the dirty south

The last vacation I took was over five years ago. My brother and I, along with another friend, went to New Orleans. That's pre-Katrina New Orleans, obviously, and while we had a great time, there was a small element of suck, which I won't go into. However, this past weekend, I went to Memphis, TN, accompanied by my other two halves (I know that doesn't make sense, nothing has three halves, just consider it literary license), the beautiful and multi-talented ladies of Freezin Beggar. I submit that we three, over the course of a weekend, had as much fun as humanly possible without actually ending up in jail or dead. To prove my claim, I submit the following pieces of evidence.

About two weeks ago, Kristen, Mel, and I were steady tubbin' (which is slang for kickin' ass) when the subject of road trips came up. This developed into a discussion of possible destinations within driving distance. We discussed many different places, from New Orleans to Mesa Verde National Park, but when someone mentioned Memphis, it stuck. Neither Kristen nor I had ever been to Memphis, and Mel had only been for business trips. It was then decided that Memphis would be perfect. With the destination set, the three of us started to manifest mentally all of the things we would need for the trip.

First, the technical details. According to Google Maps, Memphis, TN and Dallas, TX are separated by precisely 452 miles of open highway (just under seven hours), assuming one follows the recommended directions. On a side note, add the numbers 4, 5, and 2 quickly in your head. Okay, I hear some of you groaning, but rest assured that no more math will be required for the duration of this blog. Now, I know what you're thinking, seven hours is a long fuckin' time to sit in the car. At first, I was thinking that, too. I was wrong, so are you, and here's why: Mel and Kristen are comedians, not stand-up comedians, they do sketch comedy under the name Freezin Beggar. A seven-hour drive plus two hilarious ladies (oh stop whining, I'm doin' the math, not you) equals a fuckin' good time!

For a few days leading up to our departure, we discussed ways to break up the monotony of the drive. There are the usual driving games that people play, but those are kind of boring, so we invented new ones. Most notably was the trinket contest. The rules are simple: every time we stop, for any reason, one of us would go into the store / truck stop / Stuckey's and purchase the weirdest fuckin' thing we could find for under five dollars. (If you didn't already know, let me be the first to tell you that there are some crazy trinkets to be found between here and Memphis. I know this because we bought all of them.) The contestants were not allowed, under any circumstances, to reveal what they had purchased until we got back to Dallas. Upon our return came the big reveal, the part where we each set out our trinkets for judgment. The results of that judgment can be found in my photo album entitled Down & Dirty in Memphis.

Back to the story. While I ironed out the accounting details (which sounds much more impressive than it is), Kristen put together a stunning "packet" of hot spots, attractions, and points of interest. Folks, the "packet" was incredible. Not only did it provide us with a listing of every club, restaurant, historical marker, and venue in Memphis, it probably listed the names, favorite colors, and food allergies of every Memphibian who ever lived. I didn't actually read that far, but it's possible. As for Mel, well, apart from getting a sweet fuckin' deal for our weekend lodging, the trip wouldn't have been possible without Mel because Mel did what she does best. She charmed. By that I mean that she exercised her sheer force of will to ensure that we got to Memphis. It's an incredible thing to behold, I assure you. So after a few bothersome but far from insurmountable roadblocks, we were on the road Friday by four o'clock.

Thanks in part to the combined efforts of Edouard and Fay, the weather over the weekend was perfect. When we left Dallas, it was August hot, but by the time we got a few miles outside of the metroplex, the temperature had dropped dramatically. In addition, cloud cover was almost complete, and as we crossed the border into Arkansas, the rain and fog (which is typical of post-hurricane weather) followed us most of the way to Tennessee. But as we neared the Hernando de Soto Bridge, which spans the Mississippi River and separates Arkansas from Tennessee, the hurricane clouds, having seen us safely and pleasantly through to our destination, decided that their work was complete and turned off the waterworks.

