I make Biloxi Blues (part 1)

I play at Bayou Vista Golf Course in Biloxi. A course not as sophisticated as Walwa Public. Oil scrapes would have been preferable to greens that you could produce if you set the Victa to 1 on the paddock outside the Fawkner Public Baths. I think the green fees were $20 with a cart! I can’t figure what tee belongs with what greens. I cut across a pair. They explain that I have just hit off the first tee but putted out on the 6th. They are very friendly and ask me to join them. Thank Christ. Quite literally. I’m playing with Mitch and Sonny. Sonny is Mitch’s pastor. This will come to be a recurring theme on this trip. I’m not sure if it is some great galactic conspiracy to have someone as godless as me running into people of faith, or that there is an awful lot of people of faith in this country. As you would expect, they are terrific fellows. However, Sonny does chide Mitch for being “Michelle”, when he leaves a putt short. When he over compensates and putts it long past the hole, “Michelle becomes Hercules”. Anyway I hack around for a 47. Sonny and Mitch have to leave after 9 due to another commitment. Also, Sonny is a little worried about all the lightning about. If a local with God on his side is worried, that is good enough for an agnostic to call it quits.

I decide to take the tour of the Presidential Library of Jefferson Davis, the Confederate President during the Civil War. Does this really count as being President? It is not my country and I realise that there are some sensitivities still at play here –but when I see books in the gift store with titles such as “Jefferson Davis was right” and “The South was right”. Really? Despite the whole slavery thing? This whole thing is pretty fucking offensive – even for an insensitive prick like me. I take the tour, which is quite interesting. But no mention of slavery. I have a long talk with the curator after the tour. This is a very pleasant spot by the by. We are sitting in rocking chairs on the front veranda of Davis’ house overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. The name of the place is Beauvoir (named by Davis’ wife) which is French for beautiful view and so it is. After a time, I ask why there is no mention of slavery. He responds that the war was not about slavery, but rather about states’ rights. I very politely put it to this southern gentleman that this seems like horseshit. Things get pretty frosty (for 100 degree day) pretty quickly. Maybe I should have just let it slide. High horse Brian can be hard to take. Not sure. I need a beer.

After the home visit with Mr D I call into the Hog’s BBQ and Blues. I belly up to the bar (how good am I getting with this American talk?) and I am soon joined by Hulio – maybe Julio? Spellcheck prefers Julio. So does Paul Simon. Hulio/Julio is a Puerto Rican born; USA raised 62 year old man. Hulio/Julio explains to me that he doesn’t look 62 because he swims an hour a day, does an hour of weights and an hour of cardio. Hulio/Julio might get away with saying he is 61, but I doubt it. Each time one of the barmaids comes in, they mop their brow and say something to the effect, “I’m hot!” To which Hulio/Julio responds “I know it baby”. These are lasses who are in their 20s maybe early 30s mind you. “Isn’t she hot Brian?” “She is a pleasant looking young woman”. “He says it nicer than you Hulio/Julio”. “If you go out with me Honey child, my man Brian will come too and talk that pretty Australian stuff”. I’ve become Hulio/Julio’s wingie. (Another bizarre thing: Hulio/Julio is drinking wine. There is no standard drink thing here. They fill it to the brim for $3. I’ve seen this same thing at every bar I’ve been to). Hulio/Julio tells me that what he works on is that 1 in 10 women respond. I can’t imagine Hulio/Julio having better than 1 in 10,000 success rate and only then if he came across Helen Keller. The Puerto Rican/Australian answer to Frank and Dino comes to an end. I couldn’t convince Hulio/Julio that there are less than 100 million Australians. “If that is true how come you Aussies keep bobbing up everywhere”. Nor could I convince him that we don’t belong to the UK. “How come then they have their flag on yours?” Hulio/Julio has been mightily entertaining and accordingly I promise him a job at Crown Sydney as the head croupier (this is his field). As a minority shareholder (I think James has more than me) I’m pretty sure I can do this. So done deal. My work is done here.

• A black cat
• An Aussie handbag