Dropped beachball, barbells, beach blanket, 3 sets of playing cards, and a ruffled copy of Lolita into the trunk of a rented jalopy and pointed her, and then shoved off, towards the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. I had never before treated the Coast as a destination, although I had passed through it a few times on the way to New Orleans. But now I had a mission to visit the casinos of Mississippi, and the bulk of them, for right now at least, are on the Coast.

Result of practicing with the cards: an ironic bad streak at the tables, stopped only by a beachside tryst with the sun and the novel on a warm afternoon. Result of beachside tryst: a painful and encompassing sunburn (a silky, luxuriant sentence lured me to sleep and a roasting, careless sun did the rest). Excuse for extending visit: learning that rehearsals for the 1993 edition of the Miss Teen USA contest were being held, that very weekend, in the beautiful town (Biloxi, Miss.) in which I was still loitering. A quick response allowed me to sign into a motel adjacent to the Biloxi Coliseum, the temple where the winning damsel was to be crowned.

I had already missed, a press release informed me, “Delegate Welcome Dinner and Press Party” at “Resort Motor Inn, Poolside,” and “Dance Masked Ball Mardi Gras Theme, Westside Community Center,” not to mention, if you don't mind, “Swimsuit Poster Shoot,” and on Monday I would miss “Autograph Party, Edgewater Mall” but, betwixt these dreamy and missed assignations, weekend rehearsals beckoned.

Maybe this story is about how dreams do not last. The Coliseum was cavernous and concrete-cold—not a suitable stable for princesses, or so ran a chivalrous thought. The stage was costumed shrilly—a beach theme motif that, were it the decor of your living room, would probably very quickly induce insanity.

The matinee rehearsal had not yet begun, so the young contestants dawdled below the stage. I had to weave through them to reach the pressbox. It is true that on reaching my seat I noticed that I sparkled sudoriparously—there is something to this business, gentlemen—but it is also true that I soon found myself, to my astonishment, wallowing in languor.

One must acknowledge an initial bout of starlet-gazing—it’s a chronological given—but then one’s attention meanders. I began to focus on the crew. More than a few crew-members, I observed, had greying hair that, in true Hollywood-Comes-to-Mississippi fashion, culminated above the nape in ponytails. Some of the gentlemen, again more than a few, were dressed up to resemble hip-hop gangstas—Nike or Converse basketball sneakers, baggy shorts, a loud t-shirt cradling a loud belly, earrings, Vandyke beards, and even—as simulacra to the gangstas’ ubiquitous pager—walkie-talkies belted to their waists. Make me younger, their scream went. (If Juan Ponce de León were alive today he might be well advised to search for the fountain of youth on a Hollywood set.)

And I heard the campy intonations, in further Hollywood-Comes-to-Mississippi fashion, of sportive homosexuals. Maybe one can intuit thusly (if it is still permissible to generalize): a lot of gays seem to be involved in Hollywood production.

One such chap, Bob, must’ve been something like assistant stage manager. He was the liaison, so far as I could tell, between the director and the girls (he wore a telephonic headset and relayed orders). Bob clearly had been adopted by the contestants as a sort of mascot—on stage they made playful jokes to the small crowd about him, hugged him, admitted to crushes for his person, got moony before him. Of course, I’ve seen gays before who took a shine to being the pretty girls’ pet (yes, I am very jealous), but what these girls appeared to miss was that Bob seemed to force his jocularity, that despite the squeals (which to my ears sounded insincere), and his manner of hopping rather than walking, his expression seemed always glum and even sour. So I decided here is a man who had been stuffed into a stereotype, and the armor didn’t quite fit.

Finding myself waxing pseudo-philosophically about male gays, while ensconced in the proximity of all this female beauty, inspired me to look elsewhere for inspiration. I took to reading the Miss Teen literature. Some things I learned:

Do you have any famous relatives or ancestors? “Charles Dickens, the author.”— Miss Arkansas; “My great uncle was Al Capone’s chauffeur.”—Miss Georgia; “My third cousin, Ted Nuce, is a famous bullrider."—Miss Kansas; “My mother is Barbara Mandrell and two of my aunts are Irlene and Louise Mandrell."—Miss Tennessee.

What person would you most like to meet, and why? “Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis. I feel she knows some facts involving the assassination of John F. Kennedy. I also would like to know why she hides from the press.”—Miss Idaho.

What is your favorite health, beauty, or fitness tip or routine? “I enjoy doing the Buns of Steel video.”—Miss South Dakota; “I separate my eyelashes with a safety pin.”—Miss Colorado; “Don’t hoot with the owls at night if you can’t crow with the rooster in the morning.”—Miss Georgia; “Don’t compare yourself to other girls.”—Miss Pennsylvania.

