Friday, August 10, 2012

Savannah, I Bid You Adieu.

Nearly seven years ago, I moved to Savannah (it was actually Garden City, but who gives a fuck about that place, other than its very own YouTube-Famous Shane Lee) and thought that I might have made a huge mistake. If it's not obvious, I was from a rural part of central Missouri, which ultimately means that although I know very well how both indoor and outdoor plumbing works, I was pretty much a nineteen-year-old, corn-fed hillbilly who had no fucking idea what the hell was going on around me. I know, I know, this is hard to swallow (that's what she said!), but it's true. I have had a boating license and hunting license since I was 13, I've bucked hay and steered calves for money, and I know what cow shit smells like. True facts. Sad, true facts.

I digress.

I moved into a small apartment during Tropical Storm Tammy into what is possibly the saddest and most ghetto part of Chatham County, and honestly, I immediately wanted to go home. However, I couldn't for reasons I won't indulge on this damned contraption. I had to live here, and as much as I hated it in the beginning, I grew to love Savannah, especially after I turned twenty-one, which makes a whole hell of a big difference here. I learned a lot about the South (always with a big "S"), and here are some lessons that I'll be taking with me to that one place I'm moving:

1. When someone says, "Bless your heart," it's not meant to be a compliment.

As much as I've heard this said to me, I've come to the understanding that "Bless your heart" can be translated to "I pity you for being retarded/simple/ugly/something negative." It's a way for a local to absolve them of any feelings of guilt or representation of bad taste when they insult you like this. Why say, "I really don't care about your problems, because you are below me," when one can say, "Oh, bless your heart!" and get on with their egocentric lives? It works, and I've proudly never used it in a serious way. I mostly just mock people who can't confront me and call me out-right retarded. It's sad, really.

In the Midwest, we don't give a shit about your feelings, and fuck saving face. If you're retarded, we're going to point at you and say, "You there, Murphy, are a bona fide retard of the special kind, and I'm going to laugh at you and your misgivings." The lack of blunt, unapologetic opinions in Savannah is nice, but it grows on you, causing one to believe that every nice thing a stranger says to you is actually a euphemism for a terrible insult on your part.

Bless their little hearts, they just don't know any better.

"Oh, look Johnathan! He thinks he's people, bless his heart."

2. Paula Deen just isn't that special.

Hailing from a shoddy restaurant located in Port Wentworth and gaining some kind of notoriety later in her life, Paula Deen really isn't that special. For all that it's worth, I recommend avoiding The Lady and Sons for its overpriced buffet tables of food that my mother can make for you (if she likes you) and with significantly less butter. I've never met the woman personally, but damn. I'm pretty sure she plays a huge role in the obesity epidemic of the United States. And her peach cobbler doesn't taste that good, anyway.

It's not all bad, though. Ms. Deen does portray the Savannahian pretty well. She drinks copious amounts of wine, has that voice that makes you think you're both in a hurry and relaxed at the same fucking time (ultimately causing repetitive aneurysms), and she puts butter, ranch dressing, or brown gravy on everything.

Seriously, there are better local restaurants to go to than this buffet o' bust-a-gut. Also, it would be interesting to watch a Paula Deen vs. Wilford Brimley Thunderdome fight. Man, that would be awesome.

"Hey, y'all! Meet my source of mind control!"

3. No one knows how to drive on Fridays or when it's raining.

Don't leave your house until after 6:30 on Fridays, because the rumor around here is that all the looney bins in Chatham County unlock their doors and leave a bowl of keys at the door. I've never seen such inane driving skills in my life (except that one time I saw a drunk guy driving a tractor. That was hilarious.), and I've never recorded as long of a continuous fear for my life ever. No one knows how to fucking drive on Fridays in this town; it's as if they left their motor skills and reflexes at the office and said, "Fuck it, I've gone too far. I'm not going to walk back to the office now and collect two very important brain items. It's Friday for Cthulhu's sake!"

When it rains, just stay inside or where you are, because every single idiot on the road is trying to avoid raindrops. It rains here nearly every day in the late summer months, but it just doesn't stick with these assholes. Don't listen for thunder to find out if it's raining; just time how many seconds there are between lightning strikes and ambulance sirens.

I've always wanted to sit at an intersection on Abercorn and give scores on accidents.

Look out motherfuckers! Granny's got the keys, and she sees puddles!

4. It's possible to be a high-functioning alcoholic. 

What brings everyone together here is the bevy of bars (dive and fancy alike) in this town. City Market is a bastion of alcoholism, and it's the only nightlife that exists here. The bar is where you meet the love of your life, get a job offer, learn how to Wobble, meet some really interesting people, or even get so shit-house drunk the bartender drives you home. It's where all demographics unite and figure out the velocity of a home-run hit on a napkin (as well as other world problems). And you know what? Your boss is probably just as hungover as you are the next day, which means everyone is equal in the eyes of booze. 

It's also how I got all these ideas for my posts. Thanks, bartenders and bar owners of Savannah. 

It's not a prank. It's a really complex Glass Harp.

5. There's no place like it.

The only thing I can compare this place to is the very old television show Northern Exposure, only bigger. The city is its own bubble of weirdness, achieving a strangeness that doesn't seep to nearby towns and awards it the name "Charleston's Promiscuous Sister." The epic weirdness that emanates from this place is overwhelming, which makes for a great location, but it can't be home for me. 

Everyone outgrows this town and its attributes at some point in their lives, but it's a sad goodbye nonetheless. In the seven years I've lived here, I've met many wonderful people, made some pretty bad-ass friends, and learned what a "buggy" was. Hell, my life started here, if you think about it hard enough. 

Thanks Savannah, you crazy-ass town of drunkenness. I'll miss you and your gross as fuck papermill smells. 

And for the last damn time, it's a SHOPPING CART, not a buggy. Jesus.

Don't fret! There is a new blog for even more potty-mouthed complaints about the new city I'll be living in! There isn't anything on it, yet, but soon enough you'll be pissing yourself with laughter again! Farewell, Savannahians! It was fun!