Epilogue

My coworker/friends built Tom a place to dry out. Called the "Nine Lives Kitty Rest and Rehabilitiation Center", it is a nice atmosphere for watching the pink elephants, spiders, etc. that fly past.

The sign says "DO NOT give this cat any alcohol. Detox in progress."

Erie, PA and Home Again

BRRRRRRR!!! Looks like I need more than a short sleeve T-shirt out here.

The last stop was the Four Creeks B & B in the sleepy little suburb of Girard, PA. Shawn and Jeannie (left) are the innkeepers there, having recently come over from England. They were really cool, and their property has lots of room to grow.

Jeannie, it turns out, has done the caregiving stint too. She took care of her husband (injured in a car accident) for 15 years, while managing a family and full-time job. I asked her how she did it, and she shrugged. "At some point, you just go on Autopilot. Things need to get done, and somehow they get done."

In a way, it was the perfect note on which to end my vacation. People survive. They take care of each other, have a drink and some conversation and a lot of laughs. And somehow, one day at a time, they make it through. It's a very, very good thing.

So here's what I'm gonna do. Turn on Autopilot. Put some Memphis Minnie on the stereo. Pour myself a glass of sweet tea. Do what needs to be done. Then let tomorrow worry about itself.

Thank you for riding shotgun, y'all!

Bardstown KY - Pecan Waffles and Bourbon

Hey! Look who I found wandering around the Waffle House!

For you who don't know, that's Steven Sawyer, a longtime programmer and colleague of mine at CXtec. He left for a lucrative position at Fruit Of The Loom in November. I knew he was in Kentucky, but had no idea how close I'd pass until I came down a few weeks ago. The Fruit of the Loom factory was a stone's throw from I-65, so we arranged lunch on my way back.

Steven is doing quite well, I'm glad to report. He was smiling even! (No, I'm not kidding!) At work, he's supervising contractors, going to meetings, handling paperwork ... and even a little programming. Things have settled down enough that Steven, Patti and the kiddies are looking for permanent digs. Steven has found a lot of music buddies in his church - such is the South, y'all! Anyway, it was cool seeing him.

And yeah, that was my first trip to the ubiquitous Waffle House. Pecan Waffles, grits and cheese, pecan pie and sweet tea. Yankee food is going to be a shock.

I picked a B&B in Bardstown for one reason: it was 1/3 of the way home. I had no idea Bardstown was Bourbon capitol of the free world! 80% of US Bourboun is made in a 20 mile radius around here. After dinner, I went to the Jazzy Bar and asked for a mint julep. "That's like asking for a green beer at Christmas!" they said. Evidently, Derby Day is the only time most restaurants serve it. But since tomorrow was St. Patty's day, they asked if I wanted a green beer. "Naah. How about a bourbon?" I replied.

They pulled down the top shelf, single-barrel, reserve stuff. Ohhhhhh, mannnn! "1792" Reserve was a little sweet, like honey. Knob Creek Reserve was very nice smoky, oaky, ancient flavor. But my favorite, which the owner gave me a free shot of, was Jefferson's Reserve. It was as smooth as milk, a little apple-flavored, and yet indescribable. It was unlike any bourbon I've ever had. But I wisely declared my limit there, and stumbled back to the inn.

The Rosewood Manor is an "Old Kentucky Home," very appropriate for the land of Stephen Foster. It's very charming and well-detailed ... but it is clearly optimized for romance. All the other rooms were occupied by couples. I was in the Muir room, whose theme was rabbits. As in "get busy and multiply like ..." Ahem.

"If loving you is wrong, I don't wanna be right," sighed Tom. Sensing ecological disaster, I pulled them apart and dragged Tom off to the car.

Last stop: Erie, PA.

Memphis - One-Eyed Cats, GroupRides

The Memphis Hightailers bicycling club had their first TNT (Thursday Night Thrill) of the year. It's 25-35 miles of riding through the North Memphis countryside, depending on when the sun goes down. I joined them ... my first group bike ride ever!

It was a blast, and I kept up with the front-running pack fairly well. They say this is unusual for a novice - a boost for my ego! Of course I was dying by the end, but oh well. It makes me think I'll try some group rides in Syracuse this year. It's helpful watching the techniques of really, really good riders.

Before that, I went to Sun Studios downtown. That's where rock and roll really started - with Jackie Brenston's Rocket 88 (the first r&r record) recorded there, as well as a young Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, etc. A video of Elvis' first television appearance had him singing the raw version of Shake Rattle and Roll. You know, the version with "I'm like a one-eyed cat, peeping in the seafood store." I asked our tour guide why they didn't censor that, and she said, "They had no idea what he was saying." Oh, please. Someone did!

They had a picture of the blues belter Roscoe Gordon and his chicken, who would peck at a glass of whiskey while Gordon sang (eventually the chicken would fall over).

"Thash right. Go chicken. Yeah, go ... you chicken, woa! Stop spinning, you stooopid floor." Tom slurred. Lisa, I think you're quite right in your assessment of Tom. I'm dropping him off at Betty Ford on my way home.

Bye bye Memphis! It's tough to leave your BBQ, Blues and Sweet Tea. But all good things must end.

Memphis - Sweet Potato Pie

"Southern women. Man! They can't keep their hands off me!" Tom said.

Me, I can't keep my hands off Southern food. I just had the best BBQ ever ... just a notch above Charlie Vergo's Rendevous (from Saturday). It was at a very unassuming little dive called Cozy Corner. The menu was on a magnetic letter board. I had a pork sandwich with hot BBQ sauce. And you know those nice crispy edges? They were all over! The BBQ beans had minced onion and curry. And the sweet potato was the first I've had that didn't taste like pumpkin. It had little unmashed chunks of sweet potato. Finish with a big cold glass of Sweet Tea, and ooooooo weeee!

