There was something on something the other day and I just spent two hours looking for it and can't find it but it was about how, during the American Revolution (I think), the nice, organized, cute soldiers decided to occupy this Southern hill/mountain/county that was already occupied by Scots-Irish immigrants who weren't immigrants anymore. They lived there. And they got there the hard way and...the army needed to go away.
City Girl and I were sitting in a bar last Saturday night and somehow it came up about a movie I had seen that day. A Love Song for Bobby Long. On IFC which means it probably wasn't ever released mainstream. It had John Travolta, whom I love as he ages, as a boozing ex-English professor in New Orleans, and after the Vinny jokes and the dancing jokes, (yeah, like YOU wouldn't have fucked him) I was telling about going online to find out about the movie and EVERYTHING I read was about...Southern stereotypes. Southern. Stereotypes. And how TIRED these people were of useless Southern stereotypes. Now, I don't know if all these comments were from critics or bored housewives or pretentious assholes, but to a man they all came back to stereotypes.
Let's talk here. Other than one Creek Indian great-something grandparent, and one German great-something grandparent, I am 100% Scots-Irish. Kick your ass, go to jail, live off potatoes, Scots-Irish. Validated, vindicated and on paper. My family has its original coat-of-arms from Scotland because...honey, they didn't have anything else including a pot to piss in. MOST of the
Southern stereotypes are stereotypes because...we sort of focused. And then focused some more. You think Truman Capote made that shit up? My Uncle Laughton named our family farm Aqua Vista because he taught himself French and Italian while he grew up in Collinwood. Tennessee. Oooh. My parents have five graduate degrees between them and a toilet on the carport waiting on the handyman to carry it off. We ARE the rednecks.
So, we're gonna talk stereotypes. With pictures.
This abode, which is on the left just as you get to our farm,
sets one-tenth of a mile from this abode, which is right past the other end of our farm.
The first picture involves two "previously owned" travel things. Trailers, I guess. Originally, when the frame house that was there burned down, Bud moved in the first one. Now, we think he's going for a compound. The racing stripe down the top of the limo? That's not a racing strip. The vinyl split and he patched it with duct tape. The second abode is on the lake. Some guy got a divorce and built a babe pad. Needless to say, his strategy works. The guy who lives in the first abode? is infinitely wealthier than the guy in the babe pad. He just doesn't get laid as much, we figure.
And then. When Old Man Cooper died? They dug up Mrs. Cooper and buried them both in the field. This would be exactly in between the above abodes, if you go by the road. Right there. Two graves. Nothing else.
Then, there's this.
That is a deer, a buck to be exact, lying on the side of the road about two miles from my house. It has no head. Somewhere in a vinyl-lap double-wide sits one of my relatives, admiring the mounted deer head on his wall and bragging to his buddies:
"Lined that baby right up. Centered it with the hood ornament and POW! Got it with one clean wheel. Took that sucker right out."
And somewhere people are complaining about STEREOTYPES?