Crossing the Hernando de Soto Bridge into Tennessee, we see the skyline of Memphis just to the south, and, what the fuck, there's a fuckin' pyramid just to the north! Not just any pyramid, mind you, but a big fuckin' stainless steel pyramid! After some research I discovered that the pyramid is called the Memphis Pyramid Arena, and was the original home of the NBA Memphis Grizzlies. This pyramid, at 321 feet tall, is taller than the Statue of Liberty, and is the third largest pyramid in the world behind the Great Pyramid of Giza and the Luxor Hotel. The basketball team has since moved to a newer arena, so the pyramid is now host to various conventions and live shows, not to mention being used as a sound stage for the 2006 film Black Snake Moan. Why, you may be asking yourself, as I did, is there a fuckin' pyramid on the banks of the Mississippi River in the heart of America? It's because Memphis was named after an ancient city situated on the Nile River in Egypt, presumably because the location on the Mississippi river was reminiscent of that ancient city on the Nile. Can you guess the name of that ancient city?

Having solved the mystery of the ages, we continued along to our hotel, and with little fuss, Mel secured a room key. In less than fifteen minutes, we were out the door and into the Memphis night life. On a tangent, it's always amazed me how women, in this case personified by Kristen and Mel, possess the singular ability to go from looking road-weary and haggard to looking absolutely stunning in the same stretch of time that it would take me to shave my head. You ladies got skill.

When we arrived on the scene in downtown Memphis, it was around midnight. But, since bars in Memphis aren't required to close until 3 AM, and bars on Beale Street are allowed to stay open all night, we decided that we wanted to get some drinks and some food after the long trip, so we walked into the first place we saw on Beale Street, which just happened to be the famous B.B. King's Blues Club. As we walked in, we were greeted by an "I Shot the Sherriff" cover that was enthralling. The place was packed and jumpin', so we walked up to the booth to pay the cover charge, $5 per person. Then we asked the door lady where we should sit if we wanted to order food. She informed us that the kitchen was closed. A minor snag, but after a quick Q&A we learned that we could get stamped at the B.B. King gift shop next door, get some food across the street, then come back in. Cool, we thought, and we headed across to the Blues City Cafe. Once inside, we were greeted by friendly staff. We ordered a few beers and a few small plates of food, and were back outside in less than fifteen minutes. We again strolled across the street to B.B. King's, only to find that the place was locked up tight and devoid of all signs of life. "Motherfucker," I thought, "B.B. King just ripped us off!" I suppose there are worse things that could happen to a person than getting taken for fifteen duckets by a famous blues musician, so after some laughter, we moved on. But B.B., baby, if you're out there, don't think I've forgotten about you.

We strolled around Beale Street for a while, just getting a feel for the place, and discovered that Memphis at night is one of the prime locations for my favorite pastime, people-watching. Apart from the drunken tourists staggering around to a rock / r & b / blues soundtrack, the native Memphibians themselves are a unique breed of people. I found myself remembering the various tales of J.R.R. Tolkien and H.P. Lovecraft, in which the authors assert the distinct differences in the culture and appearance of river folk. They were onto something.

After much laughter, we decided that we'd had enough for one day, so we headed back to the hotel, discussing along the way the next day's adventures. We determined which spots in Memphis were a must-see, and which spots we could live without experiencing. Once these decisions were made, we crawled into bed for the night.

Before we proceed, a quick note about our sleeping arrangements. If your body is of the sort that craves cold air blowing down your neck and up the crack of your ass while you sleep, you'll be perfectly happy sharing a bed with Kristen. However, if you, like Mel and I, prefer a warm and cozy sleeping experience, you should ensure that there is enough blanket and body heat to go around, because Kristen will freeze you out of a hotel room. Luckily for Mel and I, the situation was such that, through the clever use of snuggling and body heat, we were able to (mostly) avoid waking up with nip-cicles. A note to Kristen and Mel, if you're reading this: If I poked anyone in the back, you have my sincerest apologies, but you must understand that sharing a bed with two attractive women is not the least stimulating activity in which a man can engage.