I went to Ole Miss in the morning. The magnolias were blooming and the daffodils were out in full force. I went to talk to the curator of the Blues Archive, Greg Johnson. The connection between us was instantaneous. Within minutes, we were finishing each others' sentences!

I won't bore you with all the details. Chuck Klosterman, in Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs said it best: "There's only one thing worse with someone with nothing to talk about. And that's someone with nothing to talk about except music."

But here's one thing: I saw actual Robert Johnson and Charley Patton 78's. They were beautiful! And you can play them on a specially designed laser turntable. Instead of a needle, which wears down a record, the turntable uses a laser which reads the analog grooves and converts them without touching the surface. Fantastic! Greg, in my humble opinion, has the coolest job on Earth.

Mostly now, I'm just resting and processing. Sleeping until 7:30 in the morning. (!!!) Strolling aimlessly. Just doing the things you'd do in Tahiti or Jamaica. Now if I could just find a mint julep...

Oxford MS - Music Snobbery, Peanut Butter

I ate my lunch in Tupelo at PB Loco, where all they serve are grilled Peanut Butter sandwiches! There was an Unwrapped episode that had a similar restaurant, but this one was quite refined. You can eat in a living room setup with huge comfy couches and a TV. I settled on the Cinny Vanilly, with Sumatran Cinammon, raisins, granny smith apples and caramel. (!!!) Along with the standard stuff - bananas, marshmallow fluff, etc. - you can get:

• Special PB: Curry, Tomato, Chocolate
• Vegetables: Lettuce, Tomato, Pickles (just like Dad used to make!)
• Meat: Bacon, Bologna
• Stuff Your Mother Would Never Let You Eat on a Sandwich: M & M's
  

Oxford MS, the home of Ole Miss, feels a bit abandoned - it's Spring Break after all. But it's very peaceful, and I have just had the best sleep of my entire trip. Over to the right, you can see the view from my 2nd floor balcony. Nice!

Ole Miss is best known for denying James Meridith admission in 1962. Not something you want to be known for. But they have come to some terms with it. I viewed some interesting letters to James Meredith on display:

• An African American woman: "stay with your own kind!"
• A white senator: "what you are doing is more important than Sputnik."
• A lawyer: "Why go where people don't want you? Stay and use your talents to further the proud Negro race." (It doesn't say, but you can probably guess this person's white.)

I was amazed at how many people countered Civil Rights organizations with "They're backed by the Communists." My guess is many believed it, but if there were incontrovertible proof to the contrary, it would've made no difference.

At the Ole Miss bookstore, I found myself published in the latest Rolling Stone. Yippee! OK, it's not much. But now millions of people from all over the world will read my letter and say:

"That Craig Reek is a music snob."

Yeah well. You should've seen the two sentences they cut! "You remember when you gave Nirvana's Nevermind three stars? This is right up there with that." OK, maybe after 15 years, I should let that one go.

But such is the life of music snobs. They live to handicap the horse race of popular music. The one thing, the only thing, that matters in music is to give people transcendent moments. You know what I mean if you and your partner have "a song". People react to these moments in different ways - some dance, some look up for a moment and nod their head. Music snobs respond by proselytizing. To do that, and find those transcendent moments still there 10 or 15 years later, is validation of their existence.

I bought 5 copies. The clerk rang them up. The person next to me said, "Wow, 5 copies!"

"For my mother," I replied. *

The guy next to me laughed, the clerk didn't. We snobs must stick together, you know.


* The joke is from Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show's immortal "Cover of the Rolling Stone.": "(Rolling Stone) Gonna see my picture on the cover (Stone) Gonna buy five copies for my mother (Stone) Gonna see my smiling face ... On the cover of the Rolling Stone!" Interestingly, I heard the Nashville variant "Cover of the Music City News" first in my childhood, and thought Dr. Hook was ripping it off.

Tupelo, MS - The Re-Education of the South

"Look!" Tom crawled underneath the warm pancake. "Bed as breakfast!"

"Hey! Get out of there." I said, ready to pour the syrup.

"When you wake up, your breakfast is right there on top of you. You just eat it! You can sleep in an omelette, waffles, oatmeal..."

"A cup of boiling coffee," I offered.

Ignoring me, Tom went on. "Tom's Bed As Breakfast. I'm a genius! I'll make a million bucks! I'm so excited!!" Pause. "Uh oh. I think I wet myself."

I pulled Tom out of my stack of pancakes. So much for breakfast.

Tupelo, MS was the first city served by the Tennesee Valley Authority. It's the birthplace of Elvis. It's the namesake of the great alt-country band Uncle Tupelo. I first heard of Tupelo in a John Lee Hooker song way back in 1988, and I've wanted to go there ever since. Blues songs, more than any other, are really big on name-checking actually cities. So seeing Tupelo, Belzoni, Clarksdale, Rodelle, Vicksburg ... is really cool.

On Monday I biked 30 miles on the Natchez Trace Parkway, Tuesday I did 20. It's the most perfect biking road I've seen. No trucks, therefore no potholes. Gentle slopes. Virtually no intersections. And beautiful pine trees and jonquils and budding lilacs on both sides. It's a popular destination for biking tourists.

Lois, the Innkeeper of the Mockingbird Inn, told me of a group of 15 ladies who biked the entire 440 mile parkway. They were all between 65 and 75 (!!!) "They were the most buff group of women I've ever seen," she noted. "And they all stopped here, broke out bottles of wine, and drank and played cards until 1 AM." I hope to be as lucky.

A side note on Southern education. Everyone seems to know the Crossroads myth. But there are signs of large educational gaps.

