Southern Culture on the Skids

The parental unit roared into Manhat this weekend. We lived large by visiting Strawberry Fields and generally partaking in the East Coast Sodom and Gommorah enclave.

The visit provided moments of high class culture shock comedy as I took Dad to Revolution Church, the progressive pseudo-Christian skater-punk congregation headed by one Jay Bakker (yes, the late Tammy Faye's liberal son.)

Located in a mildewy bar in the hipster heaven known as Williamsburg, the bar-church is plastered with band flyers including a blasphemous shoutout for Brooklyn band, Goddamn Rattlesnake.

"I like the church, but I disapprove of that there flyer," my Dad said with a hint of resignation, the cockleberries rolling off his tongue in a lazy 'r' sound.

Out on the streets, an effiminate looking hipster spazzed out in a velvet cape, twirling around on the street corner while barking like a rabid, American Apparel-wearing dog.

"You don't see that everyday in Nashville," was my Dad's spot-on cultural commentary.