After a night's worth of rest and, uh, interesting dreams, we three awoke refreshed. First Mel, then I, then Kristen showered and dressed ourselves for the adventures to come. First stop, the legendary Sun Studio. For those that haven't heard, Sun Studio is a recording studio in Memphis. Opened by Sam Phillips in 1950, Sun Studio is famous for a number of things, including the recording of the very first rock and roll song, "Rocket 88" by Jackie Brenston and his Delta Cats. Another notch on the Sun Studio belt is the fact that the studio was the starting point for the recording careers of many, many local area artists, including Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, Charlie Rich, B.B. King, Rufus Thomas, and Chester Burnett (better known as Howlin' Wolf). We then walked about three blocks down to the original Heartbreak Hotel, which is in a sad state of disrepair. After snapping a few photos and marveling at these little corners of history, we decided to kick things up a notch by visiting Graceland. Coincidentally, the day we decided to visit Graceland was also the thirty-first anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley.

How does one explain Graceland in a paragraph? It may not be possible, but here goes. Graceland is another world, an entirely foreign, yet somehow familiar, landscape, and this world is populated by strange beings unlike you or me. Well, unlike me anyway. The populace of Graceland appears to gather its sustenance solely from the abundant supply of decadent trinkets and gaudy souvenirs. Armed with complex weapons that bear an uncanny resemblance to expensive cameras with telephoto lenses, these strange beings hover about, shooting everything in sight until the near vicinity is awash with muzzle flashes. Upon studying the habits of this intriguing race, I detected a sort of crude bartering economy, which would seem to suggest a vague hint of rudimentary intelligence. You see, it appears to be the primary goal of these beasts to transfer small items (such as plush dolls, flowers, et al.) to the grave of one of their ancestors with the intended effect being that the ancestor will reward the beast with good favor. After the exchange is made, the creature typically begins a somber half-chant, half-wail (which sounds a bit like the English phrase "I miss him so much!"), presumably to get the attention of the ancestor (although I suspect the reasoning for this behavior has more to do with attracting the attention of the creature's peers). This exotic culture seems to exist solely for the monetary benefit of the surviving heirs of the aforementioned ancestor, who, I'm guessing, at the end of each solar cycle gather up the worthless trinkets and burn them to keep warm.

Now, I don't want to give the impression that Graceland sucks, because it doesn't. In fact, Graceland can be the most interesting place in the world, especially if you're into people watching, like me and my two companions. And if you're into souvenirs of dead cultural icons, you could do much worse than Graceland.

After observing this unique cultural phenomenon, the three of us, Kristen, Mel, and I, decided that we couldn't see the value in spending over sixty dollars apiece to take the guided tour of Graceland, so we asked the guard at the gate if we could just walk up to the house and take a few pictures. We were informed that no one was allowed inside the gates while the guided tours were being conducted, but if we wanted, we could come back between 7 and 9 PM. At that time, the grounds are reopened to allow visitors to view the graves of Elvis and family for free. We decided that this would be an essential opportunity for further study into the psychology of the Elvis fan(atic).

Upon leaving Graceland, we agreed to return to the hotel and freshen up before the evening ahead, as we intended to get crunk. On the way, we decided that what we really wanted to do was see the real Memphis, not the Memphis that the Bureau of Tourism wanted us to see. Back at the hotel, Kristen and Mel began their mystical ritual while I consulted the all-seeing Packet. After perusing the descriptions of various venues, we resolved to see two of them at all costs: an old brothel-turned-bar called Earnestine & Hazel's, and a dance club called Raiford's Hollywood Disco. The reasons behind our decision were simple: a) Neither establishment was located on the tourist-choked Beale Street, b) Raiford's sells nothing but forty-ounce bottles of alcohol, and c) Earnestine & Hazel's used to be a fucking brothel. Enough said.