• I asked for a mint julep, and the server said, "What???" She asked the bar and twenty minutes later, returned with "we don't have any mint, sorry!"
• After the Garrison Keillor talk, I heard someone say. "Yeah, he was really good. I heard he does a radio show too!"
• On the Uptown Coffee menu board, underneath Espresso, it says "If you don't know what it is, you don't want it."

I know what I need to do. I need to stay here and become a teacher.

My stay at the Mockingbird Inn was extremely peaceful and lovely. When I dug out Tom for a picture with Lois, she gushed over him. "He's so cute! What a darling! How long have you had him?" When we checked out she said, "Take care of yourself. And Tom too!"

"Yeah, take care of me!" said Tom.

Oh, I'll take care of him all right.

From the Mailbag

Mike asked about my stint in Vista. Vista, Volunteers in Service to Americam was what eventually grew into Americorps. It was started in the late 60's, and aimed to be the domestic version of the Peace Corps. You sign up for a year and work on a dirt-poor stipend, forcing you to basically live like the people you're helping.

My stint in Vista was during the Reagan era, when funding was virtually nil. In the late 60's they used to ship people all over. When I joined, I was one of a handful of people who got a travel allowance to get from Lincoln to my home site in Utica.

Ideologically, MLK's writings really influenced me to join Vista. Practically, Wende Baker of the Lincoln Food Bank (where I did volunteer computer work) convinced me to go - she was an early Vista volunteer. She remains one of my favorite people on planet Earth - practical, generous, and a joy to be around.

That's probably more than you wanted, but I get gooshy about this time of my life. It was a blast.

Memphis and Lake Wobegone - Civil Rights, Duck and Waffles

Sundays in Memphis are comparatively sleepy. Or maybe it was just DST. But while others when climbing out of bed, I got gussied up for brunch at Paulette's. Brunch??? Man, I haven't had brunch in years.

Words fail me when trying to describe the warm popovers with strawberry butter, the perfectly seasoned green beans, or peasant potatoes with parsley and thyme. Let me try the entree. Salmon Cakes with Dill Sauce. If you cook, you know that deep-frying "loose" food is tricky. If the oil's too cold, your meal turns into a grease bomb. If it's too hot, your food immediately scorches and can't be rescued. These salmon cakes were perfect. Black-brown like falaffel out on the outside. Salomony and fluffy on the inside. Not a touch of oil inside, except that of the salmon. Finish that with a 2003 Pinot Gris, and ohhhhh, Nelly!

While we're on the subject, lemme talk about dinner. This was totally off the cuff, at the Highway 61 Cafe downtown. I had ... get this, this'll kill you ... duck and waffles. Now, chicken and waffles is quintessential Southern Food. This dish was two leg-and-wing duck pieces on top of wild rice flour waffles, smothered in a blueberry reduction and (ay carumba!) sweet potato chips. And they all blended so wonderfully! You need a non-traditional wine for that - I did a zinfindel/pinot noir blend from Oregon that tasted like small just-ripe strawberries.

Let's recap, shall we?

• Paulette's: delicate, attentive to detail, perfectionist
• Highway 61 Cafe: creative, bold, outgoing

It's all in the balance, amigos!

I wanted to spend a couple of hours at the Civil Rights Museum, but ended up there the whole afternoon. You might think that housing a museum at a place where someone was shot (Dr. King at the Lorraine Hotel) is out-of-kilter. But it's emblematic of the entire movement. You always take something evil or undesriable, and turn it into something good and decent. Seeing the personal artifacts of the era: the Jim Crow signs, the protest plans scribbled on paper, etc. made it deeply personal and moving. They also had an exhibit on the Rosenthal schools of the early 1900's. Southern schools were segregated, of course, but Rosenthal of Sears and Roebuck started grants to make African-American schools "equal, although separate." His money was matched with an equal amount of grassroots African-American money from the North. The exhibit captured memories of these schools, which were very close-knit and loved.

It was important for me. I remember vividly a day in 1988, sitting in the Lincoln Bennett Martin Library reading a huge book of Dr. King's collected writings and speeches. They were so lucid and direct and fascinating. And I thought, "yeah, I could do this too." Great people, I mean really great ones, make you reach further. And that led to me doing the Vista stint and the rest of that. Seeing the museum reminded me of how much I owe to those brave folks.

That evening, I again got gussied up for a Garrison Keillor show at the Canon Center. I just found out about it yesterday, but I had to see him. It was more-or-less like a Prairie Home Companion show, but with only 3 musicians. He is a national treasure, of course, but he's an absolutely indestructible ball-of-contained-energy on stage. He had us all singing I Can't Help Falling in Love, Down in the Valley, and America the Beautiul during intermission - what other performer could do this? There were hundreds of quotable lines, but I'll settle on one:

"March is the month when teetotallers get to experience a hangover."

Priceless! Finally, speaking of communal singing, I finished the evening back on Beale St, down at the Superior Lounge for Kareoke night. And yes, I was going to sing. But on Beale, Kareoke is cutthroat. There are people who rival pro singers, though less polished. I have never been to a Kareoke bar ever but I found something very appealing. It is this. Even if you can't technically sing, you can transmit emotion anyway. That's why we keep going to kiddie concerts. They often feel the music much deeper than someone who trains constantly, and this comes out in the right supportive setting. I was entertained and moved.

So it's bye bye, Memphis. Next, I head down to Tupelo and Oxford to bike, hang out on the porch and drink mint juleps. Internet access may be hard to find down there, so don't worry if you don't see postings the next few days. Wednesday I'll be back in Memphis. Toodles!

