Myrtle Beach

Ahhh.

That's how I still feel after spending last week at a condo in Myrtle Beach.

Again, that's: Ahhh.

I left last Friday amidst a shitstorm at work. Major reconcepting of a major campaign. Due in days. And now I was hightailing it outta there for a week, which put them down a writer.

Nick, my art director, summed it up. "Fuck, dude."

I did that little dance where you click your heels together in mid-air.

Actually, I don't shake work off that easy. I was still somewhat concerned about the reconcepting as my taxi nudged toward JFK.

But by the time Lauri and I got to the airport, my concern level had been downgraded from "somewhat" to "vaguely." A blue on the alert scale: Guarded, but don't let the terrorists stop you from traveling or they'll win.

Speaking of terrorists, those bastards got something right for once. After making us wait in endless lines, remove our laptops, take off our shoes, toss our lighters and spread like drug smugglers while some bored TSA official wands us, they actually did us a solid with the whole liquid/gel thing.

Let me explain.

By limiting the amount of luggage we are allowed to bring on the plane, boarding and de-planing is now a lovely experience. Fast. Efficient. No Oakley-wearing douchbags elbowing you in the head as they panic to remove their oversized overhead luggage. No pricks blocking the drink cart, so they can retrieve a Golfer's Digest from their stowed overnight bag. No confused "bag ladies" staring vacuously up and down the isle to be sure they have their purse, handbag, rolling luggage, copy of Vogue, laptop and frilled shawl.

I'm not saying these characters aren't on the plane. They are, but their shit is stowed safely beneath them, so they have nothing to fiddle with. I picture them chewing on the emergency instructions cards, crunching the ice from their complimentary sodas. (Must get to luggage!)

The flight itself was quick. You know: Fasten seatbelts, turn off cell phones. Taxi, takeoff. Soda? Chips? Upright positions, welcome to Raleigh. You'll find your luggage somewhere inside.

My parents met us outside, where I was sucking down a cigarette. By now my work concern level was down to green. All clear: Osama's dead and Iran loves us.

We drove down to Myrtle the next day. My brother and sister, brother and sister-in-law and three neieces and nephews. It was the first time I'd been in 10 years. I actually lived there during the summer of '94. A lot has changed.

I lived in Calabash, NC and worked in North Myrtle Beach, SC. The ride took about 20 minutes on a good day and you passed a lot of nothing on your way. Some BBQ restaurants, scattered strips of shops, a Jesus sign or two. Things didn't get commercial until you were right at Barefoot landing. And they didn't get truly tacky until you were into Myrtle Beach proper.

No more. Like a spreading fungus, the tacky has worked its way up Highway 17, obliterating old landmarks, swallowing genuine trashy southern culture whole in the plastic jaws of molded shark entryways that front the ubiquitous Waves stores. You can't throw a golf ball without hitting a mini golf center. Courses that look like volcanoes, or pirate ships, or that have an aviation theme, or a jungle theme. Then there's the go-carts. A NASCAR go-cart amusement park with six separate tracks. Or, if NASCAR isn't your bag, you can go to the Formula One go-cart amusement park. There's even a place that has both go-carts and mini-golf. It's called "Fun World," a name that conjures two guys sitting at a table kicking around names until one finally says: "Fuck it, we'll just call the goddamned thing 'Fun World.'"