After leaving the hotel, we once again arrived in downtown Memphis, but the night was still young, so we decided to visit a nearby place called Martyrs Park, which allegedly has the best views of the sunset over the Mississippi River. Incidentally, Martyrs Park is so named in remembrance of those who tended over 17000 sick people during an epidemic of Yellow Fever in 1878. When we got out of the car, we found that a wedding was being held here, so after taking a few snapshots, we walked politely around the wedding guests and down a jogging trail along the riverbank, searching for the perfect vantage point from which to watch the sunset. Along the way, we found what may indeed prove to be the sexiest tree in existence (see photo album entitled Down & Dirty in Memphis). Then, as we perched precariously atop a flood wall constructed of sand bags which had since fossilized and turned to stone, we gazed into the miles-deep distance of a breath-taking panoramic view. From our vantage point, we could see all four bridges leading into Memphis, as well as the fuckin' pyramid mentioned earlier. The sunset was beautiful, despite the presence of hurricane clouds.

Having satisfied ourselves with this visual treat, we made our way back to the car. We were all getting hungry at this point, so we followed the directions dictated by the all-mighty Packet, and within a few minutes we were walking through the doorway of Earnestine & Hazel's. Now, I must confess that I wasn't impressed by this place at first. I saw a jukebox next to a small dance floor, a small pool table in the back, and a medium-sized bar. There were only about fifteen patrons inside at this time, and it didn't seem like this was going to be very much fun. I was mistaken. Walking through those doors turned out to be the best decision we could have made.

After surveying the scene, we walked over to the bar to order drinks. We were immediately greeted by two bartenders, Karen and Clarence. I opened the conversation by remarking to Clarence that we were in search of the real Memphis. "The real Memphis?" he asked. I then told him how B.B. King had ripped us off the night before, and that we weren't interested in seeing the tourist spots in Memphis, so we'd decided to try something away from the neon lights of Beale Street. Clarence said, "Well, you've come to the right place. Why don't y'all sit down and let us bring you a few Soul Burgers." Soul Burgers, in case you're wondering, are apparently made from the tears of laughing angels. They're so fucking delicious, and they're the only food served at Earnestine & Hazel's. After wolfing down the burger, Karen the bartender (a.k.a. Special K, a.k.a. Mama Memphis) came over and sat with us for a while. She told us about some of the history surrounding the place, it's time as a drug store and brothel, and also about the twelve movies that were filmed there, including Black Snake Moan, 21 Grams, and My Blueberry Nights, among others.

At this point someone, Mel or Kristen, asked if the place was haunted, and Karen said yes. We asked her about some of her experiences with the supernatural, and she told us she'd been working at Earnestine & Hazel's for years, and had seen many things (I won't go into the stories she related, as they are her stories to tell. Let it suffice to say that she was very convincing). Eventually she pointed us in the direction of the stairs leading to the second floor and invited us to explore. We thanked her for the hospitality and, beverages in hand, headed for the stairs.

The first thing we noticed was that the stairs were leaning slightly to one side, which lends a surreal effect to the climb. At the top of the stairs was an old sign with the letters "CP" written on it. The second thing we noticed was that the second floor was completely deserted; no patrons, no employees, not another living soul. There was no visible white light to be found except what streamed through the open windows. A long wooden hallway, worn and dilapidated from years of use, ran the length of the building. Windows lined one side of the hall, while in the other side were built several doors. These doors led to individual private rooms, which were obviously used to house "guests" during the building's stint as a whore house. The second floor appeared as though it had never been renovated from that time period, as the decor was old and rustic. The air was stiff and heavy with history, and immediately we three were overtaken by a sense of deep respect, as though we were guests within the home of unseen hosts. We began to explore each of the rooms in wonder, commenting here and there about the visible age of the place.

I decided to take a few photos of the various rooms, but when I powered up the camera, I was warned that the memory was full. I sighed and told Kristen and Mel that I'd have to delete some of the previous photos before I could take more. While I did this, they wandered off into the far reaches of the building.

