What is it about the Southern Drawl that is so bothersome to those of us who occupy the remainder of this country? I know one woman in Memphis who has a drawl, of sorts, and it is lovely. But then, she has this huge brain, so there is no doubt about her intellect. And she has the drawl with a smile buried deep inside of it. But the rest. Geez. I am listening, tonight, to the comments of some of the passengers aboard the Hudson River flight. Those interviewed with a Southern drawl just drive me up the wall. I hate it. Maybe they are not dumb, but God do they sound so very dumb. This is a regional problem, and it is mine. The speaker may, in fact, have an intellect of some distinction. Why can I not hear it that way? What is it in my own background (and my Dad is from Dallas, where the rest of that side of the family reside) that causes me to get this impatient creepy feeling when I hear that way of speaking? I don't understand it at all. But it sure is there, and I can't ignore it. I have a friend in Texas. He's been there all of his life. He sounds like Sherlock Holmes, and is nearly as smart...well, if Sherlock had been real, anyway. Why does he not sound like one of these strange throwbacks from the Confederacy?
I was at the Apple store today. Now Apple stores are beautiful places. I like the outside graphics. I like the simple elegant layout of the interior. I like the 'genius bar' in the back of the store. But I rarely like the experience of buying stuff there. In the stores I have been in, you have to get approached by some sort of care specialist. They do not allow you to go and just get waited on. Once you have 'registered' in with this care specialist you stand and wait, or browse around, or just plain frump. So I frumped. Finally, a dutiful nerd with identification (a wispy "I am trying, but I'll never be able this thing grow beard) approached. "Do you need help?" he asked, looking around. I wanted to say "Nope, I am here from the Salvation Army to pick up all this trash for our resale store," but I did not. I tried to get along. After five minutes of conversation, it became apparent that I was there for 'business' purposes. So my attendant had to go and get a 'business attendant.' Five more minutes. The only thing keeping the lid on my kettle was the fact that it was seven below zero outside in the shopping center walkway, and the wind was running a good fifteen MPH. A true clone of the first attendant came out, or maybe it was only a really good and ugly android instead. I explained my problem to the clone. Amazingly, the solution to acquiring the piece I needed, was for me to go online and order it from the Apple store. "I'm in the Apple Store!" I nearly shouted at this conclusion. The teenage nerd of an attendant shook his head, not even looking sympathetic. "No, you're in the Apple retail Store...the Apple store is only online or available by phone." His expression then turned to pity. But not for my situation. No, it was pity about the simple fact that I was well past the age of anyone who could possible understand the distinction he had just stated or, for that matter, understand anything to do with modern computers. So I blurted out "are you on Twitter?" He actually took a step back. His expression changed. He looked at me this time as if I was some sort of police detective. "No, not yet," he murmured, properly cowed, his eyes down. "Hhhmph," I smirked, "you better get with it and get a life out there. You can follow me. I'm at FromTheChateau." I walked out of the store in triumph, only to be struck down by the wind. I made it to Nordstrums after about five minutes of pure facial pain. There I rested, confident that Nordstrums personnel would be used to guys who are a bit aged and not too savvy about their products. I would have to tell no one there, I knew in my heart, that I was a Twit with only one follower.
I made it home. Harvey waited to go outside. My bad humor was in full bloom, so I told him that his meow request would be granted. I opened the door and out he went. And stopped. He waited, flicking one paw two or three times, just at the bottom of the steps. Then he turned his head to look back at me. His eyes said it all. "C'mon," I whispered, scooping him up. "No, that was not funny in the least bit." So he lays upon his two favorite newspapers in front of a fire, as his reward for putting up with me. He prefers the New York times, even though he was born in a back alley in downtown Nashville. He is a Southern intellectual. He has no drawl.
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