Memphis - Walking Blues, Cinamoo Bun Milkshakes

At 10 AM, I started walking to the Stax Museum of American Soul. Stax/Volt was the greatest record company in history, churning out hits layered over Steve Cropper's funky guitar and Booker T. Jones' swirling organ. If you've heard Otis Redding, Sam and Dave, Isaac Hayes, Booker T and the MG's, Eddie Floyd, Johnnie Taylor, the Staple Singers ... then you know the Stax/Volt sound.

It took almost 2 hours to walk there. An older gentleman (who looked like the great bluesman Lightnin' Hopkins) mapped the last leg of the trip for me. We talked a lot about Stax. It's a source of pride for the people along McLemore Ave. My legs were tired when I arrived, but it was like the end of a pilgramage.

The museum, built just a couple of years ago, is superb. My favorite artifact was the old control room. Stax was built in an old movie theatre, and they used the theatre's sound system to do playback. They had a one-track, 8 input mixing board but no reverb. So in the bathroom, they placed an output speaker whose sound echoed off the bathroom tiles and into a mike mounted on the ceiling and back into the mixer. Fantastic!

I taxied back to downtown's famous Arcade Restaurant, but missed the lunch hour. For those of you who've seen the movie Mystery Train (Anybody?), the Arcade is the scene of the Elvis Presley ghost story. You know ... the guy tells the tourist how he saw Elvis, still living and walking the streets of Memphis, and then gave him his comb. And he offers it to the tourist for five bucks. "Elvis Presley's comb???" the tourist yells.

Anyhoo, I ended up going to Charlie Vergo's Rendevous restaurant. That's where they invented Memphis style BBQ - that is, with rubbed spices instead of gooey BBQ sauce. Oh man, they were good! I was chawing down ribs like a neanderthal. It was disgusting! Apparently, I de-evolutionized a bit much, and the waiters insisted I stop throwing gnawed bones in the corner.

One thing about Southern servers. They ask "Are you OK?" instead of "How are you doing?" The first time I heard "Are you OK?" I thought, "Why do you ask? Am I supposed to be ill by now? What did you put in the food???"

After a Maggie Moo Cinamoo Bun Milkshake (cinammon ice cream, carmel and crushed up teddy grahams), I was supremely tired and hit the hay early. Sunday is Highbrow Day, so I have to look prim and proper. "A demain, y'all!"



From the Mailbag

My father wrote, wayyyy back in the first post, that I was his favorite writer next to Stephen Pastis. Not knowing who that was, I Googled around and hit the Pearls Before Swine web site. I laughed my fool head off! Here's a sample:

Memphis - Kudzu, BBQ Spaghetti, Advice for Hookers

The view out my Memphis hotel window is breathtakingly weird. A lone bridge spans the 'Sip River, below it is a Grain Elevator and a building that looks oddly like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. That's "The Pyramid" where sports are played, and it's 18 stories tall.

As I drove from Clarksdale, I saw a lot of Kudzu vine. It grows like ivy over buildings, trees and telephone poles through the South. (Music geeks: it's used on the cover of REM's classic first album Murmur). Dormant and gray in the winter, Kudzu wakes up in the spring, turns green, and starts enveloping its host. It's a pest weed all over the South, and no one knows what to do with it except hack it down. Scooter told me Ole Miss university has a lot of research sunk into finding uses for it.

I took a little piece of it for my office. I need at least one plant that looks healthy!

In the Blues City, I first made tracks to A&R Barbecue. A&R is in an interesting African American neighborhood that's economically depressed, but proud and friendly. On the wall there's a poster "10 Ways to Step Up and Be a Man". I went for some BBQ Spaghetti, which is spaghetti with pulled pork and a little extra BBQ sauce. Mmmmmmm! I finished it off with a spectacular piece of cake and caramel frosting and a Grape Crush.

In the parking lot, the cook was eyeing Teeny Weeny Weirdomobile. "New York?" He said. "You didn't drive that thing from New York!" Ah, but I did! And it was very comfortable too.

I slept a little to prepare for a trip to Beale St. Things can go all night down there. I ended up in BB Kings Blues Club, where Preston Shannon and the BB King All Stars were playing. It was too funky. Too funky! Give me some air! I could not resist getting on the dance floor a few times. I do not dance well, but hey ... sometimes the spirit moves one.

Now the bizarre part. Back at the bar, I'm drinking Jim Beam and soda when the woman next to me asks me where I'm from. Lisa is young, attractive and Black, wearing your everyday kind of jeans and a tight long sleeve t-shirt. And we have a pretty friendly and harmless chat. Then her questions start getting weird: "Where are you staying?" and "When do you plan on getting out of here?" I asked her why she wanted to know. "I can do things," she said. And she keeps looking at her phone and sending text messages.

Uh oh.

I tell her I'm going to stay awhile and I don't want to keep her from ... well, you know, whatever she has to do. (Look. It's not like there's an etiquette for this!) Finally she tells me she has to go. I wish her well. About 15 minutes later, another attractive black female starts asking me the same questions in the same order! I might as well have been wearing a shirt "I'm From Syracuse! And I have Money! Soliciters Welcome!"

It's too bad prostitutes don't have a trade magazine. I'd write an article on guys not to approach. Rule #1. If they are wearing a Red Cross Blood Donation pin, move on. Blood donors are always asked the question "Have you ever exchanged drugs or money for sex?" And that means ever. Even with questions like "Have you ever had sex with a man?" they only go back to 1977. But solicit one prostitute, and you're subject to a lifetime of embarassing explanations. I'm just saying.

I got back to my room at 3 AM, a wiser man indeed. Saturday is Music Appreciation day, and I can't wait!

From the Mailbag

My sister-in-law Lisa mentioned a certain video in which I'm supposedly dancing, then asks "Oh yeah, Craig, I do have a totally unrelated question I've been meaning to ask...How hard is it to transfer video to a computer file and upload to YouTube??? "

Answer: It is technically impossible. Don't even try!

