Write Your Damn Thank You Notes

MOMania, or Theresa over at the AJC, poses a timely question on her (fake) blog today: Do you make your kids write thank-you notes? You'd better believe I make my kid write thank you notes, particularly after Christmas, although I admit to getting slack, occasionally, when the slew of gifts comes in at the annual kiddy party come March. We've hardly gotten out all the Christmas notes when that CF rolls around.

Woe to the family that doesn't command the children to write thank you notes. That family will be talked about behind its back as the white trash it undoubtedly is all year long by the families that do write them. The practice of sending thank you notes down South, preferably on monogrammed stationary, is as sacred as bowing before the family portrait of Robert E. Lee every morning.

And no, emailing, blogging or YouTubing a thank you doesn't count, especially in my family as most of its members are too:

a.) arrogant
b.) drunk
c.) batty

to own or operate a computer.

Makes Tony Soprano Seem Impotent

Quote du jour: "All Meech did was walk in the spot and panties got moist."

Wow! Know who Big Meech is, white ATL? You will now. Here's the kinda throwdown, hardcore, local reporting work we've been waiting for: exposing the moguls and the scenes behind the scenes of Atlanta's music industry, and veering into something very sinister called the Black Mafia Family.

Wanna know more? Mara Shaloup has a crack investigative piece, a year in the making, in three parts, the first part being in this week's Creative Loafing. This is some serious dirt folks, appropriately titled: Hip-hop's shadowy empire. Get reading. You can thank me (and PS) later.

(Why don't I ever get invited to these kinda parties? I adore champagne. And if you're a real writer, here's your New South material just waiting there in the gutter for you to reach down and pick-up.)

Put A Stake In It, That Southern Culture Is Dead

Faulkner's not dead; he was just passed-out drunk in his coffin all this time. Talk about dredging-up the past and going places maybe we just shouldn't be going... now some wretched Faulkner family member has sold a vampire script Faulkner wrote in his I'm Really Hammered phase, one that went on for over a decade, to a Hollywood producer. The producer seems deeply enamored, bless his heart, with that absurdist stereotype of some moss-ridden, Hazel Motes-y (or is that O'Conner?) "Deep South" naturally enough. From The Guardian:

Faulkner's estate has given the script to Lee Caplin, a producer who says he would like to set it in the Deep South. Little more is known but there is a revival of interest in adapting Faulkner's work to the screen. It is said Oprah Winfrey wants to make Light in August and Caplin is looking for a writer to adapt Faulkner's 1935 story Golden Land (the only tale he actually set in Hollywood) in the twisted style of a David Lynch film.

So Big Oprah and some fucktard producer who thinks that that drooling, fake gothicist David Lynch is no doubt a brilliant filmmaker are waiting in the wings to leech off the rest of the backwater vapors? Deep South is cool, eh? Most real southerners are so Deep South stupid they'd confuse Faulkner with Colonel Sanders, although he looks an awful lot like an aging Billy Bragg in the above snapshot. (He too likes the ladies much I hear.)

How about methed-out rednecks, mega-church mentalities, gated communities, ghetto culture, I Heart Bush stickers plastered on pickup trucks, fat developers in pink shorts on manufactured golf courses, Wal-Marts and NASCAR nowadays, you clueless Hollywood dickheads? Who'd want to film that crap?

The Altar of Simplicity

How will the angels hear us now? Seems Southerners are making a less joyful noise unto the Lord. With some interesting gnashing of teeth and observations, Gainesville Times columnist, Rhonda Rich, laments how we are fast losing the lyrical beauty of our unique, southern speech. And Ms. Rich places the blame right on the bland, dumbed-down heads of our megachurch-going populace.

From today's Gainesville Times.com:

What has happened here is that the Bible Belt is no longer reading the King James version of the Bible. It, with its difficulty in language, has been traded in by the majority of Southerners for simpler translations that tell stories straight out by using today's contemporary language.

These versions are bland, uninteresting but completely understandable. By moving en mass to plainer versions of the Bible, we have sacrificed our gorgeous language, laying it, without thought or concern, at the altar of simplicity.

Ms. Rich's excellent column in full here.

I'd say language erosion is not just a southern phenomenon, and that cultural homogenization via mass media has been a more significant contributing factor than the loss of the very confounding King James Bible. Social media technologies will no doubt finish-off the victim too, given that most folks under 30 don't even bother to create complex language structure at all; rather, they furiously scratch-out acronyms, symbolic grunts and grins, and rude hand gestures via text messaging. Maybe we're de-evolving back to sign language?

Then again, when I blog, even though I try to keep it as "real" as possible, I often experiment in placing interesting words in just the appropriate places, words I'd never have a chance of utilizing in everyday interaction. Blogging offers a linguistically intriguing medium, should one care to use it that way. It's a shame so many of the most popular blogs are written by technology-motivated non-writers who lack the slightest flicker of poetic sensibility, let alone basic social skills. But that's another topic altogether.

Working with words is one of the reasons I bother to blog at all. And notice the use of language on The Colbert Report, how he plays with interesting words and unusual, chiefly snarky, interpretations in The Word segment. Perhaps mass media shouldn't be written off entirely. Just rethought. After we have, of course, stormed the Media Bastille.

Still, blaming Southern Baptists and the mega-church suburbanista crowd for all our cultural woes is always a ton of fun. Let's not give it up just yet! But if you're missing religious grandiosity in your life, as well as the King James version, I suggest you get to know the Episcopal Church service and its gorgeous, ceremonious, liturgical comforts - timelessly reassuring with a full display of the traditional grandeur of the high church, uh, performance.

I know that after a really hard, hideous week in the often pointless and culturally barren urban minefields of a relentless ATL, when I walk into an All Saints' service, where majestic voices from that stunning choir and the pipes of the blaring organ literally crash into me at first note, a power-ridden divine beauty radiates from the red and gold vaults and instantly drives doubt and despair away, renewing my psyche, my actual body, with something far more substantial.

Simplicity has its place, but should never be given a cultural credit it has not earned and does not deserve.