owners Association to complain. No one wants to confront him because he's huge, and could easliy snap a person in two like a twig.

But, for anyone who knows me, I sometimes do stupid things. Like this particular Sunday, for instance.

Let me set the stage:

The future?

He will not be a douchebag. I promise

You stay classy, bammers.

 Hat tip to friends of the program

Dinner @ the President's House (funny story at the end, I promise!)

As new faculty, the wife gets invited to a bunch of "stuff". For example, we went out for dinner last Friday night with a couple of her colleagues, she gets free tickets to the university theatre productions, and she gets invited to the new faculty reception, hosted by the president of the university and his wife. So, as we were invited and never wanting to miss a party (or a free meal and booze), we put on our best and headed over.

The president's house is very nice (Apologies for the poor picture. It was the best I could find. It doesn't really give you a proper feel for the scale of it, nor the inside, which is very nicely decorated.), and is located in the heart of the campus. It has very nice gardens, and an air conditioned "Terrace - reception" area, comprised of a essentially a ballroom and an art gallery like space, half of which was "patio-ed". (God, what a horrible description. Anyway...)

We mingled with a few folks, eventually "settling" with new professors in the communications, history, and psychology departments. The conversation was good, considering all of has had just met and were feeling each other out, essentially. Dinner was a very nice, catered spread comprised of roasted chicken, pork, fried green tomatoes, and grilled asparagus, squash, etc. Dessert was banana pudding and peach cobbler with ice cream. Two words for both of those:

1. Yum -
2. EEE

During dinner, the president came to the table to sit and chat for a few minutes. He sat next to me, and we (as a table) talked bbq (he's partial to the mustard based sauces and the bbq you can find at Price's, although he does like the vinegar based if the meat is really high quality. He also doesn't like Dreamland bbq, which isn't surprising considering its a chain. He said students dig Mike & Ed's, while the locals like Byron's), and the lack of recognition sports other than football, golf and Nascar get in the Birmingham newspaper, (especially on game-days in the fall). A very nice, gracious man, who the wife described as her idea of what a Southern politician would be when we eventually come across one.

The story of the night had to be, though, when I was getting the peach cobbler from the dessert table. As I handed my plate over (already full of banana pudding (she gave me too much!)), I said something to the effect of, "Try to get some on, will ya?" The older, white woman looks at me and asks, "Where you from?"

"Connecticut"

"I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!," she screamed.

"Uh, ok."

"Are you, by chance, I-talian?", she asked.

"Wow. You're good. I am."

"I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!," she screamed again.

I asked, "I'm impressed. How could you tell?"

She replied, "Well, my sister-in-law married a man from up there, and he's I-talian, and you all look the same! You don't know him, do you? Last name is (unintelligible due to the Southern accent).... No?... You don't? Oh well...."

It was the first time I felt Asian or black.

"They all look the same!"

It's my birthday!

And to celebrate, the wife and I went down the Gulf of Mexico and the Redneck Riviera! (Seriously, they themselves call it that, so I can too. So, there.)

Anyway...

Perdidio Key is southwest of Pensacola and a part of the Gulf Islands National Seashore. The drive from Auburn took about 4 hours, but that's only because Google maps had us take the Blue Angels Parkway, a one lane road that could have been avoided by going the way we went home (along the 110 into...oh, wait. I just realized I am doing that thing that my adult male relatives do after they've arrived somewhere. That's another post at another time.) We headed straight for a bar that I'd heard of from people both here and in Connecticut. The Flora-bama

The carnival

Good god, what a shithole. It strattles the Florida - Alabama border on the beach, and is an amalgamation of tents, coverings, wood platforms, and other assorted crap glued and screwed together to somehow pass code. It's a classic hole in the wall bar, as evidenced by a shot I took of the inside to the right.


See what I mean?

There are other "areas" that are all sort of cobbled together. You have multiple stages for performers to set up on, so forth and so on, and lots of individual bar stations. One thing I did notice was that there weren't too many TV sets, which was nice. Nothing I hate more when I go to a bar is to have nothing to look at except TV's.

Oh, and did you notice what was hanging from the clotheslines up there? Here's a better picture.

"Oh look, there's mine!"

Lots and lots of bras. Gives the place character and class, doesn't it?

Since we hit this place up right around lunchtime, we weren't expecting it to be crazy. But as evidenced by the underwear, clearly good times had been had here.

As it was lunch time, oysters and fish po-boys had to be eaten.

Yes, please!

After lunch we headed back to the beach and laid out on the beautiful, white sand beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. And they truly were stunning, until you walked up and down the beach and saw the oil response clean-up teams, their equipment, and tar-balls. Lots of little tar-balls.

