Redneck Riviera
Thursday, January 02, 2003
Flattered. I think.I have just received an email from a complete stranger. It seems he was given our contact information by a friend of his that we met on the Redneck Riviera Road Trip. He has spent some time studying our website to try to get to know us - unfortunately for him, there is hardly any content there yet.
Wednesday, January 01, 2003
Unpacking the MemoriesUnpacking my bags, there is a distinct Imperial Palace smell. Closing my eyes as I absorb, it brings back the warm pastels sprayed across the bedspreads, the tight shag, and seals the good memories of ushering in a new year solidly in my mind.
When I was in eighth grade, I would go to developmental dances and stand there, clinging to the wall. These social mixers were designed to allow boys and girls to mingle in a positive, supervised manner as our hormones were beginning an uncontrolled race. It wasn’t easy being there, having no real interest in dancing with girls, which was the point of turning a church basement into a crepe paper disaster and serving ice cream in fruit punch as if it were an exotic aphrodisiac turning fourteen-year-old girls and boys into suave young ladies and gentlemen.
I’d cling to the walls, gulping frothy punch, imaging what more I might do with the décor and waiting for a girl without crater-like acne, a harelip, bad body odor, or all three combined to glance my direction. Even if by accident. Usually they didn’t, and I’d stand there, watching the other boys and girls mixing and mingling as if it just came natural to them. I couldn’t help but wonder if the interest of other boys in girls was so strong, they couldn’t see how horrible the colors of the crepe paper clashed with the table clothes.
As disgusting as the punch was, I didn’t miss a dance, and I always looked forward to the next one. I thought that maybe I, too, might be able to look past the food color-dyed heart-shaped butter cookies, and muster up the courage to ask a girl to dance. And that she would happily oblige. And we would hug and rock in that way eighth graders do. And afterwards, she would thank me for the dance and ask if I would like to share a glass of frothy punch. And together, we would stand by the punch bowl, watch the crowd, and talk about how easy it would be to make the decorations better.
The grip of reality was not as romantic, as the fat girl squashed me with a force making it difficult to breath. And as she tossed me around the dance floor like a chew toy in a dog’s jaw, I’d look around and wonder how John (who always fit so nicely in his jeans) or Chad (with his clean, dark skin who looked so fine in a swim suit) or Scott (with chest hair at 14 that he always managed to flash with an unbuttoned shirt) managed to dance with any girl they wanted. Certainly, if they’d let me decorate, someone (someone other than the girl squishing me at the moment) would take notice, and want me for the creative engineer that I am.
That was 1985. So here we are, on the eve of 2003, standing in a ballroom on top of a casino on a barge in a bay on the coast of Mississippi. Midnight is racing towards us, and I’m with the most important people in my life. The four of us are clinging to the wall, gulping cocktails, and imagining what more we might do with the décor.
Centre Stage, a five-piece band, is performing on the center stage. Their lead singer is an Asian man who most certainly came from the Karaoke circuit, and is singing Cher: “Do woo ba-weeve in wife afdah wuv, afdah wuv, afdah wav.” The casino had prepared for a balloon drop, which the four of us are certain will fail the way the netting has been attached to the ceiling. And we’re munching on a selection of buffet appetizers we’re certain will have us pleading to God for forgiveness in the morning as the four of us participate in a tag-team relay to the bathroom.
We no longer have to fear the acne-clone girl. But still, we’re not safe. The band took up a J-Lo number. The casino-going set is not exactly J-Lo’s, and the scene cleared so quickly you would have thought someone had yelled, “Prime rib with shrimp cocktail.” Sean and I made our way to the dance floor where the black woman living in Sean’s ass took over. The tables around us stopped eating and egg rolls hung from their gapping mouths as they watched two guys gyrating before them.
The event coordinator working for the Casino approached us on the floor. “I’m so glad y’all are having fun. Y’all are having so much fun. It’s great to see you having fun.” She had seen the stares, too, and obviously felt so compelled to speak on behalf of the casino, indicating that we were to ignore the blank stares and continue having fun.
Shortly after the egg roll debacle, we were approached by a woman who asked where we’re from, and then extended an open invitation for us to visit her in North Carolina. “I have a friend – he’s a real creative type of guy. You guys would like him,” she says.
We were not really sure how to respond to this, so we didn’t. A look of horror overcame her, her New Year’s jubilation washed from her face as we stare blankly at her.
“Oh, um, y’all are—you’re gay, right?”
“Yes,” we all respond, nodding, and acknowledging that she was correct on her assumption, as we all come together in a communal nervous laugh.
