Or over a month, whichever sounds worse.

This past weekend, though, I found myself in Biloxi, smack dab in the middle of Mississippi’s manmade coastline…and I didn’t clean up a thing.

I didn’t have to.

Now, it wasn’t entirely a planned trip. We’d been wrestling with the stress of moving, jobs, waiting, impatience, final grades, and a brief interlude of “rest,” shall we call it, before I was to begin teaching for the summer. This period lasted for two weeks.

The plan was to get away, even if it was just a day or two. The plan was originally, to visit family. Family that lives in Hattiesburg. Hattiesburg which is close to the coast. So, being that close, well…you know what they say: When in Rome, might as well drive on out to Villaggio dei Pescatori.

Rome’s not quite on the beach, itself, you see.

Of course, Biloxi’s no Rome, or Villagio dei Pescatori, but let me tell you—a very easy, relaxing, fairly inexpensive, little getaway, it is.

And that was a pleasant surprise.

I was more than ready to drop everything, should someone approach me and miraculously know that I’d registered as a Volunteer because guilt goes a long way with me, but believe it or not, there was not a drop of oil in sight along the Mississippi coastline.

Nada. Zip. Zilch. Can you believe it?

Since Katrina, it appears that they’ve finally made an effort to clean up the coast; the oil spill however threatens to put a big, shiny kink in that plan. But, it hasn’t…yet.

The Mississippi Coast is untouched and bearing its rather empty beaches to the masses in all its native glory.

Granted, the Mississippi Sound carries that age-old fishy smell, but at least it’s a natural smell. They can hardly help where the Barrier Islands were put by Mother Nature.  And on the plus side, the beaches now have real sand, deep sand, up to your ankles easy, and it is as sugared as our neighbors over in Alabama.  (Another neat fact? We walked out nearly 300 feet into the Sound and it barely grazed our thighs. I found out later that we’re one of the only natural harbors in the world where the depth between shore and islands is never more than 20 feet deep.

…oh, and before I go any further, I would be remiss if I didn’t offer apologies to K.P.  But, don’t worry! We’re going back, avec you, I promise…!)

OK. Continuing…

One of my tiny dreams has always been to visit Ship Island, and since this spur of the moment trip wasn’t all that well-planned, Amanda and I literally drove into the Harbor parking lot with less than minutes to spare.  The foghorn was blasting (it was a terrifying sound, but not nearly as terrifying as the beer-drinking family that we had to squish in beside on the boat; almost four beers each, not even ten minutes into the ride; I nicknamed the mother, Cooter Brown).

My advice? Don’t be late to the boat.  

In my mind, I expected that there’d be no people on board. I thought they might be scared to visit, considering the oil spill. I shared a moment with Amanda where we thought that might still be the case. If not in the Sound, then definitely around Ship Island.

Again, I am happy to say, I was mistaken.

And though the boat was packed to the brim, the island had plenty of room to spare.  The shores were pristine; the water on the western side was gorgeous. I mean, shockingly beautiful: a clear, jade green. We got there early that morning, before the beach was awake and aware of intruders…but Ship Island, as you know, is a preserve, and its beauty, though small, is nonetheless breathtaking for all its untouched-ness.

The sun was scorching, however; they’re not kidding about that. And once on the island, you’re there until they come back and get you. There are no houses, condos, resorts on it. Just a snack stand, some showers, and pavilion with picnic tables and restrooms, and what feels like endless beach.  With real waves. That was always a disappointment in the Sound. The barrier islands keep waves out, but out on the barrier islands, it is a very different story.

And the wildlife.  I can’t tell you how many crabs we saw while beach-combing. And I’m not talking about your typical shore crab. I’m talking about crabs that are as big as a baby’s head. They eventually got tired of the sight of us and headed out to sea, with the fish, a few of which, about arm’s length, were not afraid of me.

I think the most amazing thing we witnessed were the dolphins. They literally jumped fully out of the water and chased the boat’s wake, there and back; the ride took about 50 minutes, each way. They were impossible to photograph, sadly.  

Our five hour sun-bathing, beach excursion was over before I could blink, though I did blink quite a bit both at the brightness of the sun on the sand, and the sunscreen dripping down my face. I’ve never known so hot a sun. Or sea water: I swear, it was as warm as a bath in most places.