List any special training you have had or special talents: “I have had workshop training in modeling.”—Miss Alabama.

List the three most unusual things about yourself or unusual things you have done: “I’ve wanted to be successful for as long as I can remember.”—Miss Illinois; “My friend and I were robbed at gunpoint in the parking lot of a restaurant.”—Miss Indiana; “I drove through our family room with my mom when the gas pedal stuck as she pulled into our garage.”—Miss Iowa; “I have beauty marks that form the little dipper on my stomach.”—Miss Michigan; “I have never had braces; I have my own cattle; I collect spoons.”—Miss Mississippi; “I play the piano with my toes.”-Miss Utah; “I’m a tall person.”-Miss Virginia; “I’m a champion burper; I ride goats bareback.”—Miss Colorado; “I was a golf course food vendor for two days.”—Miss Rhode Island; “I took a shower with my clothes on.”—Miss Kansas; “I have been successful in cheerleading competitions.”—Miss Nebraska; “I have been in numerous Sonic commercials with Frankie Avalon.”—Miss Texas.

Three words that best describe you are: “graceful”—Miss Maine; “motor-mouth”-Miss Mississippi; “spicy"-Miss Nebraska; “tall”—Miss Rhode Island; “bubbly”—Miss West Virginia; “quick”—Miss Alaska; “erudite”—Miss Florida; “denim”—Miss Iowa; “growing”—Miss Kansas.

Describe the best experience you have had as a state titleholder: “After a speaking engagement to a local civic group, a woman told me I helped her change her thoughts about pageants, which was really a terrific feeling.”—Miss New Jersey; “When I won the title, the children asked me for my autograph. I was so thrilled, and I saw the joy in their eyes as they looked up at me.”—Miss Illinois.

I toyed with the notion of interviewing some of the young champions, but had to derail that choo choo. Some mysteries are better left unexplored. I decided to bid a quiet farewell as, outside, the sun began to droop. Slipping through the dream-scape, I thought of sweet sorrow.

• • •

We are pleased to report that a collection of eminent scribes have, with this number, joined our staff as regular contributors. Mr. Jack Butler, who birthed the stupendous novel Living in Little Rock with Miss Little Rock earlier this year, jumps aboard as Editor-at-Large. Jack won us over not only with talent and charm but with the fact that he was born in Alligator, Mississippi. (You always want Alligator natives on your side.) Mr. Clyde Edgerton, the author of more than one excellent book, now writes to us from Durham, North Carolina. The irrepressible Mr. Will D. Campbell, author of the classic Brother to a Dragonfly, among other memorable books, will be sermonizing from Jack Daniels country (Mt. Juliet, Tennessee). And the young Kentuckian, Mr. Chris Offutt, author of the acclaimed, moving, funny memoir The Same River Twice, will now write to us at inspired times.

Two clear thinkers from Massachusetts, whom we are beginning to think of as regulars, make their third consecutive appearance in our pages with this issue. Mr. Steve Vineberg, hat-wearer, drama teacher, dispenser of cinematic and theatrical insights, writes in this issue about a beautiful, but undiscussed play of Tennes- see Williams’s called The Eccentricities of a Nightingale. Previous to this essay Mr. Vineberg wrote for us about Morgan Freeman and then Lolita. Mr. Charles Taylor, the second Easterner, writes about a book from across the Atlantic that has, he demonstrates in his typically lucid and fetching manner, menacing implications. Mr. Taylor last wrote about Spike Lee in these pages, and before that about The Gun in Betty Lou’s Handbag, and how that picture told us a lot about the state of popular movies.

Only a magazine that is very fortunate latches onto writers, and people, of this quality. Thank you, sirs.

• • •

We neglected to credit the person who created the sublime rendering of Mr. Spike Lee in our last issue. That accomplished artist was Mr. Hanoch Piven. Apologies.

• • •

Mr. Tom Rankin, shooter of the photo essay in our previous issue of “peeled animals” and of the lovely book of photos, Sacred Spaces, joins us, starting with the next issue, as Photography Editor. We couldn’t have asked for anyone better. “Tell Thomas I like his photographs very much,” said Mr. Michael Stipe of the musical group R.E.M., and a snapper himself.

• • •

There’s all that, and then there’s the minefield. The Oxford American has just incorporated (as, imaginatively, ^{The Oxford American, Inc.}) and what this will enable us to do, once we wade through a jungle of sticky and prickly legalwork, is to privately issue stock. And this stock will enable us to improve the magazine by permitting us to grow wisely. It is possible, I believe, to put out a good magazine without pouring heavy amounts of capital into needless corners. However, if a magazine is to follow all its best instincts, if it is to have a functional and solid core, and if it is to accomplish all that it can and must, proper capitalization is required.

