Tuesday, September 18, 2007

I Heart (Hilton) Head

I do my late-summers, early-autumns in Hilton Head (for four days). I like to escape the seasonal mid-to-high sixties of Minnesota and bask in the sultry and humid mid-eighties air of the coastal island. In fact, as I type this now, I wonder why the hell I came back.

The Island was visited by Captain William T. Hilton in 1663. He was so taken by the place that he named it after himself, and at this point I stopped reading the brochure, as I was certain that nothing in it had to do with my primary reasons for visiting the island, namely: food, booze, beaches, sex and golf.

Speaking of golf, I played the lovely and extremely well-bunkered Robbers Row course at the Port Royal Golf Club. The course is partially situated on the area of an old Union fort that was erected there after that army's successful taking of the island in 1861 at the battle of Port Royal. The eponymous "Robbers Row" was actually a street adjacent to the fort, in which con men and entrepreneurs set up shop in an attempt to extract as much cash from the Union soldiers stationed there and at this point I stopped reading the historical monuments as I was sure that there would be nothing on them regarding food, booze, beaches, sex and golf. In any case, the scorecard affixed to the steering wheel of my cart partially filled the void.

Aside from the golf, the booze, beautiful beaches and the, er, sex, the seafood was abundant and delicious. Which was unfortunate as I learned that if I eat too much shellfish, I get the squirts something fierce. Notwithstanding, I enjoyed an enormous mound of (incredibly seasoned) peel-and-eat shrimp whilst watching the Pack stomp the thuggish Giants at the resort's bar on Sunday. And now, I can't see myself doing it any other way, diarrhea be damned.

Oh, and I forgot the camera, but here's a shot I probably would have taken anyway. (WARNING: Extremely safe for work.)

But on Monday, our last day on the Island, I heard the horrible news from Las Vegas. While struggling to comprehend the tragedy that took place there through my garbled perception of reality (2 bloody maries, 1 beer), I penned the following prose poem on a vomit comet plane bound for the Twin Cities in a fit of amusement, inspired by our old pal, Bill Holm.

Seafood diarrhea is the metaphor here, at once vile, but also cleansing of our bowels. What does this tell us about ourselves?

That you shouldn't eat too much she crab soup with Junglings Lager.

September 17, 2007 - Las Vegas News

Late summer / early autumn in Hilton Head.
Humid mid-eighties feed my soul.
Don't ever want to leave you.
Oh, wondrous paradise named by and for Captain William Hilton!
I love you for your food, booze, beaches (sex) and golf.

Golf - ah there's the ticket!
Ground my club at Robbers Row.
Ball richoceting off magnolias
that shade an old Civil War fort (and the con men who serviced it).
My memory fails at the rest: no booze, food, beaches, or sex.
The ThunderStick fails me too!
But my scorecard offers respite.

Cursed shellfish! Thy flavour sweet, delicious.
Only to betray me in the wee hours -
Poop, literally from the bowels of hell.
I defy you!
I shall sup on shrimp once more,
while watching the Pack triumph.

Hark! What's this on the Today Show
While I pack my soiled garments away for flight?
OJ!
Arrested!
Again!

OJ says
He!
Didn't!
Do!
It!
Again!

And here I am, a thousand miles from my ThunderJournal.
And I have to poop.
Again!
(Damned shrimp!)

In a time when the Strib
Can find stupid ways to run stupider op-eds,
Why can't we free
OJ,
So he can find the real armed robber?

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