Tuesday, July 13, 2010
I've been way too busy with work to do any blogging lately. It's easy enough to avoid inspiration/temptation to post by shutting out the news for a spell, but real life can still intervene in the form of - in this instance - being subjected to a couple of progressive twerps loudly discussing politics on the subway. I don't suppose I really need to recreate their discussion here since there's more variety rolling along on the conveyor belt at a butt plug factory than there will ever be in the sentiments expressed by proggies. This particular conversation took about thirty seconds to devolve into a diatribe about the South.
Yes, in a city with a 38% high school graduation rate - in a subway car full of the kind of uneducated, shabbily-dressed people who are rounded up each election day to pull the lever for the Democrats who've been selected for them - these beta male sheep naturally felt no compunctions about loudly slandering an entire region of the country as being evil and stupid and blaming them for the current woes of Chocolate Jesus and the Democrats.
I don't feel like offering the South's defense, but I always feel dirty when confronted with New Yorkers caught up in mindless and irony-free bouts of provincialism. So, uh, I'm hereby encouraging a half-assed reverse boycott of the insular douchebags who scurry about Manhattan like rats. Buy some uniquely Southern shit.
Southern Culture On The Skids is one of the most fun live bands ever. They revel in their hillbillyness while plowing through songs with a melange of influences, and even though their music is as much a playful parody of the South as it is an homage, they've long transcended the label of novelty act by virtue of being so fucking awesome.
With a great selection of hand-printed, whimsical art-like posters celebrating Southern culture, Yeehaw is a must for anyone with an empty wallet and walls that need them some pictures. Just ignore the dopey Obama sign they made in '08 and anyone with an affection for country, the blues or assorted other musics of the South is bound to find a few winners for their walls.
To try Aunt Ruby's Peanuts for the first time is to want to find your way to Planter's HQ and punch Mister Peanut in the junk for having wasted your time all these years. I had no idea that every roasted peanut I'd ever had in my life sucked so hard until I experienced the crunchy goodness of these little bastards.
Bread pudding never sounded particularly appetizing to me. Bread? Who gives a shit. Pudding? Meh. Then my brother went on a grotesque shopping orgy at some online Cajun food retailer and I subsequently found myself confronted with a bowl of Blue Magnolia Pumpkin Spice Bread Pudding. They have other flavors, but I wouldn't know what they taste like because the pumpkin is so over the top in deliciousness that I see no reason for my eyes to wander. Just add some raisins, follow the sauce recipe on the package and you've got yourself a crazy good dessert that even an idiot could put together.
And finally, there's Blenheim Ginger Ale. Pretty hard, if not impossible, to find outside of the South, but there are plenty of sites where one can order it online. It's definitely not ginger ale for pussies, and popping open a cold one expecting refreshment on a hot summer day after going for a long run is likely to make your head explode. It's strong stuff and leaves a nice burn in the back of your throat. But as a mixer for booze - especially bourbon - the stuff has no equals that I know of.
So, that's it. This is a little afield of what I typically blog about. But "Fuck you very much" dweeby Manhattanites who can't let me focus on the work that pays the bills because you can't even take a subway ride without pulling the strings behind each other's backs and spouting your pre-programmed brain vomit.