things from the south
‘Twas the final day of my mini-tornadic trip to Dixie. I hopped into my uninspiring sedan and slid southward through Tennessee’s lush, breathtaking hills, back to Georgia. When Atlanta’s funky midtown rose into view, I exited and stashed the Chrysler in a garage for one last visit.
Brandon and I have seen each other through a lot over the last fourteen years: manly, shoulder-punching Frisbee games; the creation and dissolution of relationships; endless honing of conversational art; and, of course, the playing of antique video games while employing silly accents.
These days, he’s got a gig that would make Paul Graham proud: found a startup, make it work, support it with a little contract engineering, get another idea, found another startup, lather, rinse, and repeat. It’s certainly got its advantages over working for The Man like I do. I’m not complaining, though: I’ll take my Ruby-studded leash over an open meadow of Java, thank you very much.
So, what do two jet-lagged old friends talk about in a charmingly “alternative” venue like the Vortex, anyway? You’d think either grand cosmic themes or tawdry gossip about mutual acquaintances, right? Somewhere in between, actually. We debated this crazy-ass American economy of ours. We soon realized that two people can share the same basic idea of a mostly-free market with a few controls in place, and yet be labelled with different political labels. Brandon pimped the Fair Tax thing again - still not sold on that one, but it’s a provocative idea - while excitingly pierced waitresses sang along with the Bon Jovi jukebox and brought us beer.
Two hours isn’t nearly enough time to do the kind of catching up that was in order here, but time don’t wait for any of us, am I right? I had to say my goodbyes and skedaddle to the airport.
A few of the things I miss about the South:- Waitresses who call you “hon”
- Sweet and unsweet tea
- The drone of cicadas on a muggy day
Mentally itemizing the people and things you miss is a dumb thing to do when you’re on a flight home. I must have seemed like such a cliché to the couple next to me. Artistically rumpled clothing: check. Unkempt “beard”: check. Pensive, moody expression: check. Book of Rumi poetry on the lap: check. Scribbling notes in an overpriced Moleskine journal: check. Ah well. Shouldn’t worry about it: after all, it’s hard to look like that much of a Serious Artistic Type when you’re intently watching Steve Martin on the in-flight movie….