“Oh, well,” she giggles in relief. “My friend, he told me ‘Now Sally, put on your gaydar (that’s a word he taught me) and find me a boyfriend. And he’s just the nicest person. Real nice. You guys would love him, so you should come visit. I can’t wait to tell him that I met four. He’s just… I mean, you would really, really love him. And he would love you, too. He cuts hair.’”
Midnight comes, and the nets holding the balloons fall on a flailing crowd just as we had predicted. 2003 is here, and we discreetly kiss our lovers clinging to a wall in a ballroom on top of a casino on a barge in a bay on the coast of Mississippi. Just like in eighth grade, the fear of what might happen if we do dance prevents us from dancing the traditional New Year’s slow dance. We gulp our champagne.
The jubilation of the moment past, but the energy still high, Centre Stage brings in 2003 with a patriotic classic: “I pwoud to be Ama-wican, where at weast I know I’m fwee. And I won’t foe-get dah men who died, who gafe dat wife to me.” Poignant for the crowd of casino revelers who flick their Bic lighters, and sing along. Ironic for the four of us.
Tuesday, December 31, 2002
Countdown to New Year's
“Inspected by No. 65.”
The cute bottles labeled “conditioning shampoo” imply a more efficient showering process. However, I’ve only known conditioning shampoo to alter the condition of my hair for the worse.
Monday, December 30, 2002
Butt It's PrettyWhile the fine-grain pleather upholstery of the casino chairs creates the illusion of upscale glamour, it also festers butt-crack sweat. Needless to say, walking around with a moist hinny is not necessarily the most comfortable way to gamble.
About an hour west of Biloxi, near the border of Mississippi and Louisiana and pretty much halfway between Biloxi and New Orleans, is the John C. Stennis Space Center. In the 1960s, NASA wiped out poverty in the area and built an advanced technology research center. Nearly 850 families and 2,202 people were displaced for the facility, which today serves more than 30 federal and state agencies, universities and private companies.
“There is always a thorn before the rose,” said Mississippi Senator John Stennis, who the center is named for, to those removed from their homes. “You have to make some sacrifices, but you will be taking part in greatness.”
Curious about what sort of greatness displaced four communities, we took the free tour. A Visitor Relations Specialist packed us into a bus and drove us around the Space Center. As she sped by the sites, she’d rattle off meaningless facts that prevented us from gathering any sort of context or understanding. “And, no pictures, please,” she’d remind us. The most we could conclude, either Visitor Relations Specialist means she knows how to say, “welcome”, “thank you” and “come again” with the twang of a true Southern Belle and there is no knowledge of what takes place at the Stennis Center, or there is something more going on here they don’t want to tell us. Our two hours at the Center, however, did allow us to grasp a basic understanding of the function of the Center.
If you think blowing gas is alluring work, then Stennis is the space for you. Their primary function is to test fire the shuttle engines. This has been packaged in their mission as “managing NASA’s Rocket Propulsion Test Program.” Stennis doesn’t have the fascinating prestige of Cape Canaveral, but they do all the work that makes blast-off there possible.
In addition to test firing rockets, they’re doing other groundbreaking work at Stennis Space Center. Just a few miles away in the Sunrise Mobile Home Park of Pearlington, Mississippi, NASA has created an artificial wetland – matching the faux foundation, I imagine – that is used to treat domestic waste water.
The drive-by of the facilities took all of two minutes, and then we were dropped off at the award-wining StenniSphere, with 14,000 square feet of exciting interactive displays. Before heading in, we went straight to 1 Main Street Mars—a model of what a future home on Mars might look like in 2075. We were amazed; we’ve seen sixth grade science fair projects with more creativity and better execution. In the kitchen area was a Quasar microwave, a hot plate, and three VisionWare pots bolted to the counter – the lids having not been bolted, missing.
Inside the StenniSphere, in addition to a collection of science fair exhibits, we had the chance to walk through a model of the International Space Station. Most of the attention was devoted to the suction toilet with thigh restraints. What they’re doing on that space station, we couldn’t tell you. Well, we could tell you one thing they’re doing. “I can die now,” said Sean. “I’ve seen everything I need to see.”
Near the entrance to the facility was a display of almost every NASA mission patch – in needlepoint, presented by the American Needlepoint Guild. A reminder that no matter how high tech we get, we’ll always have crafts to commemorate our communal advances.
Of course, the irony of the Stennis Space Center, one of the most advanced research centers in the world, is that not even an hour away in Biloxi, you have casinos struggling to build an employee base of dealers with the ability to count out the winnings – a skill needing a third grade math level.
Regardless, touring the Stennis Space Center leaves you with a strong appreciation for our nation’s space program and the possibilities of science.
They don't have a problem building anything right on the beach in Mississippi, including this Waffle House we ate in.
