About an hour ago while grocery shopping I saw a boy of about 8 or 9, obviously developmentally disabled, sitting in a cart with an iPod bobbing his head in classic "white people listening to rap" fashion and loudly chanting "PUT 'CHA LIPS ON MY DICK, BITCH" over and over.
Overwhelming Visual Awesomeness alert: the
White Sox American Giants took on the Detroit Tigers Stars in historic duds for the 14th annual Negro League tribute night. Back in the day, the two cities took turns hosting the Negro Leagues East-West Classic, or all-star game.
Holy crap. Olde-timey awesome.
(Note: I wrote this during the recent flooding but it got bumped from the schedule. Since I kinda like it, I'm running it even though it is dated now. It owes a serious debt to Ben Metcalf's "American Heartworm" for the inspiration and P. Hawkins for the title, which he improvised as we drove over the muddy, shit-colored ditch itself.)
Since I never tire of lobbing molotovs at inaccurate or misguided aspects of American folklore, let's spend a few minutes talking about the "mighty" Mississippi River. It occupies a special place in our history, especially in the West and Midwest. The Mighty Mississip! Old Man River! Big Muddy! Mile Wide and a Mile Deep! What an awe-inspiring force of nature, one whose imprint is visible not only in our art and culture but also on the very shape of the country we call home.
In reality, the Mississippi River is a glorified creek that floods like a little bitch at the first sign of rainclouds. This incontinent drainage canal – stagnant, baby-shit brown, and stinking to high heaven – originates in a nondescript pond in Minnesota and steals flow from the actual major rivers in the US (Ohio, Missouri, Arkansas, and others) in order to create the illusion of being impressive. If it were Mighty, it wouldn't flood three or four states every time the Midwest gets some rain. Nor would it need the herculean efforts of the Army Corps of Engineers just to make it all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. Nor would it destroy a few billion dollars' worth of communities every ten to twelve months because it is better suited to appearing in Mark Twain stories than actually carrying water, a task at which the average backyard creek is better.
Neither its width (max. 3000 feet, generously rounded to a mile) nor its depth (an average of less than 100 feet, a.k.a. a mile) suggest that it is a force of nature to be reckoned with. In many places it maintains a navigable shipping channel of as little as six feet. The next time someone idicates "respect" for it (i.e., blatant ignorance of the fact that living next to something that floods every summer is a bad idea) please be sure to punch them for me. Aside from its appearance and reverential mythologization in a few colorful pieces of literature, the Mississippi's gift to the American Midwest has been to bring destruction – from the rifle- and smallpox-bearing Europeans who came to do away with its initial inhabitants to the steamboats integral in the slave trade to the annual devastating floods and finally to the riverboat casinos which expand the River's capacity to destroy beyond the physical plane and into the psychological.
I do not understand why people of the region – Iowans, rural Illinoisans, Missourians, etc – hold annual festivals commemorating something whose only contribution to their lives is to submerge all that they own in fetid water on a regular basis. I do not understand why they speak reverently of something that exists only to take their money and teach them lessons in hopelessness, chaos, and the unfathomable stupidity of rebuilding their homes and lives so near something intent on destroying both. Fuck you, Mississippi River. Respect is given only to rivers that put up at least the appearance of a fight against the waters they purport to tame.