The Carpet Bagger's Journal — moving from NYC to Mississippi

April 20, 2015

Tonight’s the Night

Tonight is the night of my — pardon the expression — hoe down.

I will be reading my poetry at 7 pm tonight at The Powerhouse, on the corner of University Avenue and Fourteenth Street, Oxford, Mississippi — hosted by Vox Press, in celebration of the publication of my book The White Trash Pantheon.

There will be beverages.  There will be pieces of bread, meat, and cheese.  There will be slaw.  A gal has to have slaw.  And there will be words, not words to live by, but words so powerful they could down a hoe.

Come on and get slathered in buttery words, you hot biscuits!

Come on and get slathered in buttery words, you hot biscuits!

Come and be slaked.

Come and be amused.

Come and be downed, if you are a hoe; I am not your judge.  I am not your jury.

I am, tonight, your poet, your Southern humorist, your carpetbagger, your Yankee banshee, your glimmer of hope, your Kirstie Alley lookalike, your awkward belle in an evening gown, your inept Diana huntress shooting arrows into the Mississippi mud, your widget, your expression of how you are still hip at your age, whatever age that is, your wife with a skillet held aloft awaiting your return home, your entertainment.

Come meet me and tell me why you read the blog.  Come and — oh, I just can’t resist it any more, the temptation to quote that stupid seventies song —

“Kick off your shoes, and sit right down

And loosen up that pretty French gown

Let me pour you a good long drink,

Ooh, baby, don’t you hesitate, ’cause

Tonight’s the night!  It’s gonna be alright!”

I know, I know — I m not Rod Stewart — mercifully.  Pray for me.  I have issues.  That said, tonight IS the night.  It is going to be alright, and as the singer who has always reminded me of a rooster says in his song,

“Ain’t nobody gonna stop us now.”

I hope to see you this evening and to make your acquaintance.

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April 11, 2015

Y’All Are Cordially Invited, All Y’All!

Calling all fans of this blog,of cultural assonance and dissonance between North and South — Monday, April 20, 7 pm, at the Powerhouse Theater in Oxford, Mississippi, on the corner of University Avenue and Fourteenth Street, I am inviting you all to a word party.

My book, The White Trash Pantheon, which sets the ancient Greek myths in the Deep South, decries  idolatry and excesses of white privilege, and is above all, filled with fun and humor, with prosody and twang, is being released by Vox Press.

My book is having a party on Monday, April 20, 7 pm!  Come on down!

My book is having a party on Monday, April 20, 7 pm! Come on down!

The party is being called “A Moonshine Cotillion.”  I will neither confirm nor deny the presence of actual moonshine, but the moon will be shining, I can guarantee that.

If you attend, there will be refreshments, bonhomie, and a dash of ribaldry.  There will be reasons to laugh, hopefully not at me but with me.  I have written these poems with a heart for the heartland.  I promise that my intention is to enjoy the South, to slap the snooty off classical literature while retaining its edifying qualities, and to uplift an American vernacular, all in the tradition of Mark Twain, who like me, had an existence both above and below the Mason-Dixon Line.  His Huckleberry Finn is an edifying book, but it also found light-handed ways of telling the truth about people’s hypocrisies, about injustice, about Southern paradox.

I hope The White Trash Pantheon approaches Southern living in a parallel way.  There are times where I am making fun of somebody’s momma, but it isn’t your momma.  It is Oedipus’ momma, though she talks with a drawl when she interrupts her own funeral like Tom Sawyer did.

I promise to bring the funny.  I promise to bring the delight I take in this magnolia-strewn landscape.  I hold the people I have met down South in high esteem, I promise you.  I have listened to — well, to be completely honest, I have eaves-dropped on — salient conversations down here, and I have found in them the cadence of Tennessee Williams divas in the church hall kitchen, the gritty twang of Faulknerian figures in the garages on the county roads.

The South is too beautiful to burn.

The South is too beautiful to burn.

I have seen what Ulysses S. Grant saw in Port Gibson, Mississippi, a town between Vicksburg and the bayoux, a town he encountered on his march to conquer the Confederacy, but in the midst of his scorched Earth policy, destroying all sorts of settlements in his army’s wake, he came upon this sleepy, white-boarded, colonnaded oasis between cornfields and cotton, and when his colonels asked him if they should torch the place, he looked at the church steeple — the one in the photo here, with a golden hand atop it pointing an index finger heavenward, and he declared, “No, don’t burn it.  It’s too beautiful to burn.”

I, the Carpetbagger de tutti Carpetbaggers, I, too, declare that the South is too beautiful to burn.  I am in this world of twang and Tabasco, but I am not of it.  That said, when I look at the springtime trees in bloom, at the gilded glove pointed heavenward, I, too, may stand to admire this landscape.  I would change injustice.  I would open eyes.  But I am not a practitioner of scorched Earth.  I have gone native, as native as a non-native can in the New South.

I am not of the South, but I am in the South.  I am making my official debut Monday, April 20th, as a Southern writer, not of Mark Twain, but after Mark Twain.

Come have a slice of corn bread and some bacon-wrapped sugar sausages. Come have a glass of a substance I will neither confirm nor deny.  All y’all, y’all are cordially invited.  The inestimable honour of your presence is requested.

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