Sunday, December 29, 2002
Hanging Out in the Garden District
We woke up in the French Quarter in time for lunch, and quickly took to the streets in search of the food that New Orleans has become known for: red beans and rice, shrimp ettoufee, gumbo and po-boys. As we wandered the streets of the distinctly Spanish-style neighborhood, we recalled moments from the previous evening, reporting on how they unfolded from various perspectives like football commentators discussing the instant replay.
While we laughed and giggled at things overhead, there was one aspect of the evening each of us were surprised about: everyone we met thought we’d be staying in New Orleans for New Year’s Eve. “Oh, we’re not staying, we’re just stopping in. We’re on our way to Biloxi for New Year’s,” we’d quickly correct folks.
“Biloxi? Why Biloxi?” he or she’d ask, with a quizzical face that bordered horror. We’ve got a rather sweet package deal at the sold-out Imperial Palace Hotel and Casino. Tony and Dan lucked out while researching vacation destinations. On the day they called the Imperial Place, the owner and founder had passed, opening eleven rooms.
And so, “Why Biloxi?” is the cry that motivates as we drive along the Gulf Coast. Pristine white (man-made) sands just a curb-shot away, and the sun setting below the Gulf horizon, lighting the sky in a palette of pinks, yellows, oranges, reds, purples and deep blues. Spanish Moss hangs from a canopy of live oaks, and Antebellum-style mansions look out over the Gulf of Mexico. On the horizon before us, a pagoda-styled high rise shimmers like a beacon in the night sky.
What is it about Biloxi that makes people cringe so?
Sitting in the sidewalk café on Jackson Square at the heart of the French Quarter, the fashion influence of J-Lo on women is apparent. However, few women look like J-Lo. Not every woman was meant to wear hip-hugging, low-riding jeans. Nor were they meant to have skin-tight, breast-wrapping tops.
Of course, the designers are not helping out either. Micro hip pockets are necessary on a non-existent ass. However, on baby-bearing hips (which is most women, because that’s what they have a tendency to do), micro-pockets only accentuate the surface that could be sold for billboards.
When my friend Liz bumped in to Christopher Knight in a bar one night, what impressed the former middle child of the Brady Bunch clan was the fact she knew his real name. “Chris!” she yelled, as if they have been buddies for years, bumping into each other after a long absence. The two talked the night away, and spoke little of the Brady Bunch. Her strategy of feigning indifference to his celebrity past was successful. Liz never let on how much she (and I—although I wasn’t there) worshiped The Brady Bunch.
So when Dan spotted a talking head from MTV News across the bar at Corner Pocket, framed by the legs of a go-go boy wearing nothing but a Sponge Bob Square Pants washcloth, I thought his decision to not immediately stalk the celebrity was made with great wisdom.
We had prime real estate: two bar stools in front of a service area, so we were locked down for the evening. While waltzing back from a restroom break, Dan bumped into MTV Guy and skillfully and coyly played stupid.
“You’re hotter than all these boys. You ought to be up there,” Dan said pointing to a go-go boy on the bar. A short discourse later, Dan was established with MTV Guy. Dan headed back to our bar-side base station to report in. We were well positioned for some long-distance visual ravishing, and it didn’t take much before MTV News Guy was headed over to our base station.
There, before us, Dan continued his coy strategy of ignorance. “If you’re gonna flirt with me, I should know you,” he said. “I’m Dan. We’re down from Atlanta.”
“I live in New York,” replied MTV Guy.
“Oh, wow. That’s cool,” Dan continued to play stupid.
“Yeah, I work for MTV News.”
“Oh, yeah.” Dan said with a pause for dramatic effect, “Anyway.”
With that MTV News Guy, hooked by Dan’s strategy of ignorance, bought Dan a Rolling Rock, said it was nice to meet him, and excused himself to get back to his boyfriend over by Sponge Bob Guy. MTV News Guy walked away feeling he was important not because of his celebrity but because he is himself. And Dan has a really good celebrity story.
We cozied up to the bar at Café Lafitte in Exile, a neighborhood-style establishment in New Orleans’ French Quarter. It was a cozy little place with a go-go guy gyrating in tightie whities on the bar above us. We didn’t even have a cocktail yet when he squat down, thrusting his bum just a few mere inches from our faces. Normally, this would have brought on the giggle of a schoolgirl from four guys like us. But not tonight. This bulbous bum shaking like a baby rattle in our face brought us gasps of horror.
Might I suggest, if you’re going to be a go-go guy gyrating in tightie whities, skid marks are a no-no. Lucky for us, the bartender was a noble man of up-most standards. Ironic as it may seem, he will not allow trash in his establishment. “No, I will not serve you liquor while you are dancing on my bar,” we heard him instruct No-No Guy. No-No Guy’s bum glared in our faces. It was a shiner, and it made us squint in disgust as the two conversed.