Before we left though, history nut that I can be, I wanted to tour the much-smaller-in-real-life-than-in-the-brochure Fort Massachusetts. It took less than ten minutes, and offered two vital things: cooler spots to rest in, and fantastic views of the whole island. In the distance, you could just spot Gulfport and Biloxi, and the towers which are the economic livelihood of the Mississippi Gulf Coast: casinos.

I know I rarely harp on and on about these types of things, and I apologize if there’s a severe lack of anticipated wit in this particular entry, but, I’ve always been pro-Mississippi, if for no other reason than a man should take pride in where he comes from. I realize there are lots of things about our history that don’t put us in the best of light (we re-thought a tour of Beauvoir, but I still wouldn’t mind seeing inside it); still, there’s an awful lot that is and should be put up under the harshest fluorescents: the continuing saga that is a our gulf coast is one of them…and not just the usual destinations of Biloxi and Gulfport. On my return trip, we’ve been invited to stay in Bay St. Louis, which I hear is just shy of being an arts-colony, with slightly more private beaches, teeming with sea oats and shallow waters. 

I can hardly wait.

Especially if Fate changes course and the oil drifts our way. (It still seems a bit inevitable, doesn’t it?)

Where we stayed was under $100 a night; we weren’t there long enough to see holes eaten in our wallets, but it was a condo, and it was by the beach…though not on it. We could have easily bought fresh shrimp (they’re still allowed to fish in the Sound) and eaten at the condo, but instead, we shelled out money for two coast-only meals: a place called Shady’s (Thai-American fusion) and the Beau Rivage buffet, famous as is.

Altogether, we spent less on this beach trip than in previous years; we typically go to Gulfshores, Alabama, where the sand and sea are generally nicer, but the food isn’t.  However, with a boat ride to the Barrier Islands (Ship Island cost $24, round-trip), and a bevy of better restaurants…I’m hard pressed not to consider an in-house trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast an emerging better buy.

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It didn’t, how shall I say this without hurting my feelings, make a whole lot of sense. I’ve spent most of this morning trying to be OK with it because every day can’t be a diamond.

Indeed, most of them are just broken pieces of coal.

One of these men is not like the other because he stole a diamond.

But, but…that, that’s OK.

The whole point of starting a blog was to give myself room to make writer’s mistakes with the option of accountability, depending on how many read the blog and felt the need to comment. I’d fallen into a rut, as a playwright and poet; I needed a break from “real” writing*.

So, I started a blog.

I know that doesn’t sound right, but it’s in my blood; I’m that kind of reader, too. When I get my fill of academic (or you might also know this as required) reading, I trade that book for another, something of fluff, and read it, instead. I believe in more literary circles it’s known as escapist literature.

It’s how I discovered both Wicked by Gregory Macguire, who doesn’t capitalize the “g” in his last name, and the trendy Twilight saga by Stephenie Meyer, who spells her first name with the rarely seen second “e.” I also, and proudly, managed to get through the entire 12-volume collection of the Left Behind series, and with a straight face, I should add; I will make no comment about the spellings of either of these two authors’ names, though.

Superstitious, you know.

Still, can’t argue with this: there’s no greater escape than the end of the world.

But, this idea’s hingent – a new word of mine – on the fact that escapist literature, by my definition, is already written. Its ridiculous  flights of fancy have been penned, to the page, and consumed by eager readers like myself who reach such moments of complete desolation that they find themselves perusing ingredients on average, everyday groceries for the escapist qualities the exotic ingredients offer.

Try it sometime: flip over a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and prepare to be transported to a world where the beaches are covered in sodium tripolyphosphate and Yellow 5. Dig your feet into the warm whey by-product and let the enzymes tickle your toes as you bathe in the rays of milk protein concentrate with >2% citric acid.

No sunscreen necessary.

They melt in your hand, not in your mouth.

I think, and quite rightly, this is why grocery stores sell the traditional “dime store” novels, usually found smack-dab in the middle of the store.  And I’m grateful for that; I’m glad they do. It’s the perfect spot between Roman Meal bread on the one side and Manchego cheese on the other. 