The man considered to be the most knowledgeable about the magazines in this country is Dr. Samir Husni, who, as fate would have it, instructs in the Journalism Department at the University of Mississippi—which campus of course, is located is this town. Dr. Husni is the expert to whom ABC’s Good Morning America, the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, NPR’s Morning Show, Playboy, the USA Today, and many others, all turn to when they want a soundbite or sound, longer analysis about the magazine industry. It is another lucky stroke for this magazine that a person of Dr. Husni’s caliber emerges as our Consultant.

• • •

The OA was well-represented in the latest editions of three excellent and important annuals: The Best American Sports Writing 1993, The Best American Essays 1993, and The Best American Short Stories 1993. Donna Tartt won inclusion into the Sports Writing anthology for a first-rate essay called “Basketball Season,” which first appeared in our second issue. (“This will raise my prestige immeasurably among my male acquaintances,” said young Donna of the tribute.) James Kilgo received Honorable Mention in the Essay collection for his “Coming off the Back of Brasstown Bald”—a daring and strong piece that appeared in issue two. And in the Short Story collection, two contributors were noted in the addendum “Best 100 Stories of the Year.” To wit: Cynthia Shearer for “Flight Patterns”—her unforgettable story of a father drifting past love, and Willie Morris for his hilarious and evocative profile of a high-school basketball coach named “Asphalt.” Both stories also appeared in issue two. (Two other writers with Oxford ties were likewise honored: Mr. Larry Brown for the powerful and immitigable “Birthday Party”; Mr. Barry Hannah for “Tyranny of the Visual”—my second favorite story from his Bats Out of Hell collection, and another in a long line of Hannah masterpieces. Both of these fictions debuted in Southern Review—howdy, good neighbors.)

These selections do not surprise us but it is always a merry circumstance when justice is meted out. Hosannas! Cheers! Hoopla! All is well in Pottersville.

• • •

Another neighbor, Lisa Howorth (who teaches Art History and Southern Studies at Ole Miss), is responsible, as editor, for an impressive and big book, The South: A Treasury of Art and Literature. A fair number of past and present contributors to this magazine—Eudora Welty, William Eggleston, Barry Hannah, Glennray Tutor, Florence King, Will D. Campbell, Tom Rankin, Susan Lee, Roy Blount, Jr., and Willie Morris—are represented in the Treasury. It is a fresh compendium of all things Southern—mules on one page, race cars on another, Bill Traylor near George Ohr, W.C. Handy & Lynyrd Skynyrd, possum, quilts, bourbon, grits, and more than we can mention.

• • •

At times, we here at OA headquarters like to think of the magazine as, well, more than a magazine: a gilded olive branch, perhaps, swayed gently by the breath of Venus. There are those moments when, spying out the window, roses sunning on the sill (next to dead wasps), we think of the warmth of blood coursing through the veins of our contributors. Case in point: in our last issue we had to report an outbreak of fighting between two locals at a late-night “literary” gathering. The “two belligerent locals” may now be safely named: Billy Smith, photogra- pher, of Oxford and John Hester, writer, of nearby Sallis. Both have good work that appears in this issue. Maybe even more importantly: Messrs. Smith and Hester are now thick buddies. Once their hands surrounded each other’s gullets; today, they toddle around party floors, slapping—companionably—the other’s back, enjoying an even and hearty friendship. They laugh, they glow, they discuss the mysteries of life: girlfriends, domestic beer, Elvis, war, in that order.

With the publication here of Hester, Smith, Morris, Pitts, Baker, and with other handsome locals on deck, pluming, there are rumblings of an emergence: a sort of “Hack Pack”—youthful, zesty, theatrical, adept, foppish (let the criticism be heard too), bibacious. We are perhaps too close to judge disinterestedly, but the impression, nonetheless, is that there are traces of talent here.

• • •

We are in the process of turning from bulk-rate to second-class mailing. I’m not one to criticize the government, but bulk-rate mailings seem to get bottom-of-the-barrel treatment from our postal workers, bless their hearts otherwise. If you have trouble with your subscription, please call me at 601-236-1836.

• • •

A few eager notes about our next number: The Year in Southern Literature, Michelle Pfeiffer, Junior Kimbrough, Blue Mountain, S. Morris on Pajamas, Blount, Jr., on a Bicycle. It’s pretty much all there.

Finally, we gratefully acknowledge the good citizens who read our little magazine, and we wish them the happiest of holidays.

Marc Smirnoff

editor