Yankee Lost In The South
I'm surrounded by bamas. No, seriously: I'm in Huntsville, Alabama for three days for a users' workshop on a simulation code I use at work. And, all true stereotypes aside, there's nothing but bamas here. "Bama", of course, being what many Alabamans shorten their state's name to, and even often refer to themselves as. And also like any good self-imposed name, it's been picked up and run with by other groups in other regions to label someone who is a fool, or dumb, or goofy, or slow-witted. Well, OK, for all I know it's just a DC thing, but it's a "thing" no less, and to my mind, "bama" conjures up an image that all too well fits many of the people I'm running into down here.
The part of Huntsville where I am ain't no slouch technologically: the University Drive/Research Park area is home to the US Army's massive Redstone Arsenal, NASA's Marshall Space Flight Center, the US Space & Rocket Center museum, the famous Space Camp, the DIA's Missile and Space Intelligence Center, and a large section of the ballistic missile defense industry outside of the metro DC area (thus explaining my time here).
Problem is, you'd have absolutely no idea that there are actually any mildly intelligent people here if you walked the streets and watched and listened to the people. At least, that's how I see it through my Yankee eyes. Listening to people here talk is an exercise in frustration: they either insist on adding lots of extra long-vowel syllables where they just aren't needed (the white folk) or they intentionally slur their speech so much that you're sometimes unsure if they're even speaking English (the black folk). It's also apparently a state law that you either drive a pickup truck or any vehicle with impossibly huge rims. Oh and, it seems you're definitely frowned upon if you can't shake all the cars around you with the bass coming from your car stereo, a phenomenon everyone everywhere is by now all too familiar with, but the difference here being that you must -- you simply must -- be blasting a rap song (sorry, but it ain't hip-hop, fellas) whose entire musical complexity involves no more than three notes on a cheap keyboard as well as some stupid chant for the chorus.
At the very least, I thought I could get some good barbeque while here. And that I did, although even that experience was marred when I asked for iced tea and the confused waitress replied, "You may-een suh-weight teigh?" Ugh ... yes -- sweet tea.
Well there's always book stores, right? I searched for the closest Borders online, and to my disappointment (but not surprise) the nearest one is more than 50 miles away. (OK, OK, there's a Barnes & Noble and a Books-a-Million just down the road, but I've always considered Borders the "classy" book joint, and I checked out B&N and it was deserted).
By far the creepiest experience I've had so far, though, was when I went to the local Waffle House tonight for breakfast-dinner. Craving waffles and eggs and bacon, and feeling that the Denny's right next door would not be a satisfying-enough outing, I headed for the Waffle House. When I got there, there was one waitress, one cook, and four patrons, and damn if it didn't look exactly like a scene from a Tales From The Crypt episode or a corny B-grade horror movie. As I sat down at the counter, I was trying desperately to remember if anything bad ever happened to the good-looking Yankee ain't-from-around-here guy.
Surveying the crowd, each one separately confirmed that I had in fact stepped into a Twilight Zone of sorts: the lone black guy, an older, skinny man apparently holding a low-key conversation with the counter in front of him; an overweight, over-made-up old southern belle with giant rings on each and every finger; a relatively normal-looking older white guy reading a Tom Clancy novel; and a second older white guy sitting in a corner, staring intensely out the window at what I could only assume where the aliens that were waiting for him to emerge in order to resume their enthusiastic orifice probing.
After I ordered my chocolate chip waffle, side of bacon, and side of eggs, I tried hard not to openly stare at this stifling collection of oddballs. Instead I focused on the bacon cooking, watching the fat sizzle up and away. As I watched my food being made, I was tempted to estimate exactly how much time I had left before the dude with the John Deere hat walked in with a shotgun and mowed everybody down, you know, just for livin'.
Soon my food was ready and I wolfed it down in about five minutes. It was OK, not great, but satisfied my craving. The bill was $9.43, but Calee, honey, you're a wreck, and you earned every penny of the $2.57 I tipped you, and nevermind that I just wanted to make it an even twelve for the minor novelty of exactly matching my lunch bill.
