My two-person band recently broke up due to creative differences. Will, the guitarist, wanted to move to Dothan, get married, and start a family. I, however, wanted to melt faces with the power of metal. My only solace is that our music will live on in the hearts of his parents and siblings, because they're pretty much the only ones who ever heard us play. If the Baker family had a Billboard chart, we would've been top 40 easily. I'm happy for Will though, even if his decision shows a lack of priorities. I offered to play a ten minute drum solo at his wedding as a peace offering, but he politely yet forcefully declined.
His wedding was Saturday in Dothan, and I left Birmingham early Friday afternoon to make a mini-vacation out of it. It's over a three hour car ride, and I get bored easily, so I wanted to break up the monotony of the road. If I saw a sign for something podunk and ridiculous, I was determined to stop and investigate. Also, to pass the time I invented a new car game. Every time I heard an Adele song on the radio, I struck a pedestrian. Total body count: 9,416. That blood is on Adele's hands, though, not mine.
My first stop was in Clanton, better known as That City with the Gigantic Freaking Peach.
Seen here using its dark forces to create a wrathful tornado
I remember passing by it as a small child on the way to Panama City Beach, and I've passed by it several times as an adult, but I've never stopped to look at it. Every sign for Clanton on I-65 is peach-themed. "The South's best Peach Ice Cream!" they say, "Pick your own Peaches at Dunbin Farms!", and "My Friend Gary will Pelt your Car with Peaches as you Drive through our Trailer Park!" This led me to believe that the city would surely be a Disney World-esque peach utopia. It would be a peach-filled Willy Wonkan tour where the streetlamps were made of peaches and the hobos were also made of peaches. You can imagine my dissapointment when I couldn't locate a single stupid peach in the entire city.
Also missing in Clanton: school funding
As I was about to jump back on the interstate, I spotted a rundown barbecue restaurant across from the giant peach. Without me even turning the wheel, Blues Traveler pulled into the parking lot and called out an order for a sandwich. It was basically a small shed with an attached carport for expanded dining, the type of place where men wore overalls unironically and the menu was drawn with sharpies on colored paper and taped to the wall. I decided to take advantage of the warm day, and I ate outside. Now, I'm used to pigeons begging for food on the patios of restaurants in downtown Birmingham, but I as I ate under the carport a rooster and two chickens walked by. I was overwhelmed with Southerness, and I wished my Yankee friends could've been there to eat barbecue next to overalls and a rooster in the shade of a giant peach.
Tex's Bar-B-Que - Home of the Freshest Chicken Sandwiches
Blues Traveler and I left Tex's and renewed the search for peaches. I was determined to leave Clanton with something peachy, even if I had to stop at a BP and buy a peach Nehi and a bag of Peachie-O's. I eventually found Peach Park Express, where I bought caramel peach ice cream, which sounds disgusting but was quite tasty. With my peach lust satisfied, I hit the interstate in search of my next adventure.
I saw a sign for Prattville Pickers - a brilliantly named store, because idiots like me see it and think, "Hey, Pickers. As in 'American Pickers'. I like that show! I want to go there!" And then all of the sudden you're in a flea market knee-deep in Morgan Fairchild DVD's. They did have some interesting stuff, though, like this evil clown hellbent on murdering you in your sleep.
The clown is $8, but the night terrors are free
Oh, crap. Ar- are they becoming friends? Are they talking about you behind your back?
Aaah! Is that the clown over my shoulder? Well, we already know what the murder weapon will be.
Prattville Pickers has a lot of Southern antiques and memorabilia, and the South is known for two things. One is peaches, which I already experienced in Clanton, and the other is racism, which Prattville Pickers has plenty of. I'll start with the least racist thing I found and work my way up to the most racist to ease you into it. (Warning: racist antiques ahead. Send all hate mail to Prattville Pickers and not the author of this blog. )
A pro-segregation presidential candidate car tag on top of a confederate flag car tag. Pretty racist, but only if you know who Wallace was and what he stood for. If not then you'd just think some insurance salesman ran for office on the Dukes of Hazzard ticket.
Okay, black people saltshakers. I'm not entirely sure why, but I feel uneasy about this.
Yep. We are in full-fledged racist caricature mode, now.
Who knew that racist ceramics is such a popular antique item? That cookie jar is $68, and they didn't even spell 'cookie' corre-...oh, right. Racism. Also, these ceramics are getting larger, like you could just buy all of them as one crazy, racist Russian nesting doll collection.
Caricatures over, now entering the stereotype section of the store. For $50 you can by this print and hang it in your office to let your co-workers know that you have no social awareness and are likely to tell racist jokes at upcoming office parties. Also, you're fired.
And the winner for most racist item found at Prattville Pickers is:
Redacted and replaced with a cute picture of baby animals. The actual item contains offensive language, and I don't feel comfortable posting the image, because there's a fine line between making light of the fact that these awful items are being sold in a hillbilly store today and making light of the subject matter. And as my kindergarten teacher will tell you, I'm terrible with lines. If you're really curious I'll private message you the item, but just know that I'm judging you as a racist for wanting to see it.
I eventually made it to Dothan, and the rest of the trip was really nice. I had fun hanging out with friends and seeing Will before he tied the knot. I politely yet defiantly tapped a drum solo on my chair as he walked down the aisle. Alabama may be bereft of peaches and full of racism, but it's nice to know that love and marriage is still alive and well.
Me, Will, and Will's new husband Art
Just kidding. Congratulations Will and Ashley!
Man, that really left me wanting to see that last racist item. Mostly because you said it had swear words.
ReplyDeleteonce again, as always, your blog was entertaining and very fun to read. Cant wait for the the next blogpost.
ReplyDeletejeff hall
Whenever I passed the big peach, I always thought it looked like a butt. In fact, my entire family lovingly calls it the "peach butt." I really can't call it anything else.
ReplyDeleteYou're making fun of racism. That's racist.