As many of you know, I recently took a trip down into the heart of Mississippi with Jett Superior, Deb Rox, and Laurie White. What we were doing down there nobody knows, but it was a hell of a good time.
I wrote a little about the trip here and here, but I really don't know what else to say about it. We road-tripped through Alabama and Mississippi, we ate barbecue, we met the Bottle Tree Man, we visited Robert Johnson's grave, we ate burgers at Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Blues Club, we entertained ourselves in the parking lot of Wesley's Boobie Trap, and we ate more junk food than is advisable if you value your internal organs and understand that actions have consequences. Molten hot wing ripple chips and licorice and onion dip and pizza and chocolate cake are only good before you swallow it all down together into your digestive tract.
There is some unintended sexual innuendo in that paragraph that I'm just going to back away from right now.
Anyway, the whole point of this post is that, while I have very little of substance to say at the moment about my trip to Mississippi — there was so much laughter and tears and talking and doing things that it will take a while for me to put it all together — I do have two three-minute videos that I shot down there.
The first video was shot at about 7:30 on the first morning, and it gives a short little view into the shack we called home for a few days. My brilliant commentary? "It's like an effing museum" and "It's like this fantastic... I don't know." I really need a script writer.
I want to live there forever and ever amen while I listen to the delta rain patter on its tin roof. That was a little slice of earthly heaven right there.
This second video was shot while I walked around the grounds of Rowan Oak, the home of William Faulkner. Who goes to Rowan Oak, a site of pilgrimage for writers all over the world, mind you, and says "it kinda depresses the holy fuck outta me", apologizes to their mother, declares their video a "yawn fest", and then gives Rowan Oak a cheezy thumbs up? Me, apparently.
I told my mother I had shot video of Rowan Oak. "Really? I'd love to see it," she said. "No, you wouldn't," I said, "unless you want to hear me swearing loudly on the grounds of American literature's royalty." She didn't.
I REALLY DO NEED TO HIRE A SCRIPT WRITER THE NEXT TIME I DECIDE TO SHOOT VIDEO. I doubt anyone is going to be hammering down my door to ask me to shoot their travel videos anytime soon, unless you like my meandering, foul-mouthed, completely uninformative style. Call me.
So, I stayed in a place that was like an effing museum and had Rowan Oak depress the holy fuck out of me. Stellar travel account, Schmutzie. Stellar.