I grew up in a small town in a poor, largely rural state during John Hughes’ box office reign. Like everyone else our age, my high school friends and I were smitten with Molly Ringwald and her humble thrift store chic. We longed for a Melrose Avenue or a Decatur Street where we, too, could find soiled brocade vests and bolo ties worn by strangers with lingering, pungent body odors. We longed for the poignancy of a suburban upbringing: the cool cars, the shimmering nightlife, the painful socio-economic class struggles. Each and every one of us had faith that, like Molly, we would someday triumph over our dysfunctional families and our castes to mature into lithe, beautiful swans.
Most fundamentally, we agreed that to achieve our Pretty-in-Pink dreams, we all had to leave. Our state, much less our town, could never encompass our ambitions–especially after our transformations. As soon as we’d developed our proverbial wings, we were all planning to fly. Goodbye, Mississippi. See you at Christmas. Maybe.
Two decades later, I’ve mellowed. (I can’t speak for the others, since I no longer speak to any of them.) Like Dorothy Gale, I’ve come to realize that I can always find happiness close-at-hand, and, extending the metaphor, that the world beyond my front steps often contains evil witches, needy friends, and singing flying monkeys. As a result, my attitudes toward my hometown have changed: these days, I really enjoy going back to Mississippi. It’s pretty, and it’s predictable, like mom’s pineapple upside-down cake-in-a-box. Granted, I can’t imagine moving there full-time, but it’s a great place to visit.
How sad, then, to read that the distinguished senators and less-distinguished representatives from the Hospitality State have chosen to be so inhospitable to the adult novelty industry. Where, oh, where, will the hordes of college students, drunk off their asses on cheap vodka and Pabst Blue Ribbon, go to get their poppers fix at 3am?
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