Thus ended my day "out", and I returned to my hotel room, to await another (but thankfully final) day in Huntsville tomorrow. I'm positively giddy with ek-sahht-mayent.
The part of Huntsville where I am ain't no slouch technologically: the University Drive/Research Park area is home to the US Army's massive Redstone Arsenal, NASA's Marshall Space Flight Center, the US Space & Rocket Center museum, the famous Space Camp, the DIA's Missile and Space Intelligence Center, and a large section of the ballistic missile defense industry outside of the metro DC area (thus explaining my time here).
Problem is, you'd have absolutely no idea that there are actually any mildly intelligent people here if you walked the streets and watched and listened to the people. At least, that's how I see it through my Yankee eyes. Listening to people here talk is an exercise in frustration: they either insist on adding lots of extra long-vowel syllables where they just aren't needed (the white folk) or they intentionally slur their speech so much that you're sometimes unsure if they're even speaking English (the black folk). It's also apparently a state law that you either drive a pickup truck or any vehicle with impossibly huge rims. Oh and, it seems you're definitely frowned upon if you can't shake all the cars around you with the bass coming from your car stereo, a phenomenon everyone everywhere is by now all too familiar with, but the difference here being that you must -- you simply must -- be blasting a rap song (sorry, but it ain't hip-hop, fellas) whose entire musical complexity involves no more than three notes on a cheap keyboard as well as some stupid chant for the chorus.
At the very least, I thought I could get some good barbeque while here. And that I did, although even that experience was marred when I asked for iced tea and the confused waitress replied, "You may-een suh-weight teigh?" Ugh ... yes -- sweet tea.
Well there's always book stores, right? I searched for the closest Borders online, and to my disappointment (but not surprise) the nearest one is more than 50 miles away. (OK, OK, there's a Barnes & Noble and a Books-a-Million just down the road, but I've always considered Borders the "classy" book joint, and I checked out B&N and it was deserted).
By far the creepiest experience I've had so far, though, was when I went to the local Waffle House tonight for breakfast-dinner. Craving waffles and eggs and bacon, and feeling that the Denny's right next door would not be a satisfying-enough outing, I headed for the Waffle House. When I got there, there was one waitress, one cook, and four patrons, and damn if it didn't look exactly like a scene from a Tales From The Crypt episode or a corny B-grade horror movie. As I sat down at the counter, I was trying desperately to remember if anything bad ever happened to the good-looking Yankee ain't-from-around-here guy.
Surveying the crowd, each one separately confirmed that I had in fact stepped into a Twilight Zone of sorts: the lone black guy, an older, skinny man apparently holding a low-key conversation with the counter in front of him; an overweight, over-made-up old southern belle with giant rings on each and every finger; a relatively normal-looking older white guy reading a Tom Clancy novel; and a second older white guy sitting in a corner, staring intensely out the window at what I could only assume where the aliens that were waiting for him to emerge in order to resume their enthusiastic orifice probing.
After I ordered my chocolate chip waffle, side of bacon, and side of eggs, I tried hard not to openly stare at this stifling collection of oddballs. Instead I focused on the bacon cooking, watching the fat sizzle up and away. As I watched my food being made, I was tempted to estimate exactly how much time I had left before the dude with the John Deere hat walked in with a shotgun and mowed everybody down, you know, just for livin'.
Soon my food was ready and I wolfed it down in about five minutes. It was OK, not great, but satisfied my craving. The bill was $9.43, but Calee, honey, you're a wreck, and you earned every penny of the $2.57 I tipped you, and nevermind that I just wanted to make it an even twelve for the minor novelty of exactly matching my lunch bill.
Thus ended my day "out", and I returned to my hotel room, to await another (but thankfully final) day in Huntsville tomorrow. I'm positively giddy with ek-sahht-mayent.
posted by GregP at 6:59 PM
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