The South Will Rise Again

I have never been out of the South. Unless you count my one day in Missouri, in which case I have been three-fifths out of the South. I type this with shame and the foreknowledge that whoever reading this is thinking less of me. "But Nathan," you’re saying, possibly while wearing a monocle and sipping tea from ornate china, "you don’t know what you’re missing!"


It’s true. I would like to travel and experience other cultures, even if it is within the United States. I am always fascinated how culturally diverse we are as a nation. I meet a lot of people from other areas of the country who use Birmingham as a futon until they can get out of here. Befriending these vagrants has given me somewhat of a perspective on the South. I have taken for granted several things the South offers that I didn’t realize were indigenous only to our area.


Hushpuppies – Seriously, who’s never had a hushpuppy? The majority of America, apparently. I had no idea this was Southern cuisine until I had dinner with a friend from Wyoming recently. Normally I would hoard my hushpuppies and threaten your life if you so much as tossed a covetous glance in their general direction.

"Can you have a hushpuppy? Let me think about it……no."

But I was feeling oddly generous, and I wanted to see his reaction. He enjoyed it, of course, because it is physically impossible not to. I'm pretty sure that if Captain D's hushpuppies existed during the Civil War things would be a lot different today.

"They’re called hushpuppies, men. And they are ours. All we have to do is surrender."

Lightning Bugs – I had always thought lightning bugs, or “fireflies” if you want to sound all uppity, were as ubiquitous as fire ants, but that analogy doesn't work how I want it to because I just found out fire ants actually are as ubiquitous as lightning bugs. Meaning they are both found primarily in the South (*edit: fireflies are also found up north, but not out west). Fire ants I don't care about, but lightning bugs are majestic and beautiful creatures that help paint the picturesque Southern night sky and bring smiles to millions of faces and I'm sorry but I use to smash them with a baseball bat! ...Whew, I don't really know where that came from. Leftover guilt from being eight years old and coming home from Little League practice, I guess. Sorry lightning bugs, I won't be bludgeoning you to death anymore. But, uh, thanks for being around and shining your butts...and stuff.


Grapico – I grew up thinking Grapico, known colloquially as “dat purple drank,” was owned by Pepsi and therefore found on all of Earth’s continents including Antarctica. I don’t believe in the traditional Greek gods, but if I did, I would imagine they sat around drinking Grapico to keep themselves powerful and virile. But it turns out Grapico’s distribution doesn’t quite make it to Olympus or Antarctica, instead being sold as far north as Kentucky and as far west as Kentucky. There are literally millions of people who have never tasted that smooth grape carbonation or had it flavor their homemade ice cream. I call these people “Yankees”, and they are not to be trusted.

Combined career home runs: 1,207   -   Combined Grapico’s drank: 0

So those are just a few of the things the rest of America is missing. I’m sure there are many things other regions have to offer that I’m missing. I hope to find out for myself one day. However, I will be packing a bag filled with hushpuppies to serve as a tasty travel snack and as a weapon of Southern aggression. Get your white flags ready, America. I’m coming for you!

Not Always What You Eat

I have been called a food snob, and I can’t deny it. I don’t like pickles, mayonnaise, mustard, tomatoes, bell peppers, ginger, olives, ranch dressing, curry, and a huge list of other things I can’t think of right now because my brain has blocked their existence from my memory. When I go to Subway I order turkey breast with cheese and some lettuce – no other vegetables or condiments. The sandwich artists look at me like I just ordered a toilet paper tube on whole wheat.

I like to say that I have a refined palate, and that my taste buds pick up the almost imperceptible flavors that normal humans either don’t experience or misinterpret as delicious. Like when others would eat a tomato and think, “Mmmm, I enjoy putting God’s bitterest creation in my mouth!” and I would eat a tomato and think, “Who am I going to have to choke slam at Burger King to get my Whopper without tomatoes!?” However, while my superhuman ability to perceive taste might be true – after all, science has not disproven it – deep down I say it to compensate for my shameful love of greasy spoons.

For those not familiar with that phrase, a greasy spoon is a privately-owned restaurant known for serving homestyle meals and fatty food. My preference for greasy spoons is very much unlike my taste for women. The skankier the better. Restaurant slash car detail? I’m there. BBQ from someone’s converted garage? I won’t call the zoning commissioner. Unintentionally misspelled sign? I’ll have the chikin lyvers. So you can imagine my delight when I saw a new fish and chicken shop attached to a Shell station near where I live.