Clarksdale, MS - Kibbe, Blow Out Rib, Razor Blade

"Yoo hoo! Satan! I'm ready to sell my soul now!" yells Tom.

This raises a whole host of existential questions, including "does a stuffed cat made in Taiwan have a soul?" I choose to ignore the whole thing.

Thursday morning, I cured my hangover with lots of water and 3 bowls of Raisin Bran, after which I was ready to immerse myself in blues lore. "Good luck finding the dead guys!" said Bill. (I called him Bob in yesterday's post - sorry). I told him it wasn't like they were going anywhere.

The Delta Blues museum is housed in the old railroad depot in downtown Clarksdale. Muddy Water's one-room cabin sits in the middle of the floor. This shack stood around Stovall Plantation close to here, and Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top found it a few years ago. He took one of the boards, fashioned it into an electric guitar, and the toured the country with his band to raise money and build the museum. There are lots of guitars and harmonicas here, and the they're all really small. I'm not sure why. Anyway, it was a nice trip, and though there isn't a lot of artifacts, the museum is just a few years old and has plenty of expansion time and room.

Then I paid my respects at Charlie Patton's grave. Patton is my favorite. Called "The most unintelligible voice in blues," he has held a particular fascination for me. I first checked out his King of the Delta Blues compilation in the mid 90's. I didn't really notice, but it really grew in my mind. After having checked it about 20 times, I thought "Hey, this guy's good." In fact, he taught many of the first-recorded Delta blues musicians himself, including Son House, Robert Johnson, and Willie Brown. All of Rock and Roll can be traced back to Patton.

Personally, his music helped me immensely. When Kathy's MS first started presenting, it was a very depressing and confusing time. But "Pony Blues" and "Tom Rushen" and "Lord, I'm Discouraged" kept me afloat. Kathy even likes "Mississippi Bo Weevil Blues" and "Shake it and Break It", and she otherwise couldn't care less about the blues.

I sat at his grave awhile. And while I did not hear any ghost wailing, I did hear little bits of the recordings he left for all of us, and that is a lot to be thankful for. He wandered around this earth for 43 years, just a little bit more than I have, but he left a universe of information on how to live one's life. What more could a person do?

Here are some signs I saw along the way:

• "Blow Out Rib Case - $16.95" (I think this means there's a good price on a case of ribs)
• "Delta Delinter Corporation." (Delta Delinter - didn't she write those romance novels or something?)
• "Support Our Men, No Women Overseas" (How? By sending some women over by Fedex? Actually, I think the sign said "Men, And Women Overseas" but the "a" dropped off)

Shelby - your boss's recommendation on RestHaven Restaurant was right on! The kibbe was excellent and the chocolate pie was superb, even though I'm no big fan of chocolate pie. The resturant is owned by a Lebanese man, and if you've never heard a Lebanese man with a Southern accent ... well, of course you haven't! ... words fail me for how to describe it.

I finished the night at Ground Zero Blues club, Morgan Freeman's joint (he lives east of Clarksdale). Razor Blade was singing that night, and he had a band of friggin' teenagers backing him up. I mean, the guitarist looked like he was 13! But he could sure play.

Upstate New York is like gum on my shoe though. I talked to a woman who said, "Oh yeah, my husband and I moved from around Albany." She's a real blues enthusiast, and loves it in Clarksdale. And I talked to a guy at the bar who went to RPI in Troy NY. He remembers eating at the Dinosaur BBQ, but forgot the name of it ... as soon he mentioned BBQ, I asked "Did they have a lot of bikers there?" and he said yes, I know what he was talking about. Finally, I look at the portraits on the wall and they had ... get this - Roosevelt Dean! Now anyone who knows the Syracuse music scene knows Roosevelt Dean. He's an institution. And he sings the Syracuse promo commercial - "Everything you want, we got it downtown in Syracuse!" (Provided everything you want is snow and blues music.)

I hate to leave Clarksdale. There are so many friendly folks here, and it has such a honest, unvarnished character. These are folks just like Charlie Patton played for years ago, only with wireless Internet and a big Kroger's down the street. Next stop: Memphis!

From the Mailbag

"Who is Alan Jackson?" - Alan Jackson is a huge country music star. I don't know his music, but I seem to recall him plugging Ford pickups a few years ago. My resident country music expert, Jackie Miladin, says Jackson is steadfastly country, not bowing to the country-pop-rock phonemenon popularized by Shania Twain and Faith Hill.

Alternate answer: he's the guy who owns the lawn on which Tom barfed.

Clarksdale, MS - Nature's Rich Splendor, Vodka, "Hey Syracuse!"

It is 11 AM Thursday. I'm out on the Cotton Gin Inn porch in my t-shirt, while Syracuse is suffering below zero temps. Gloating would be totally evil.

So yesterday was mostly travelling down the Nachez Trace Pkwy. It's one of a few National Parkways, and is like a 440 mile long, 1 block wide National Park. The road is two lanes, twisty, and ultra-smooth. Speed limit is 40, or 50 in some parts. Most of the view is forest area, although you cut through a few farms in the Mississippi section. I went from the terminus in Nashville down to Tupelo, about 200 miles. It was absolutely gorgeous!

Aretha Franklin started singing "I Want to Make It With You," on my iPod when I was a mere 10 miles from Muscle Shoals Alabama. Serendipitous!

Finally I get to Clarksdale, Delta Blues Central. At the crossing of Hwy 49 and 61 is where Robert Johnson supposedy sold his soul to the devil in return for musical talent. Cream's Crossroads is based on Johnson's tune of the same name.