The following show the tar stained beach and the equipment used by the teams:

Tractors and other "stuff"

Crews getting ready to hit the beach

Used sand sifters. Not small enough to get the majority if the tar balls if you ask me

Oil stained sand

Lovely, right? Sigh.

Pack? check. Beer? check. It's dark. Let's go!

You may also have noticed me with a backpack on my shoulders. That's because the wife and I camped on the beach on Saturday, and we had to hike in about a mile to get to where we were allowed to stay on Perdido Key (the photo was taken Sunday morning on the way out). But here's me gearing up ready to make the trek out at night.

And here we are in the morning after a not so great sleep (due to lack of pillows, a thermarest with a hole in it (grrr.....), hellacious temperature and humidity, and lack of breeze through the floor of the tent (which will be remedied on the next tent purchase.))

Good morning!

Sunday saw us stopping off at the IHOP for breakfast, driving to Pensacola Beach for the, well, beach, and then to the Pensacola Art Museum for a little bit of afternoon culture. Incidentally, the museum has a very nice collection, which we would have seen if they weren't playing a movie about Marc Chagall at the same time we visited.  :-(  Oh well.

We traveled back to Auburn after the museum and drove through a pretty horrendous thunderstorm, one that had a lighting strike right next to our car and which sounded like a shotgun! Fun stuff! It was f'ing terrifying, but, we were alright. Just a little rattled.

All in all: Great trip, glad we went, and we'll certainly go again when it gets a little cooler.

Reactions & Stereotypes

I'd written previously that I wanted to write about a post about how people up here in the Northeast are reacting to us telling them we're moving to Auburn. This is that post.

There are essentially 3 steps to the reaction. And it usually goes like this.

1. Somehow I mention we are moving to Alabama. Their reaction? Surprise, bewilderment. Their eyes open wide. They are confused. I can tell they are thinking, "What on earth would you do that for?!", but they are too polite to actually say it.
2. This is followed by them saying something along the lines of "Wow. Talk about a culture shock!" or "That's going to be different!"
3. Followed by "Better get a pickup truck and a gun rack!"

Without fail, that is how the conversation opens.

It's followed by the person realizing I am not joking, that we are indeed moving, and the question: "Where is that?"

"It's 1.5 hrs southwest of Atlanta, right over the Georgia border. About 3.5 hrs from the coast."

"Oh, well....huh.....But, hey, at least its a college town, right? Won't be too bad!"

And they're right. It is a college town, and it won't be too bad. But that's not the point I want to make in this post. The point I want to make regards stereotypes, and how we all employ them, for good or ill.

I realize there are going to be class and race issues we will encounter when we move to Alabama. The wife and I are highly educated (she more so than I, considering she has a PhD, and I have my Masters), white (in the land of the civil rights era), and by relative standards, rich (we will make well above the median family income (look it up, yourself)). So, two out of the three of the above make us targets. Add these to the fact we're from Connecticut, and we really are "Damn Yankees" among the locals. Given we probably will not be there long term (I have no idea about this, by the way. I am just guessing), we've given no one in the community any reason to make a long term investment in us (relationship-wise, friendship-wise, etc.). Outside of the academic community, no one has any real reason to be friendly with us (although I suspect they will be, because the stereotype of people down south is that they're very friendly.)

We are outsiders from the start. We will be the subjects of the stereotypes Southerners hold for northerners.

Liberal, Lefty, Unpatriotic, Obama voting, America-hating, Socialists in waiting. Or, Wall-St. working, money-loving, god hating, consumerists devoted to all things fast (women, cocaine, take your pick, whatever). Or a combination of all of these things to form a conglomerate of New Englander, or New Yorker.

Yet, at the same time, when I have mentioned we are moving to Alabama, I can see the stereotypes we northerners hold for southerners pop up into the minds of the people I am speaking to. It's almost pavlovian in its instantaneous appearance. And I freely admit I did the same exact thing when the wife mentioned moving there as a possibility. The image of the slack-jawed yokel proudly waving his confederate flag from his big pick-up truck with the gun rack. Rednecks. White trash. Baby mommas smoking cigarettes acting out welfare queen fantasies.

But you know what? We have those here in Connecticut, too. So what makes us think we're so much better? What makes us feel the need to be so different? To elevate ourselves above others? I am not a sociologist, or a psychologist, for that matter. But this is the world we live in, so I suppose I must accept it, or at the very least make amends.

So, how to end this?

I realize we are all the same. We all employ stereotypes to help our brains deal with this world. The welfare queen is making fun of me right now as I speak. So I guess I will do my best to have an open mind when I arrive there, realizing that not everyone will like who we are, become friends with those who have an open mind like me, and make the best of our time there. It's an adventure, right?

Let's go.