I spotted Mr. Sharks, the aforementioned restaurant,  while driving around with a friend a few days ago. For the sake of this story and to protect her privacy, I’ll just call my friend Jennifer Michelle Harmon. So Jennifer Michelle Harmon did not want to eat at this place. At this point, though, I had already let go of the wheel, and my trusty Saturn was instinctively driving towards the greasy spoon like KITT towards danger.

Special abilities: repelling women and sensing burrito carts within a ten mile radius

I tried explaining the attraction to her.

“It’s a restaurant attached to a gas station.”

Jenny gave me a blank stare.

“And they serve shark meat.”

Another blank stare.

“And they also serve chicken gizzards.”

Ridicules and insults.

Confused as to why she didn’t understand, I decided to add more emphasis and put all the clues together for her. “It’s a RESTAURANT attached to a GAS STATION that serves SHARK MEAT and CHICKEN GIZZARDS!”

Physical violence.

So we didn’t end up going to Mr. Sharks. I did, however, eat there for lunch a few days later. It was everything I dreamed it would be. I bought gas and then conveniently walked a few feet to the restaurant counter. I ordered shark, hush puppies, and corn nuggets and enjoyed my meal while one of the employees went on a loud, expletive-laden tirade on her cell phone about how she hated her boss for not letting her answer her cell phone while working. You just can’t find that ambience everywhere!

And therein, perhaps, lays my love for these places. There are no pretensions of class. You don’t have to wear a suit. Heck, as long as you’re wearing some sort of shirt and shoes, you’re golden. It’s a celebration of the working man and the idea that all people, rich and poor, old and young, have the right to enjoy Meatloaf Tuesdays for $5.99 while getting their car detailed.

Or maybe I just love disgusting food.

It's not on the menu, but the yelling is free

I Guess This is Growing Up

I remember the first instant I realized I was an adult. It was about three years ago, and I was walking out of a bowling alley with my dad and two brothers. I don't remember what we were chatting about, but I stated, “When I grow up I want to have a room filled with nothing but trampolines.” I was expecting some head nods and agreement. “You’re right, Nathan. That would be awesome. That way your butler staff won’t mind the constant trips to the kitchen to fetch you Ovaltine. You have the best ideas!” But Dad, in his infinite wisdom and button-up shirt, chuckled and retorted, “What do you mean 'when you grow up?'”

A little blindsided, I thought about it for a moment. I lived on my own. I paid all my own bills. I could carry a conversation about the stock market. And, perhaps most incriminatingly, I wore dress pants five days a week. Yes, there was no denying it. I was an adult. Not only that, but I was an adult who had yet to fulfill his childhood dream of having a room filled with wall-to-wall trampolines and a team of butlers to make Ovaltine. It was a harsh realization.

"How did you do that backflip without spilling any Ovaltine? I'm impressed, Charles. Now keep them coming."

And so Life had dragged me into adulthood like a toddler out of a Wal-Mart – kicking and screaming and demanding toys. It was an awkward transition. I focused on the death of an era without seeing what this new era really had to offer. I feel like I’m finding my footing though, now that Adulthood and I have an agreement. For instance, I agree to wear button up shirts if I can secretly wear band t-shirts underneath. I agree to wake up early and be a productive member of society if I can still stay up late eating cereal and playing video games. And Adulthood lets me have long hair as long as I agree to cut it before I go bald.

I will not be this man.

The truth is, being an adult doesn't mean you have to change intrinsically, and I think that's one thing I really feared. Sure, you get responsibilities and bills, and your skeletal system fails you, and you can no longer audition for The Real World, and the music on the radio makes you want to crash into the nearest telephone pole. But you stay yourself. The job you have won't entirely define you, and neither will the silly and impractical clothes society says is appropriate to wear at the work place. (Whoever first mandated that suits should be worn to work every day never had a business meeting in the South during July.) 

I still miss the experiences I had as a kid, but I'm looking forward to the new ones I will have now as an adult. I feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be for the moment. Who knows where I will be next, though…and that’s the appeal. As an adult I can do whatever I want. I might have a fancy job in a skyscraper where I shout orders at underlings who scatter like startled fish. Or I might be traveling the globe with a circus as Director of Elephant Poop Cleaning, or possibly the World’s Least Attractive Bearded Lady. Whatever I do, I’m learning how to enjoy the ride. I just have to keep reminding myself to stop and smell the roses drink a glass of Ovaltine.

"Charles, so help me, if I ever see you carrying a tray without Ovaltine on it again..."