Amanda would never have found Charlaine Harris, without the clever use of this consumer design concept.

It wasn’t even her popular Sookie Stackhouse novels that she found, either. It was a separate series, completely, of five, I believe. I think all this woman does is write, write, write.

Like I’m supposed to be doing.

Last week, someone asked me what new play I was working on. I sucked in a sharp breath, remembering, “Oh, that’s right, I’m a playwright.”

This is that conversation.

What I said to them was, “Well, I’ve been sort of floating between ideas.”

They said, “Like what?”

I said, “Like, you know, what I usually write. Stuff like that.”

Pause.

They said, “Oh. Ok.”

Pause.

“But, I’ve been doing a lot of writing, you know, just not plays. I mean, I’ve started several new plays, but I’ve…I’ve…I’ve. I keep a blog.”

Dead silence. I keep a blog. Really? I sounded like a sugar pimp.

“I didn’t know people still read blogs,” was the nearly innocent reply.

Pause.

“Yes, I blog. And, some people read it, actually. I think they even enjoy it.”

I’m not sure he was convinced because he didn’t ask for the website; most people would, you know, in polite conversation. And, so I stood there thinking: I know blogs have come down a bit in the world, but I still think they’re culturally significant. I still think they’re of vital importance. (*And I happen to consider it “real” writing).

I mean, never before in the history of civilization has such an opportunity been given: you can get online, type up a few of your odd opinions, publish them immediately for the world-at-large and quite frankly, start a revolution. Just like that.

Even on Twitter…142 words or less.

Which brings us back to a really scary point: people just don’t like to read. This person, god love him for a liar, was interested in a play because he could watch it. Not because he wanted to read it.

That’s a challenge, to presume I could write anything worthy of escape.

I do try, though. Very hard. I originally started out forcing myself to join the 1000 Words Mark or Bust campaign for blogging, but maybe that’s too long for an escape route?

Are those too many words for you?

Second only to the Bible.

Because it’s no cakewalk to write 1000 words a day. Look at my previous blog record. Some days I couldn’t do it (or didn’t have time) to create brand new sentences for mass consumption.

That’s why today’s blog stops at 900 words…roughly.

Oh, and don’t worry, you’re welcome.

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I’d never taken a trip with Kim and Amanda, at the same time; I’ve certainly spent time with them separately, and had a wonderful time with each, but I wasn’t sure the casserole would take, so to speak, when all the ingredients were added.  We all have a certain amount of spice, and god, let me just stop with this…suffice it to say, it was an experiment.

And it was a success.  The trip was lovely, the weather was gorgeous, the ride entertaining. (Actually, at the moment, I’m still at the beach, sitting here debating on the absolute merit of a mimosa…I, at least, have to be honest about that). And as is the ritual, we drove straight to the beach house, hastily threw things into the rooms, and tore off our clothes: we wear our suits on the ride down underneath the most loosely fitting clothes we can legally wear in public. We worry about food and the like, afterwards.  What’s important is the beach.

Midway through the drive, however, we, naturally, had to stop for gas. Also I was gung-ho about purchasing a ridiculous pair of sunglasses. Our stopping point was Waynesboro, a sad and confusing little town in the eastern depths of Missississippi, right on the state line.  It’s a confusing town for several strange reasons. First, you enter the town, at least from the highway we were on, through a cornfield, scarecrows and all. It was very a la Jeepers Creepers, a movie that has scarred me and convinced me that of all the futuristic inventions possible that Hollywood and the Sci-Fi Channel have all but subliminally persuaded us are capable in our lifetimes, my vote is on memory erasing.

Upon entering the city, if we call it that, in the middle of corn, as you will, there sits a Western Sizzlin’, a restaurant so intent on ”steaks and a good country buffet” that it cannot afford a “g” at the end of the word “sizzling.”  This restaurant is by nothing, except, of course, corn, which I pretend was a smart, corporate business decision – a product placement of sorts.  Generic brand, (I mean, it’s just plain corn) but, as the argument goes, the quality is just as good. And if you have enough elbow grease, you can have cornmeal which down south means cornbread, which down south means manna.

