Day 9: Little River, Southport and Other Fun

As promised by The Dingess, here's the next installment...

Yep. Still more pickin’. And you know what? Just like Julia and Brother Peter never tired of having their bodies kissed by the sun, I never tired of pickin’ with The Mayor. It was actually more lookin’ than pickin’, but I don’t try to teach Southerners how to talk. Losing battle. See “bowl” for proof. So off to Little River, South Carolina and Southport, North Carolina we went in search of priceless artifacts and treasures.

I have no idea what this is, other than creepy.

Little River had a flea market on the side of the road that we saw on the way to Myrtle Beach. I’ve gone to my fair share of flea markets in my years, but this one was one of the worst. It was mostly cell phone accessories, candied pecans, and other former dumpster dwelling rubbish. What they did have that might meet my criteria of even being worth a look was ridiculously priced. People…just because it’s old, doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s worth a million dollars. And by old, I mean 5-10 years old, not the Elgin Marbles or the Ark of the Covenant. Let me drop some knowledge Little River Flea Market vendors - Indy isn’t traversing the globe, fighting snakes and outrunning rolling boulders for your $15 copy of Twilight.  And your 2005 Baltimore Orioles Media Guide isn’t such a rare and awesome find because your talentless son, who never made it to The Show, is in it. Really? You have 5,000 golf clubs that you’ve somehow accumulated and you want to price them as though they are brand spanking new at the Bass Pro? They just need to have the mud and human scalp tissue scrubbed off with a Magic Eraser and Dawn dish washing detergent, be regripped due to dry rot and have the shafts unbent. Other than that, your price is fair, Mr. Redneck. By the way, your Confederate Flag golf bag is a very classy item. Can I order three?

Needless to say, I bought nothing. The Mayor was somehow able to find a few items for resale at his store, but that was about it. Disappointing trip, but as The Mayor always says, “You never know. The fun is in the hunt.” As the Budweiser commercial guys would say in response, “True.”

Apparently Southport is the Hollywood of the South due the number of things filmed there. What gives? Here’s a short list: Dawson’s Creek (that show sucked, but gave us Joshua Jackson, who rocked it like a Jovi concert on Fringe), Under the Dome (three episodes on the DVR, so the jury is out), I Know What You Did Last Summer (pretty decent, not great), Nicholas Sparks' Safe Haven with Josh Duhamel and Julianne Hough (looks REALLY lame and crappy, but the town acts as though it's Citizen Kane), Firestarter (starring a post-E.T. Gertie just about the time she started hitting the sauce), Crimes of The Heart (never saw it and its IMDB description kinda makes me want to die slowly in a bakery accident), Weekend at Bernie’s (Andrew McCarthy at his best other than St. Elmo’s Fire, Pretty in Pink, Less Than Zero or the Oscar-nominated Mannequin, and who can forget the critically-acclaimed Weekend at Bernie’s II?)

And somewhere in the middle was this little place…

There were two highlights of the day. The first was the call The Mayor got from his wife, while they were all jet skiing, saying, “I think we lost Julia and Peter.” What, pray, does “lost” mean in that sentence? Does it mean that we lost them at sea and maybe they’ll be found in Davey Jones’ locker or on the bow of the Titanic proclaiming royalty over the globe? Or does it simply mean that y’all got separated while shopping for side meat at the Food Lion? Do we need to rustle up a posse to comb the Intracoastal Waterway and North Carolina beaches? What, exactly, does a Southern woman mean when she says “lost?” I know that “bowl” is a homonym, so what else might “lost” mean? Turns out that they had gotten separated at sea, but were still alive and well, which is good. I can’t take care of four Dings alone. I don’t want to be a single parent (or the crazy cat guy).

The second highlight was our stop at God’s gift to fast food restaurants in the South, Bojangles. Who do I consult about getting one of these in The Lou? Seriously. Meant to be just a stop for a snack and an unsweetened tea, because sweet tea is liquid filth unleashed upon the South by the devil, himself, it turned out to be the best of our Bojangles visits. This particular location carried the four-pack of their French fry seasoning, which was excellent since one acted as though such an item did not exist and another’s inventory had been depleted. However, the other much more awesome thing was when I asked if they sold any Bojangles merchandise, such as the t-shirts or hats the employees wore. While being informed that they did not, the manager said if he had one in back, it was mine for $10. I bowed my head and prayed for this Bojangles blessing. My prayer was heard and answered as he came back with a brand new cap for me melon. The exchange was made and the BOJ hat was placed atop the dome. For one brief, shining moment, all was right in the world.

See the few photos I took on Day 9 HERE.