Tim Murphy

Reporter

Tim Murphy is a reporter in MoJo's DC bureau. Last summer he logged 22,000 miles while blogging about his cross-country road trip for Mother Jones. His writing has been featured in Slate and the Washington Monthly. Email him with tips and insights at tmurphy [at] motherjones [dot] com.

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"So What Do You Think of the South?"

—By Tim Murphy

| Wed Aug. 11, 2010 8:49 PM PDT

Oxford, Mississippi—For most of the month I've spent in the South, it's felt as if we were just collecting the raw ingredients (sometimes literally) of Southern culture—a revival meeting here, some historical revisionism there, a splash of moonshine and hospitality after dinner; Oxford, home of Ole Miss, William Faulkner, bookstores, good music, and even a few liberals, feels like someone's finally taken the time to cook a nice meal. It's the South simultaneously at its most introspective and its most defiant.

In other words, it's the perfect place to consider a question that's been nagging at me—and asked of me, time and time again—since we first crossed the Potomac a month ago: What do you think of the South?

My answer is colored, as you might expect, by the conversations I've had. There were some consistent complaints, for instance: Many of the folks we stayed with were college-educated coastal transplants who came for the jobs but wanted out (a few were Southern-grown but still, in a way, looking for something bigger, be it Asheville, or Austin, or New York City). Invariably they would complain about the social traditions—all the pretty young women are already married, or looking to get married quick, or not married at the moment but dragging around a couple of kids; you can't meet anyone new unless you're active in a church or a rotary club; you can't talk about politics—ever; you can't buy liquor on Sundays; you can't buy liquor at all; some of the conversations you hear when people drop their guard and run their mouth will freeze your Yankee blood. And so on.

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A Sense of Where We Are: Oxford Town

—By Tim Murphy

| Tue Aug. 10, 2010 10:02 AM PDT

View Westward Expansion in a larger map

Oxford, Mississippi—Expect a longer post on Oxford; it may be the single most complex and fascinating place we've stopped in the South. For now, though, I'll just offer up a question: In the last half century of American history, has anyone had a more improbable career arc than James Meredith?

After successfully becoming the first black student at Ole Miss in 1962 and then getting shot while walking across the state, Meredith went on to work for bigoted North Carolina senator Jesse Helms, and endorsed KKK leader David Duke's campaign for governor of Louisiana. The closest comparable I can think of would be Eldridge Cleaver—from Black Panther icon to protege of Glenn Beck's idol, W. Cleon Skousen—but I'm not sure that really comes close. Anyways, let me know who I've missed in the comments.

A Good Idea at the Time: Drive-Through Daiquiris

—By Tim Murphy

| Mon Aug. 9, 2010 7:09 PM PDT

Natchitoches, Louisiana—Ok, this is a terrible photo. But you know what else is terrible? The concept of drive-through daiquiri joints.

Our guide in Natchitoches (pronounced "Nachos," I think*) told us the two most Natchitoches things we could do—other than go on a B&B-crawl—would be to go to a Chevron and buy meat pies, and then wash them down with drive-through daiquiris. What could go wrong?

I kind of admire the sheer audacity of the drive-through bar. And to be sure, there's a certain novelty and convenience factor: You just roll on in, place your order for small, medium, large, or "family size" (not a typo), and wait for your change; it's really the only reminder in Natchitoches that you're still in the same state as Bourbon Street. But the drive-through daiquiri place also feels a lot like cigarette ads circa 1960, when they'd have the little animated magical pony (or whatever) imploring kids to buy Marlboros. I ordered something called "Skittles";—"Purple Pill" is also quite popular. Both sound like their target audience is only just getting into chapter books.

All of that's kind of a sidecar to the primary flaw, which is that you're served a delicious, cold, slushy, alcoholic beverage in a styrofoam cup, with a straw, in your car. And so, invariably, are your friends, too. You're also probably really thirsty, because the average August high in Natchitoches is 153-degrees, and, like I said, you have this giant, delicious, cold, (occasionally family-sized) slushy beverage that tastes like liquified spiked sour patch kids, just sitting there, a foot-and-a-half from the steering wheel and melting fast. None of us broke any laws, rest assured. But they certainly make things easy.

On the other hand, if you drive an hour west of Natchitoches with your Purple Pill, you'll be in the great state of Texas, where, as MoJo reported in March, cops can arrest you for drinking while you're still in a bar. So it could be worse.

*Actually, Natchitoches is pronounced "Nack-a-dish." Just like it looks. As for its sister city, Nacogdoches, Texas, I have no clue.

The View From My Windshield: Last Line of Defense

—By Tim Murphy

| Mon Aug. 9, 2010 4:14 PM PDT

Simmesport, Louisiana—As if New Orleans didn't have enough to worry about in the area of environmental catastrophes, here's another one: The Mississippi River wants out. If it weren't for the Army Corps of Engineers' Old River control system, which carefully manages the flow of water from the Mississippi down into the Atchafalaya River, the Big Muddy would take a right just north of Simmesport and flow into the Gulf of Mexico at Morgan City, bypassing the Big Easy altogether. As John McPhee put it, "The Sixth World War would do less damage to southern Louisiana."

The Cost of Doing Business in Grand Isle

—By Tim Murphy

| Sun Aug. 8, 2010 9:59 AM PDT

Grand Isle, Louisiana—One of the three occupied campsites at Grand Isle State Park is taken up by an environmental activist in a bio-diesel bus; the other two are active in the oil industry. I get the now-familiar "we're not allowed to talk to you" from one couple involved in the cleanup. But Timmy Magnon, who's there with his wife and kids, is more open. He works in the industry (not for BP) and is camping here on a business trip; it's cheap, conveniently situated (there's a seaplane base down the street), and available on short notice.

"It was bound to happen sooner or later. All we keep saying is it's better it happened to an oil giant like BP than a smaller company that didn't have the funds to contain the spill," he says. "It's a cost of business."

Closer to the beach, a few steps past the red-and-white signs warning pedestrians to stay clear, I meet Wendy Ray and her family, visiting from New Orleans. She’s snapping photos of her kids in front of a backdrop of booms, Coast Guard vessels, mounds of sand, and orange barriers.

"Am I supposed to smile?," asks her daughter.

Wendy used to visit the park as a young biology student; she hadn't returned in 35 years, until today. "It was more natural then," she says. No kidding. The beach today, in addition to the sights mentioned above, also carries with it a thick aroma of petroleum, which Wendy says reminds her of fried fish.

Over the last few weeks, there's been a bit of a kerfuffle over reports, greatly exaggerated, that the Gulf's floating oil has disappeared. I won't really comment on that—read Mac McClelland instead—except to say that after actually seeing the town, the search for oil really misses the point. Driving down Bayou Lafourche, I passed dozens of tied-up fishing trawlers idling away the cleanup, boarded-up seafood shacks, and rows of homemade signs lambasting BP. You need to see oil in Grand Isle as much as you need to see the shark in the first hour-and-a-half of Jaws; the fallout should be enough. Anyways, there's little I can say about Grand Isle that Mac hasn't already written. So check her stuff out here, and read the rest of MoJo's full team coverage here.

Update: This just went up today, but you should really just stop what you're doing and read Julia Whitty's piece on what BP's scientists aren't telling us about the spill. It's probably the definitive (at this point in time) explanation of just what we're missing when pretend the oil isn't there. Seriously, check it out.