me: “You know racism when you see it, right? Did you hear anything particularly racist in Zell Miller’s convention speech…?”
hood:
me: “Besides the obvious racism inherent in a southern drawl, I mean…?”
hood:
me: “…Because I sure as hell didn’t.”
hood:
me: “…Didn’t find the speech all that frightening, either.”
hood:
me: “But then, I’ve never been one to fear a 70-something-year-old man—especially one armed with nothing but an off-the-rack suit and a pile of written grievances.”
hood:
me:
hood:
me: “Okay, well maybe Jimmy Carter…”
hood: “I’m with you there, brother. That ol’ boy says things that could turn a Negro breadpudding white.”
Ya gotta wonder what the Hood thinks of Habitat for Humanity. I mean, they’re buildin’ houses for some coloreds, for cryin’ out loud.
I’ll ask him next time I see him.
Layne’s piece was either a parody, or he’s stumbled on a hidden cache of angel dust.
Reno showgirls happened to him. They’ll steal your soul and replace it with tassles and a tube of anti-cellulite cream.
From what I hear.
In the usual tradition of making a futile and stupid gesture, I sent my Ken Layne CDs back to Scrub Jay Records. I have no desire to listen to them anymore.
I from the South, too, and I saw people like Layne while I was growing up. It’s one of the reasons I left it.
I can’t say I’d notice the difference. Sneaky bitches.