As with most football stadiums, Legion Field is not located in the most prestigious section of town. In fact, I have a fairly strong suspicion that a group of Auburn engineers was behind the site selection for this stadium due to its fairly frightening surroundings. Driving through a ghetto is always an unnerving experience, but perhaps even more disturbing than the temporary suspension of one's safety is the realization that countless people actually have to live in such sordid conditions. For some, this is all they know. My limited knowledge of such a world has only been gleaned from behind the favorable side of a car window and precludes me from making judgments beyond what my sensibilities can provide. It simply makes me wonder if those confined to this dismal world ever dream of breaking free from this misery of poverty, or if they even know how.
After spending so much time aimlessly wandering through Birmingham's ghetto, I decided that it was time to leave and began making my way back to more welcoming parts of the city. Unfortunately, the ghetto can be easy to get lost in as crippling poverty has the tendency to cast all of the houses in bleak uniformity. Somewhere in my efforts to leave this area I inadvertently came across a curious enterprise featuring women engaged in exotic services. Though I was initially apprehensive about frequenting such an establishment, the prominent sign out front assured me that this club was strictly for gentleman. Relieved by this reassurance, I reasoned that since I am a gentleman it would only make sense to visit a gentleman's club. While the complete retelling of my gentlemanly exploits would undoubtedly make for a rousing yarn, in the interest of keeping the post suitable for all age groups I have decided to censor all but the most innocuous references of my sordid affair. Suffice it to say that throughout my wanton exaggeration and unnecessarily "verbose prose" I remain, as always, a gentleman.
Somewhere in the middle of the reckless hedonism consuming my very soul at the Foxx Trap Gentleman's Club, I heard the unmistakable whispers of my conscious telling me to flee this place and cast aside the binding chains of debauchery. I fled as fast as my feet would carry me, knowing not where to turn to lift my soul from the trappings of such fleshly temptations. Just then, an oasis greeted my eyes as the spiritual light from a bonefied Malcolm X approved Nation of Islam salvation station nearly blinded me with its unmistakable rays of holiness. To those unfamiliar with the good work of the Nation of Islam, they boast a membership that includes such upstanding role models as Louis Farrakhan, Mohammed Ali, and Snoop Doggy Dog. Of course, any other notable members they might have is irrelevant...they had me at Snoop Dog. They quickly welcomed me with open arms and introduced me to some fairly eye-opening truths that began leading me down a path of enlightenment. Most importantly, after my time at the Nation of Islam, I learned that all of the world's problems are in fact caused by "whitey" and that as a cracker myself I should immediately repent. But repentance without transformation is worthless. I must become a new man. I therefore cast away my former slave name and am reborn today! From now on, I will be known as Mohammed al Mohammed...al Mohammed al Mohammed al Mohammed...ok, there are actually about a dozen more "al Mohammed"s that follow this but in the interest of time we'll just cut it short for now.
Armed with my newfound distrust for the white man, I left the ghetto and made my way to Birmingham's most famous magnet for hoity toity white people. The Club is where Birmingham's elite come to socialize, light cigars with hundred dollar bills, and undoubtedly talk about how much they enjoy looking down on everyone else. I mean that quite literally in that The Club is actually located on top of Red Mountain and overlooks the rest of the city. Unfortunately, it has a gated entrance so I was only able to take pictures outside like some sort of amateur paparazzi. Since I couldn't get to the white man at his favorite watering hole, I decided to go directly to the source and confront him at his home.
Actual Mt. Vernon
Rich White Guy's Mid-life Crisis/Delusions of Grandeur
One of the most interesting things about Birmingham is the huge discrepancy of wealth that exists within this city. Those that are poor barely have enough to eat while those who are wealthy can scarcely find enough outlets for their money. One such outlet that they have been able to find, however, is in the construction of grandiose homes. I suppose that if I had millions of dollars just lying around, I might also fancy myself worthy of living in a home built in the image of George Washington's abode. I would awaken each morning, stare out over the river behind my house that constituted my own private Potomac and greet the day, knowing that not only was my money well spent in this Manor of mine, but that all the world shall know that a man possessed of such great abilities has neglected to squander his talents on anything less than the noblest of pursuits. Ah yes, my own Mt. Vernon right here in Birmingham...living the dream my friend, living the dream.