Lemme back up a minute. I remember vividly the first time I heard Delta Blues. I was doing some college homework and listening to The Smithsonian Collection of Classic Blues. Side 1, track 3 is Johnson doing "Hellhound on my Trail." When the first few notes played, I stopped in my tracks. Not because it was good, or that it touched something in me ... but because I thought the record player was screwed up! The notes were so oddly bent out of shape, and his singing was otherworldly. It was just so friggin' wierd!

Hellhound on My Trail is a poor place to start a blues education. Or it's perfect. It's like asking about American Cuisine, and getting Pop Rocks. Most Delta Blues shares its AAB structure and its gravitation toward the raw and ethereal. But not even Eric Clapton will cover Hellhound on My Trail because, as he says, it is too uniquely Johnson.

After listening to blues for 20 years, it's surreal to be its birthplace.

I'm staying at the Shack Up Inn, Mississippi's oldest B&B (Bed and Beer). You have two choices of rooms: a sharecropper shack, or a bin of an old cotton gin. I'm in Bin 1 of the gin. Now I don't know ... there may be other Inns built in Cotton Gins in America. But I'm sure this is the only one with DirectTV and a heated bathroom floor!

It was Abe's BBQ for dinner. (And yeah, Shelby, your bosses list and my list are remarkably similar!) Rule: always eat BBQ where the sign has a happy pig on it. They do things the Memphis way - pulled pork sandwich with vinaigrette coleslaw on it. After that, Bob the Shack-Up Inn caretaker had a fire in his yard where the locals gather and chew the fat. The big topics were:

• Bob's niece saw the sign for Parchman Farm: "Ole Miss Penatentiary". She asked why there isn't an Ole Mister Penentiary.


• Several natives got sick from Captain D's Seafood. The consensus seems to be ... it was the coleslaw. They made it with Mayonaise. True Southerners don't do that!


• There are crossties along Hwy 49 ready for the picking, but you better be quick because snake season is coming soon.

Jim and Scooter (I'm not making this up!) told me to go to Red's Jook Joint for music. They said Ground Zero, the club started by Morgan Freeman, a native of Clarksdale, is for more refined folks. When I got to Red's, there was almost no one there. Red was angry. He said the second band didn't bother showing up. His theory is they got to the railroad tracks (literally the dividing line between the poor and poorest sections of town) and turned around.

So Red, a 55 year old black man who has seen it all, and I jawed a long time. He talked about all the blues folks who had been through - he knows Clapton and Robert Plant. (And this is absolutely true because Plant had mentioned Red's in a Rolling Stone interview!) Red's has been there thirty years, but they were selling T-Shirts to get the roof fixed. The toilets were slanted at a 30 degree angle because the edge of the building was sliding off the foundation.

The crowd at Ground Zero got kicked out at 11, so they stumbled into Red's. Someone had brought whiskey and vodka, and from then on the drinks were free. "Hey Syracuse!" Red would shout at me every five minutes, "How about another shot?" You can probably guess where this ended up. Anyway, let's just say by 3 am I was in my bed, the room spinning around me, and I was warm and content.

"There's good folks and bad folks everywhere," said Red. And maybe that's too obvious to mean anything. But one needs to see it, and hear it, and feel it every once in awhile, and that is where I am right now. See you later!

From the Mailbag

"What's in a Pink Panty Pulldown?" - Pink lemonade, vodka, and sprite. There are many variants, and I never learned what the "original" Listick Lounge version has. But the pink lemonade's the thing.

Nashville: Alan Jackson, Fried Corn, Van Morrison

"I'm bikesick," says Tom. "HUGGAHWA!"

It's official. Next time I leave the cat at home. It wouldn't be so bad, except we're right outside the gates of Alan Jackson's multi-million dollar estate. If he comes out in his Ford pickup, I don't know how to explain this.

Other than that, my early-morning 18 mile bike ride went well. Not painful at all! I followed the so-called "Alan Jackson Route", mapped out by the Harpeth Bike Club, and passing over the old Natchez Parkway and between thoroughbred farms. Gorgeous! I met about 5 bikers taking the same path.

After the ride, I made tracks up to Wendell Smith's Restaurant on the West Side. Wendell's is a "meat-and-three", meaning "pick a meat and three sides for one price." This is uniquely Nashville cuisine. I had meat loaf that was sooooo good, plus turnip greens, pinto beans, fried corn, cornbread, and a wedge of caramel pie for dessert. Nothing was vegetarian. Not even the vegetables were vegetarian! The fried corn actually looked like creamed corn, but the corn itself was crisp and fresh and the sauce was heavenly.

I asked the waitress why it was called fried corn. "Ah don't know," she said, "and they won't tell me neither."

That set me for both lunch and dinner. I chilled in Richardson park awhile. As I sat on the bench reading, I saw the playground across the way. I briefly considered taking a picture there, having one of the kids hold up Tom.

Then I thought, OK ... a stranger comes up to you, holds out a stuffed animal and asks to take your picture. It's the plot of a movie you saw at a grade school assembly. You know, the one where the policeman says "Don't let this happen to YOU!"

It was twilight, and I headed for the Lipstick Lounge, voted the Funnest Bar in Nashville. And so it was! The LL started as a lesbian bar a few years ago, but as the manager tells it, "Everybody started inviting everybody else." Now it's tagged the Nashville Bar Catering Exclusively to Human Beings. There were people of every orientation, size, color, and shape around me, and it was fantastic. It felt like Art class.

Christy (above, first on left) was the barkeep that night, she being the inventor of Nashville's current most popular drink, the "Pink Panty Pulldown." I vowed to have one later and started with a blue martini. That was so good, I just kept ordering them. Tuesday is Music Trivia night, so I joined the team above (and I have forgotten all their names - thanks, Blue Martini!) My Van Morrison knowledge came in handy, and we won second place.

