A sweet home in Savannah

During the course of this journey, it will become imperative that me and my friend listen to over 1,000 classic rock songs, and discuss each of them in full. We will, for example, listen to “Tonight, Tonight” by the Smashing Pumpkins, immediately after stopping at “Carter’s Fried Chicken” for coleslaw, fried sweet potatoes, fried okra, fried jellybeans, fried breakfast cereal, and fried oysters and fried chicken. The parts of this meal which are not made up are so good that they do, in fact, seem to crucify the insincere.

We will find ourselves listening to the entirety of the “Let It Bleed” album, with the jazz horns going like gangbusters as we pass a Georgia strip mine and I attempt to photograph in full digital quality the way it smells. We will get caught up watching “Pirates of the Caribbean 2” the previous evening, while actually in Orlando, Florida, at Disney World. I think to myself that it is so sad that we are settling for a digital simulacrum when we could be experiencing real pirates and a real Caribbean at the nearby ride “Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest.”

It is not possible to actually take pictures of every marquee sign along the side of the road that speaks to you. Apparently, people in the South communicate entirely through moveable type. For example, a married couple might have one on each nightstand, with marquee commentary like this: “HON_Y, I LOVE YOU, THRU FAITH WE REACH THE SUMMIT, TEEN CHALLENGE SUNDAY 10 AM, FEED BRUSSELS OUR DOG”.

The radio comes on. Reverend Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse are singing that hit song of theirs; poached eggs and grits one morning, which might be this morning, or this might be the morning of a fortified PowerBar from the convenience store and hotel coffee with packets of non-dairy creamer. In that case, no lunch for hours, just Aquafina water, not cold enough.

Listening to the Stone Roses song “Driving Thru The South,” we pass open-air BBQ stands and long stretches of pines with gangly stalks. The album (The Stone Roses Second Coming was selected on the strength of the single, “Breaking Into Heaven.” Which we are, or will be as soon as I can finish this post and actually run (despite a broken toe from Wednesday night in a pond kicking the dock) into the Creole kitchens of Savannah where we will, possibly, be allowed to sleep all night, stumbling in the neon glow.

It is probable, until we make friends and bitter enemies with the Southerners in this town and others — that I will be forced mainly to write about golden-brown food products, most of which will involve cornmeal. Tomorrow night, however, we will be greeted by a friend from Andover in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and will meet a number of the locals.

Saturday night we went running all around Boston and I broke a resolution about drinking light beer, plus a resolution about scorpion bowls. Myself and a new friend ran up to the sloppily great poetry bookstore next to the Harvard Bookstore and read poems off its sides, forgetting them like goldfish, if such a thing as a beatnik goldfish were probable.

Friday night me and a different new friend (who had heard Oakenfold spinning in Moscow, very drunkenly too, Oakenfold I mean) went running up to the eyrie of a church which has been converted into my old (college) friend’s apartment, to attempt to find house music to play, but we ended up playing DJ Tiga who in my opinion is more of a house revisionist and then by popular demand (because there was a dance party where the pews must once have been) we played that Gnarls Barkley song “Crazy” which I also heard only this morning coming in on the local radio when I didn’t have anything for breakfast except coffee. I was going to Carolina in my mind, and Captain Jack Sparrow’s compass was pointing there and further North to the Newport Jazz Festival, and it was natural to wonder if the compass made sense as a plot device, if the seductions of good and evil between Depp and Keira made even a feather’s weight of sense, if piracy means anything nowadays. It was natural to want to leave off writing and get dinner before the thunder got any worse in the historic district of Savannah, becawse if et rahns ah’ll simply have ta throw mahself in tha rivuh from a despairing heart.

Goodnight to you.