Naturally, the next thing that comes into view is Wal-Mart, and in a twist of fate that must make the very ground of Bentonville, AR, quake with continued profit and pride, across the street – excuse me, the road – is the high school, the War Eagles, as they’re called.  That, in and of itself, is an interesting name for an athletic department, and I’m sure, warrants research.  I love the idea of research. The logic would suggest that there must also be a Peacetime Eagle, but having visited Yellowstone National Park, at the tender age of 13, I can assure you, all eagles are graceful and vicious. I saw one eating a field mouse just for kicks. I could tell; it was all over his beak.

Still…

A few “blocks” past this arrangement of retail and education, sat a unique display of fast food conjoined triplets – KFC was attached to Taco Bell which was attached to Long John Silver’s, all in the same building – and an array of gas stations with names like Hack’s Hot Biscuits and Bait. It was square in the middle of this “plaza” that the only thing that brought us any small amount of comfort stood, a Chevron.

Caveat Emptor.

A no-name, average, 1984-esque Chevron. (I mean both the year 1984 and the Orwellian idea that it was blandly branded, at least considering the names of the other gas stations).

Two things happened at the gas station, besides getting gas, that I filed under Strange.

The lesser thing was a snippet of a conversation I overheard while perusing the hanging-from-the-ceiling “stand” of faux-designer sunglasses.  An elderly woman was regaling to an elderly man, not her husband I could tell, about how she, in a quick pinch and fix, would mix mayonnaise and ketchup and sugar and make her own Thousand Island dressing.

I was both engaged, instantly, and disgusted and also: Where was this Thousand Island, anyway?  Was the original dressing some sort of community effort among all 1,000 of these nameless islands; was it in an attempt to create better relations among them because, perhaps, up until this point of culinary discovery, they were warring tribes hellbent on island domination?

And would they be offended, to know that despite their secret history of war and peace and civilization, they had been reduced, in the 21st century, to a simple recipe of ketchup, mayonnaise, and sugar, according to an elderly woman in Waynesboro, Mississippi? 

I put my sunglasses back on the upside-down-tree of sunshade options, and decided to get a Gatorade.  At this point, Kim was about to come in the gas station to search for a bathroom (it’s a trait we all three share – this need to know restrooms), when she motioned for me, through the thick glass wall, to come outside and she meant right then.

I obliged, curiously.

I stepped through the doors, and there she stood pointing. Amanda stared out from the backseat, sleepy but interested. 

And there, taped up onto the door, on 8.5″ by 11″ white typing paper, was the following Notice:

If you are wearing a hoodie or a mask, of any type, please remove it before entering the store. Thank you.

What immediately interested me is that such a sign has found a need to be displayed, at all, but those are just the times we live in, I suppose, post-911…but what affected me about this assumed admonishment is that it’s taped up on a window at a gas station in Waynesboro, in a town that can’t possibly hold more than 2,000, if that, in Mississippi.  Forgive the constant repeat, but if such a sign is necessary here then I am worried for the rest of the country. The sun was shining, the sky clear, but I shivered.

You don’t put a sign like that up unless there’s a reason.

And then, I thought of that sweet, elderly woman at the counter, eagerly offering recipes.  What if she’d been here that day, the day that the reason for this sign occurred. It broke my heart to think she might have been a Victim, instead of a faded Victorian. (We’ll have to talk about the remaining styles of Victorianism in this state, in another blog, but it involves several great aunts and  GamVa, my grandmother Virginia, who like the state itself, remains dedicated to its cultural heritage and at times, unnecessarily, Latinate in speech and monologue).

I told Kim to take a picture of it, both for posterity and also, so we could show it to Amanda, and she tried, but it wouldn’t take. The picture didn’t come out.

That was odd, until I decided to focus on that part, instead; maybe it was a sign.  

Maybe the camera couldn’t focus because the fear itself had diminished (I can justify anything – just watch); I told myself that since the sign had been posted, it had worked; it had deterred would-be thugs and such from stealing and potentially hurting elderly women.  Which is a crime all on its own, in my opinion.

We got back in the car and kept toward the beach. Tank full, humor abetted, concern registered, although…I still didn’t have sunglasses.

And I have to be honest, besides gas, that was the whole point of stopping.

This “learning lessons about life,” well, that was just a fun, free and unexpected gift…at best, merely a footnote.

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