Apparently, they had not covered the code of etiquette for go-go guys, which distinguishes Café Lafitte from other establishments of ill-repute. Café Lafitte is a place with class. A go-go guy might be able to partake in liberating spirits while dancing on the bar in other establishments, but not Café Lafitte; they’ve got videos playing on plasma screens for goodness sake.
No-No Guy quickly jumped down off the bar. When the bartender refused to serve him standing on the floor like a normal, respectable customer in marked tightie whities, he stormed off, changed his clothes and ran out of Café Lafitte. Apparently, the bartender thought he was paying No-No Guy to dance, not drink. No-No Guy would have none of that, so say bye-bye to this go-go guy.
I have to admit, there was a part of me that was secretly celebrating No-No Guy’s independence. What did this bartender think? That he was just another piece of meat to be paraded before nasty local trolls and gawking tourists? Certainly not. No-No Guy was an artist. An interpreter of music. A cultural conveyer, who has feelings, too, and a strong need for a cocktail.
If he’s not going to have his needs met, well then, take those talents and tightie whities where they will be appreciated. It’s hard to find a respectful workplace these days, where you’re truly valued for the worth you bring to the bottom line, especially when you have such a distinct bottom line. If you’re going to be treated like yesterday’s leftovers, then move along. I found myself applauding. You go-go, No-No Guy. And don’t forget your trademark skid marks.
Saturday, December 28, 2002
Awful Waffle - Greenville, AlabamaWe stopped at Waffle House on our way to New Orleans for Lunch. Read our report on our Awful Waffle site.
We’re somewhere in L.A. Lower Alabama, that is, traveling south on Interstate 65. It’s been miles since we’ve seen an exit, and the distance from the last Waffle House is even further. Yet, as we hurtle towards tonight’s destination of New Orleans, I feel completely at home. Tony is passed out next to me. Sean is in the front seat reading up on the causes of various dog behaviors. And Dan, Dan is yelling out letters of the alphabet as he spies various characters on passing road signs, while my mind is occupied in deep thought.
I wonder, as I gaze at the fleeting countryside, how can Hawaii have an interstate? By definition, an interstate is a highway that goes between states. Physically, it is impossible for Hawaii to have an interstate. Alaska, which also cannot have an interstate as no other state touch its borders, does not have an interstate. But Hawaii, on the other hand, has three: H-1, H-2, and H-3. Ponderings that occupy the mind for miles.
“Does anyone have any Carmex or Chap Stick within their reach?” I ask. Three hands thrust lip balm my direction. Applying the soothing goop to my lips, Southern Longleaf Pines pass my window, and I wonder, what sort of redundancy do we have aboard?
Dan took a timeout from his letter game, and we made a mental list of everything four gay boys needed to leave the capitol of the South for five days of frolic and fun along the Gulf Coast’s Redneck Riviera. It was just a few necessary items:
- 2 laptop computers, 1 with DVD player
- 1 iPod with 754 songs loaded
- 1 CD Player with car adapter
- About 40 music CDs and a dozen DVD movies, including Bring It On and Sound of Music
- 2 digital cameras; 2 memory cards
- 1 Advantix Camera
- 1 Minolta SLR camera with two lenses and 8 rolls of film
- 1 palm pilot
- 1 text messaging pager
- 3 cell phones with text messaging, one with internet access
- 2 X2X WristLinx Communicator 2-way radio watches
- 3 Motorola TalkAbout T-6220 2-way radios, compatible with the WristLinx
- At least 10 different battery recharging cords
- 3 Electric razors
- 1 Flashlight
- 1 Super Utility Tool
- 6 tubes of Chap Stick or Carmex
- 4 containers of dental floss
- Absolut Vodka
- Cranberry Juice
- 1 Bottle Friexnet
- 4 Backpacks
- 6 Swim Suits
- 5 Jock Straps
- Enough clothing to create some thirty different outfits
- 8 pair of shoes
- 1 Damron Guide
- 2 Road Atlases
- 1 Cracker Barrel Travel Almanac
Sunday, December 15, 2002
The Travel Plan Is SetIntinerary
Friday, December 27
Leave Atlanta, Georgia
Overnight: T.B.D.
Saturday, December 28
Arrive in New Orleans
Overnight: Courtyard New Orleans
Sunday, December 29
Leave New Orleans
Arrive in Biloxi, Mississippi
Overnight: Imperial Palace Hotel and Casino
Monday, December 30
Biloxi
Tuesday, December 31
Biloxi
Wednesday, January 1
Return to Atlanta, Georgia