[09 Aug 2004 | Monday]
I think it was about 12 hours into my family reunion in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee before my dear cousin Flynn asked me what was up with my flipping between a quasi-British accent and a quasi-Dixie one. It seems that the drunker I got, the more British I sounded. What the fuck is up with that? This concerns me deeply. I know that I'm a chameleon and that I tend to talk like whoever I am around (I blame this on an itinerant childhood andÂ the instinct not to have the shit kicked out of me for sounding different) but here I am in the deep dark Tennessee wilderness and I'm talking like some extra on the set of Alfie (and not the forthcoming remake god forbid). Does this mean that I'm Anglicized beyond repair? If anything, my heart belongs to Dixie. I feel most comfortable south of the Mason-Dixon line, I love chicken-fried steak and kale, and I can drink Mountain Dew with the best of them. I can see spending my Saturday nights at the poker machine down the convenience store. I would be happy with a fix-er up-er muscle car permanently tuned to the classic rock station's block party weekend. My grandpappy's name was Council Virginius Libeau and he ate every meal out of a soup bowl, all the parts mixed together, because "it all goes down the same place anyhow". My grandma's idea of salad was iceberg lettuce, tomatoes, and Miracle Whip. So why am I talking goddamned British when I'm hopped up on moonshine? Do I need some kind of Southern retrogression therapy, or have I just strayed so far from my roots that I can't see back?