A recap of two weeks of Great Times, Family & Friends, Cinnamon Rolls, Gratitude, the Usual Complaints, Team Orca, Flags, and News of the South
Buster and the lovely Mrs. Gammons have just returned home from
yet another visit to the South Carolina shore. It's been 22 years in a row for us. Who knows how long we'll keep this up.
For the first time, we went in August instead of early July. It was a good call. The weather was just as good, the water was warmer, and there were noticeably fewer touristas in the immediate area. Easier driving, dining, shopping, etc. We like August.
We were joined for a day by my nephew, his wife and their little daughter, who came down from Charlotte. Later that same day, two other couples from back home arrived as well, and we all enjoyed a wonderful day at the beach -- it was a flurry of homemade cinnamon rolls, margaritas, guacamole, and cervezas!
Yes, homemade cinnamon rolls. One of our C-bus homies flew down with a big lump of her pastry dough wrapped in plastic and packed in her carry-on. She and the TSA people had fun with that: "Excuse me, ma'am, but there's an object in your baggage that won't scan properly. I'll need you to open your bag for me. OK, thank you. Jesus! -- what the hell is
that, ma'am? What?
Dough? For cinnamon rolls? And you're flying with it? Hey Charlie! Check it out -- this lady's flying with a big ol' wad of pastry dough! That's a new one on me, ma'am, but that's OK. You go right ahead, and happy baking!"
The cinnamon rolls traveled well. They were great, as was everything else. We were righteously fed and watered, and we had big fun.
We're grateful to have had good family and friends spend some beach time with us.
Ah, beach time! Can't beat it, except for the occasional problem of
Space Invaders. Not the old video game, but fellow beach-goers who lack a sense of adequate buffer zone. I normally set up our chairs at 7 or 7:30 in the morning, when no one is around, then I go back in for coffee, etc. As I said, things are less crowded in August than in July, but one morning I came back out to find the scene in the photo above. The blue and yellow chairs are ours, and were literally all by themselves an hour or two earlier. Despite acres and acres of empty beach, two groups of total strangers decided to flank us within 2-3 feet on either side.
Really? I know I bitch about this every year. Am I being overly sensitive?
And here's another annual beach topic:
Tattoos. Saw this man on the beach, and from a distance, he appeared to be
green! Yikes! Mars attacks! On closer inspection, he was the Illustrated Man -- entirely covered head-to-toe in tattoos. (I took the pic from too far away. Maybe you can zoom in.) Which leads to this observation:
If life is ever-changing, then getting a tattoo is a defiant act of permanence. It's like choosing to wear your favorite shirt every day for the rest of your life. You better hope you look good in it -- forever. Good luck with that.
By changing to August, for the first time in many a year we were not subjected to the presence of the Particular Individual, a crack-pot, right-wing chatterbox I've written of in many a previous post. Dear old P.I., how we missed you --
not! We didn't encounter anyone close to his level of paranoia and fear, although we spent the first week with a huge multi-condo gang (40+) from Maryland. They took over the place, like we used to do back in the day. Almost all of them were military/government/civil service employees. They were sane, normal, and could not have been nicer.
Well, there was the one guy who was flying his Marine Corps flag from his balcony. (On vacation? Whatever, dude.
Semper fi.) He told us was a little worried about those people in Unit #10.
"Who are they? Where are they from? Whad'ya suppose is going on in there?"
The answers: (1.) A Muslim family of seven -- husband, wife, four teenage daughters and an aunt. (2.) From New Jersey. (3.) They're plotting our demise for the greater glory of Allah.
Relax, Sgt. Carter! Just kidding about (3.) But it was indeed a Muslim family from New Jersey. Nice folks, as American as apple pie. But they were just a bit conspicuous. Every day, all the women would descend to swim in the pool or the ocean, wearing black swimsuits with white trim, similar to the photo. (Being courteous, I didn't take their picture. No such luck for Green Man or the Space Invaders.) I took to calling them
Team Orca. (Is that discourteous?)
Their garb was not what you or I or most people might wear to the beach on a hot, sunny summer's day. But they believe it's the thing to do. And while all the women are covered up in sweltering black, dad is sitting on his deck in shorts and a t-shirt, scratching his ass.
He can wear whatever he wants. It served to remind me once again that, one way or another, in large ways and small,
all religions are bullshit.
Speaking of
flags -- we were, weren't we? -- it seemed to me that this year while we were Way Down South in the Land O' Cotton, there were noticeably fewer Confederate flags than in the past. I saw just one house, many rows back off the beach, flying the Stars n' Bars. But that was it. Perhaps recent events and the weight of history have finally broken through and convinced the majority of southern citizens that the Rebel Battle flag is in fact a symbol of shame, not pride.
Or perhaps not. Displays like this were common at all the beach stores down there. These low-class emporiums peddle every tasteless, schlocky thing you can think of, in the form of towels, trinkets, t-shirts, shells, shotglasses, and yes, swim trunks.