Making my way out, I pulled Tom and my camera out of the backpack. "Hey! That's Tom!" my teammate said. "You bet your sweet bippy," said Tom, but his voice was drowned out by the karaoke machine.

And so, I bid a fond adieu to Nashville. Next stop, Clarksdale. Blues Central.

Nashville: Soaking, Chopping, Line Dancing

Through a miracle of planning and/or luck, I had made an appt at Essential Therapy Spa for the afternoon. I soaked in a tub of warm water and sandlewood, then hopped up on the massage table. With an electric blanket beneath me, my therapist Jill proceeded to turn my body into goo. Lordy! I have had good massages, even great ones, but this one was legendary. After awhile, I ceased feeling it in the traditional sense ... it was more like I was the massage.

And then she chopped me. If you're like me, you first saw a massage on some old TV show and chopping was the whole deal, using both hands like little meat cleavers on your spine. But I've never had a massage where they actually did it.

As I walked out a renewed man, to the left of me on the strip mall ... was Maggie Moo's Ice Cream. I wept for joy.

The Country Music Hall of Fame had a Ray Charles exhibit, so I had to go. If you've seen Ray, you know that he spent the 60's as mostly a country and jazz performer. In one of the video clips, Johnny Cash announces him with: "Nobody sings soul like he does. Nobody sings country like he does. Nobody sings like he does!" So true! Since then many rock groups have recorded country albums (Ween, The The, X - as the Knitters), but none have felt as authentic and heartfelt as Brother Ray's Modern Sounds in Country and Western.

So back down on Broadway, I stumbled into the Wildhorse Saloon for BBQ. (My descent continues). It's as huge as an opera house, with 1/2 the first floor marked for dancing. I was at the bar enjoying my new drink of choice (Jim Beam and soda), when the curtains parted and out steps a Southern Belle in jeans and a t-shirt, and shouts "We're going to teach y'all how to dance now. C'mon up! Don't be shah!" <--- Northern translation: shy

In a recent newspaper article, I read "When you have a funny, nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach, don't run away from it. Run towards it!" And so ... I'm out on the dance floor with about 20 other people, learning how to line dance. It was a blast! And no humans were harmed in the process. While I'm sure we weren't the most graceful, at the end of our lesson the Southern Belle declared "The song's inded, and y'all are facing the same direction. Mah work here is done!"

Plum tuckered out, I ambled down Broadway for less strenuous entertainment. On Broadway, all bands play for tips, there are no cover charges. This tradition was started my Willie Nelson back in the 70's. Anyway, Travis Birch was playing at the Stage, and from the street he sounded fantastic. Inside, he was even better. Here's the thing. Even if you can't stand recorded country music, played live it's impossible to hate. It's at once intellectually fascinating (the players are such virtuosos) and down-to-earth.

And really, you can't get more American than that.

The Idiot Biker: A Tragedy in Three Acts

Act 1

(I.B. in bicycle clothing, looking longingly across the parking lot of New Hope Baptist Church).

I.B.: "Oh, what a perfect day for a bike ride! The sky is cloudless, the wind is still, the birds are chirping, and it's 50 degrees. I haven't ridden since December, and I sure do miss it. Maybe I should do stretches beforehand ... Naaah. I'll just go at a leisurely pace. How bad could it be?"

Act 2

(I.B., with bicycle in gear 1 of 27, struggling viciously to climb a hill. Slips back down 2 feet, then starts climbing again.)

I.B.: "Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow..." (repeat 2912 times)

Act 3

(I.B. lying in the parking lot of New Hope Baptist Church, bike on top of him. He opens his eyes to find a sign towering above.)

I.B. (reading sign): "'Let us pray for you.' * Oh, please ... please do." (Loses consciousness)

The End

* Sad but true!

Nashville: Fried Pickles, Varnish, and Google

"My banana's frozen!" said Tom.

I rolled my eyes at the ceiling. What could I do about it? Was it my fault the temperature was 27 degrees below normal? Unfortunately, there's not much you can do with a frozen banana except dip it in chocolate. And I had none.

It turned out OK. Once we hit Cincinnati, the snow pretty much disappeared, and you could see the grass starting to peep out.

I passed a sign, "Big Bone Lick, exit 1 mile." There is no way to explain this while keeping a straight face. All I know is that it's a state-sponsored attraction of some sort - the sign was brown. I tried to Google "Big Bone Lick", but got a whole bunch of links that had nothing to do with Kentucky or state parks. Well, maybe partially. Let's end this story right here, shall we?

In Nashville, the temp was 60 degrees and the sky was cloudless. Ahhhhh!!!

I had dinner at Cock-on-the-Walk. Lest you think there's a theme running through this post, lemme set you straight. A "cock on the walk" is the head-honcho alpha-dog on a riverboat, and is named so because he struts around like a rooster. It means "best of the best".

The menu had four items: Fried Catfish, Fried Chicken, Broiled Catfish, Broiled Chicken. The end. Now, I'm not stupid. I knew my vegetarianism would be a challenge down here in the South. But now the choice was staring me right in the face. I could either:

• Eat meat


• -OR- starve

I chose life. Meaning life for me, not for the catfish. Anyway the server set a banged up tin plate in front of me, and another tin plate with approx. 46 pounds of food. Fries. Hush puppies. Two big catfish fillets. Slaw. Skillet bread with tasty jalapeno. Pickled onions. And a side plate of fried dill pickles. Yes, little slices of hamburger dills dipped in batter and deep fried. When they asked me if I wanted a doggie bag, I suggested a doggie U-Haul instead.

The night was young, and I decided to head downtown. Oh man! The entire route from the hotel (near Opryland) to downtown was a maze of road construction. It was like doing a midnight bobsled run - all downhill, two lanes with no shoulder and dividers, snaking in and out. Yee haw! And then I was on Broadway, and the music was flowing everywhere.