After witnessing the spectacular ways in which the white man has spent his money, I decided to cool down for a bit by visiting Birmingham's Botanical Gardens. While this unusual structure might look like the sort of place a Bond villain might reside, it is actually a giant greenhouse filled with all sorts of tropical plants. This is only its temporary purpose though. Once the Mayan predictions prove true and the world ends in 2012, this is where I will start my cult as I barricade my followers (aka my 30 wives) in and utilize the greenhouse's unique thermal properties as a means to increase food production. We will grow squash, tomatoes, and plenty of grapes....I love grapes. Once word spreads of my plentiful harvest, new followers will come from miles around seeking to join my heavenly procession. What's that I hear? You want to join my cult/family of holiness once the apocalypse begins? Sure, I'll give you some lima beans...but as sure as my name is Mohammed al Mohammed you will become wife #31!!!
The Botanical Gardens also feature a Japanese exhibit that showcases not only several different types of oriental plants, but also this unique torii gate that I'm pretty sure was concealing at least fifteen ninjas. Although I enjoyed walking through this Japanese garden's peaceful trails and lush gardens very much, I was terribly disappointed that in all my searching I could not find at least one bonsai tree in the entire exhibit. How is this possible? How can it be that one would be so culturally unaware as to not include a single, solitary bonsai tree somewhere in the park? If I was the Alpha Botanical Gardner (surely such a position must exist) I would cover the entire Japanese exhibit in bonsai trees just to prove that here in Alabama we take our cultural awareness seriously. Although, I would also design tiny houses, cars, and skyscrapers in the image of Tokyo as a human sized recreation of Godzilla stomped his way through the metropolis too so perhaps it is best that my gardener status remains Beta.
Although my unequivocal hatred of the white man was now well within its third hour, the prudent teachings of the venerable Malcolm X were starting to wane a bit. After all, if the worst that the supposed white devils could do was gather in social clubs to talk about golf or construct homes designed to resemble mansions of past presidents, I'm not sure that I could completely justify their devilish status. Still, my inner rage was not completely extinguished. In my heart I knew that it would take more than a leisurely stroll through oriental gardens or a complete lack of justification to curtail my hatred. Just then, somewhere deep within the Japanese Gardens, I saw a tiny little statue smiling up at me from behind the underbrush. He was nearly hidden away, and yet his smile shone with the joviality of a man without a care in the world. Perhaps he was meant to represent a tiny little Buddha meditating on how the world can be a very silly place sometimes. I like to think so. I like to think that he was laughing at the realization that although people divide themselves into unnecessary groups, in our heart we are all still the same. And with that realization, my intense disdain of the white man abated and a calm resided in my heart once more. It took a statue of an Asian man for me to let go of my hatred for whitey...I suppose a mirror could have done the same.
And so my day of exploration in Birmingham has come to an end. In just a few hours I managed to experience the hallmarks of this city's tumultuous past, yet still witness all the progress we've made along the way. It is a city like no other. A jewel of the south. No other city has more staunchly clung to its southern roots while still embracing the notion that change is inevitable, our spirit is often tempered because of it. We are not the city of Bull Connor, of firehoses and police dogs turned loose on our citizens as the rest of the nation slowly shakes its head. We are a city embracing a newfound identity. An identity hewn from the rocks of Red Mountain and forged in the furnaces of the countless steel mills that still echo of this city's industrial past. And out of those furnaces arises a burgeoning skyline that soars far higher than the billowing smokestacks that were once Birmingham's pride. For what this city was has helped shape it into what it is. And just as the silent smokestacks of the Sloss furnace slowly retreat behind the overarching shadows cast by numerous skyscrapers, so too has the bigotry of a bygone era given way to the pursuit of happiness that is every man's right. The early morning sun of a new day rising casts its first rays upon the highest skyscrapers in this fair city and ushers in a new era. From high atop my perch I witness it all as I open my window each morning and am greeted by the urban landscape before me. Oh what a time to call this place home...oh what a magical city.
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