As always, when it comes to retail, there is an ass for every seat.
The Rebel battle flag remained in the news down there, too. The public school system of Charleston, SC decided to ban all student displays of the flag, on clothing or anything else. Given the slaughter at the Emanuel AME, a good and reasonable decision. But other school districts are not as decisive. They don't encourage the symbol, but aren't sure they want to prohibit it either, they never have in the past, and blah blah blah, so . . . so get over it and grow a friggin' set already! It's time.
And in other
News of the South . . .
As you may recall, Friday night on the way down we stayed in Florence, along with 70,000 black motorcycle club members convening for a weekend rally at the Darlington racetrack. On Monday at the beach condo, I was watching the local TV news. They had a segment about the rally, and how it had gone off without a hitch, and how it had been a huge financial windfall for the area. Did they interview or even show a single black biker? No.
They interviewed the white local sheriff, whose big takeaway was that all those black people had been surprisingly well-behaved. Well, goody. (Meanwhile, at the huge, mostly white, Harley-heavy annual motorcycle rally in Sturgis, S.D., "only" 13 people were killed.)
Private Christian schools across South Carolina are still worried sick about the implications of the Supreme Court ruling legalizing same-sex marriage. An administrator at North Greenville University said, "As believers in Jesus Christ, we could be forced to give approval to something the scripture teaches we cannot approve." And they're worried too at Bob Jones Academy, a K-12 offshoot of Bob Jones University. Their student handbook states that "homosexuality is clearly condemned by God's Word," and that LGBT students will be expelled. These holy-rolling educators don't want to change their out-dated policies, but more importantly, they
really don't want to lose their church-affiliated tax-exempt status. Back in 1983, Bob Jones University was stripped of its tax-exempt status for its policy prohibiting interracial dating. They changed their ways then, and they'll do it again.
They may love Jesus, but they love tax exemptions even more. By the way, here's what Jesus had to say about interracial dating and same-sex marriage:
"____________ ."
While we were down there, the Myrtle Beach City Council voted 6-1 for a resolution to oppose any offshore oil drilling in the waters of their town. In doing so, Myrtle Beach joined over 70 other Carolina beach communities in opposition to the "drill, baby, drill" douchebags. The pro-drillers offer only one rationale -- jobs. That's a weak reason. Oil is not our only energy option, drilling is not our only employment opportunity, and the risks of offshore oil rigs are significant, especially for beach communities. Alas, as appropriate as these local resolutions are, they're only resolutions. The drill-heads may prevail anyway. S.C. Gov. Nikki Haley is all for offshore drilling, and U.S. Sen. Lisa Murkowski (R - AK) has introduced a bill which would sidestep all environmental law and actually
mandate more and more offshore oil drilling along America's coastlines. For short-term benefit, some people are willing to forget the lessons of the BP Deepwater Horizon disaster. Sad.
One final thought:
You know you're in the south when there's a skink in the men's room of a restaurant. A skink is a small lizard common in the region. The lovely Mrs. Gammons encountered this critter first in the women's room, then it scooted across the hall into the men's room, where I took the photo of Mr. Skink as he rested on a 12-inch tile. I showed the waitress and she assured me he'd be on the menu tomorrow night!
Ah, beach time! Can't beat it, except for the occasional problem of Space Invaders. Not the old video game, but fellow beach-goers who lack a sense of adequate buffer zone. I normally set up our chairs at 7 or 7:30 in the morning, when no one is around, then I go back in for coffee, etc. As I said, things are less crowded in August than in July, but one morning I came back out to find the scene in the photo above. The blue and yellow chairs are ours, and were literally all by themselves an hour or two earlier. Despite acres and acres of empty beach, two groups of total strangers decided to flank us within 2-3 feet on either side. Really? I know I bitch about this every year. Am I being overly sensitive?
Relax, Sgt. Carter! Just kidding about (3.) But it was indeed a Muslim family from New Jersey. Nice folks, as American as apple pie. But they were just a bit conspicuous. Every day, all the women would descend to swim in the pool or the ocean, wearing black swimsuits with white trim, similar to the photo. (Being courteous, I didn't take their picture. No such luck for Green Man or the Space Invaders.) I took to calling them Team Orca. (Is that discourteous?)
Or perhaps not. Displays like this were common at all the beach stores down there. These low-class emporiums peddle every tasteless, schlocky thing you can think of, in the form of towels, trinkets, t-shirts, shells, shotglasses, and yes, swim trunks. As always, when it comes to retail, there is an ass for every seat. 
One final thought: You know you're in the south when there's a skink in the men's room of a restaurant. A skink is a small lizard common in the region. The lovely Mrs. Gammons encountered this critter first in the women's room, then it scooted across the hall into the men's room, where I took the photo of Mr. Skink as he rested on a 12-inch tile. I showed the waitress and she assured me he'd be on the menu tomorrow night!