I ended up in Layla's Bluegrass Inn, where the house band Jypsi was playing. In some ways, they were typical: 3 sisters, 1 brother, string bass, mandolin, 2 fiddles, all acoustic. You know. Except the guitarist looked like Kurt Cobain, and the second fiddler wore a flapper dress from the 20's. Boy they could play! When they got to Mule Skinner Blues, they broke out in double time and just about tore the varnish off their instruments. And when the yodelling chorus appeared the lead singer went "way-hay-hay-EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" it shook the Christmas lights strung across the ceiling.

It is quite possible I am in Music City. TTFN!

Medina, OH - Bikes - Misdirection

First day recap: I left Syracuse sunny and with snow partially melting. Once I hit Ohio: WHAM! Wind, cold, and a blast of snow in my windshield. I think, "Am I going the right way?" Tom, as usual, is no help. He said I should have taken that "left toin at Albuquoique."





Medina is quaint ... meaning "No Starbucks." I had dinner at the House of Hunan - the Buddha's Vegetarian Delight. Beautiful vegetables arranged in a star around a tomato cut like a bloomin' onion. My server (left) and I talked about biking. She used to do the racing thing, but then had a wipe out and snapped her collarbone and broke parts of her teeth off.





And I think, "This would dissuade a sane person from biking." Which means I'm going ahead with my plans!





And the Hampton Inn. The bed! Oh so soft! Oh..... One of my writing friends, Lauren, and her father took care of their mother for the last few years. When her father got a two week respite, he spent it sleeping. This is really tempting idea.

I have three rules for staying in hotels:

• Always use the stairs. They're faster, no matter which floor you're on
• Always eat cereal at the free breakfast.
• Use every possible free amenity you can.

That last means if they have a fitness room, you gotta use it. So I worked the elliptical and turned on the tube. American Idol was on. I had never watched it! But it turns out I really don't like Simon Cowell. His comments "I like your voice, but you're not American Idol material." I believe that to truly criticize someone's music, you must be more entertaining than the music you're critquing.

Case in point. Rolling Stone, in I think it was 1985, published a one star review of Missing Person's album. It said, "Dale Bozzio's voice sounds like a tractor slipping its gears." Now, I never would have remembered Missing Persons or Dale Bozzio, were it not for that review. That is entertainment.

Today is the day I drive the most, so I'm off. Thanks for your comments so far! I feel like I'm not travelling alone. (The stuffed cat no longer counts.)

Bye - Buffalo - Relationships

(Buffalo Thruway Rest Area) 2 hours into the trip, and a rift is already forming in Teeny Weeny Wierdomobile. Tom won't give me direction. He wouldn't get a banana out of the lunch bag for me, much less peel it. This relationship is going nowhere. Maybe I should leave him here.

Oh this is funny. I said to my Marketing Dept compadres, "I'm taking a stuffed cat with me." Renee was shocked at this. She thought I was taking a real cat that had been stuffed. Like Grover? Maybe if I had time, but there aren't any 24 hour taxidermists.

Now that would be cool! Craig's Express Taxidermy. I could have a drive up window. You shove your cat into the pneumatic tube. Drive up to the window, and get handed your stuffed friend. If your car is too far away, they can grab it by the tail and reach out the head to you. I love it.

Saying goodbye to Kathy was more difficult than I thought. Yeah, things got a little weepy. Still, she has a really huge room with a lovely view of the KFC. She'll probably get used to decent caregiving, then be sorry when I get back.

Here's my trip by the numbers, for all you math heads:

• 16 days
• 3148.5 miles *
• 24 biscotti
• 9.2 continuous days of music on my iPod
• 4 books on the Sony Reader: Marie Antoinette; Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs; Suite Francaise; and Love is a Mix Tape.

If that gives you idea of the trip scope, cool. I still can't wrap my head around it.

* I just made this number up. Looks impressive though!

Tom is My Copilot

Look at all that snow in the background. 3 feet of it. 7 feet at the end of my driveway.

It'll look really beautiful in my rear view mirror.

It has been 10 years since my last vacation of any significant length. It was Denver CO and Kathy was my copilot. And believe me, I need a copilot. I have no sense of direction. However, unlike most males in the same situation I have fully owned up to this. I would love to have Kathy in the passenger seat for this vacation, passing me Nutter Butters and looking for places to turn the car around (to get back to where I was supposed to turn off).

But it is not to be. I know it's going to suck, being on my vacation and missing Kathy. Yet I must remember my mission: to have enough fun for the both of us. It is a tough mission. It may require copious amounts of food and alcohol. But I must do it. I must press on. I must eat and drink and play in excess. For her!!!

OK, so my only other option for copilot is Tom (above). On the plus side, he is compact, silent, and easily ejectable from the driver's side window if the load gets too heavy. But I dunno. I don't have a good feeling about taking direction from a stuffed cat.

So I'm getting ready, making calls, securing reservations. I've already noticed an interesting thing about Deep Southerners. When I call, they answer the phone in a Northern/Midwestern accent. But as they warm up to you, that Southern drawl comes out. It's cool! I hope they get really comfortable, so I can hear them say words like "tinsinstow" *

So on March 3rd, Tom and I and Teeny Weeny Wierdomobile are heading South. In the 3 weekends and 2 weeks, I'm going to be in Nashville and Memphis TN, and Clarksdale, Tupelo, and Oxford MS. I've already noticed an interesting thing about Deep Southerners. I'm going to surround myself with music and people and cold air rushing pass me as I bike down the road. I have no idea what to expect, really. You will find out as I do.

* As in "Let's go to the five and tinsinstow." As a kid, I picked up that word from my grandfather's Southern-to-Northern translation dictionary.