So there I am, standing in a ten-foot square room, looking down at the LED screen of my camera, sifting through photos in search of deletion candidates, and the only light in the room is the upward glow of the camera on my face. After a few minutes of this, I hear a noise that sounds like air brakes outside the open window in front of me. I look out and see that a street trolley has stopped at a red light on the street below. The trolley is lit from the inside, and I can see three or four black passengers sitting on benches within. As I watch them, one of the passengers gazes up to the window through which I'm looking. The expression on the passenger's face changed quickly from calm to alarmed, and he alerted the other passengers. As he pointed at the window, the other passengers followed his gaze until everyone on the trolley was staring at me and whispering to each other in alarm. "I wonder what has them so upset," I thought. Then I realize that I'm standing in a dark room, in front of an open window, and the only thing the passengers can see is the camera glow on my face, so to them, I probably resembled a disembodied head or some sort of ghostly mirage. I quickly realized the potential of this situation and decided to juice it. I started making grotesque faces at them, the sort of faces of which nightmares are made. This caused the passengers to stand up and crowd over to one side of the trolley to get a better glimpse of the window. Then I begin to move the camera, which is still outside their field of vision, around in such a way that it caused a flickering effect upon my face, and this really got them stirred up. Just as I was getting into it, the traffic light on the street below turned green, and the trolley moved away into the night.

When the trolley had gone, I immediately burst into laughter. Then I ran off to find Kristen and Mel so I can tell them how I just improved Earnestine & Hazel's ghostly reputation. I find them sitting on a bench in a corner room of the second floor. I ask what they're up to, and they said, almost in unison, that they were talking to the ghost. After a few more questions, I learned that they had been speaking with the ghost for a few minutes in an attempt to let it know that we meant it no harm and that we were only there as guests. When they asked the ghost to show them a sign that it understood what they were saying, Kristen felt and Mel saw the Red Stripe bottle move in Kristen's hand. Now, keep in mind that I did not witness this manifestation in person, I was in another room, but I believe what Kristen and Mel said.

The room that they occupied contained an old wooden piano, as well as a small, L-shaped bar that could accommodate about eight people. Above the bar was a sign that read "12 Mellow Fellows Blues Lounge", and there were old photographs, yellowed with age, tacked to the peeling walls. We took a few photos of this room, and I related the story of my temporary haunting to Kristen & Mel. At this point, Karen the bartender came upstairs to see how we were doing, and to tell us some more history. She told us about the "CP" sign, which stands for Club Paradise, one of the many businesses to occupy the second floor of this building in its long history. According to Karen, Club Paradise was the first club in Memphis, and one of the first in the south, where black musicians were allowed to play in public. She also told us about the "12 Mellow Fellows Blues Lounge" where Ray Charles used to shoot heroin and play the piano all night. We then asked her about the twelve movies that had been filmed here, and she asked us to follow her.

We followed Karen back down the leaning staircase and through a narrow hallway that was just short enough to rub the top of my head as I walked through. We walked through a sort of courtyard to reach another, hidden part of the building. Behind a locked iron gate, we found the bar from Black Snake Moan. It was exactly as depicted in the movie, from the long narrow building to the small wooden stage where Samuel L. Jackson played the blues. After taking a few more photos, we made our way back to the front bar for some more drinks. When we sat down at a nearby table, the other bartender, Clarence (a.k.a. C-Note, a.k.a. Pimp Daddy because of the time he pimped three cocktail waitresses to members of Alice Cooper's band) came over and sat down with us. Kristen, Mel, and I were eager to hear more about the building and its history, so we welcomed his company. First, he ordered a round of drinks for everyone. Then he spent the next two hours telling us everything we wanted to know about Earnestine & Hazel's, Memphis, and the surrounding area. Even at 59, Clarence had a certain youthful quality about him, and there was never a dull moment. In addition to being well-versed in local lore and legend, we found Clarence's mustache to be of the highest caliber, easily overshadowing the moustaches of far younger men.

After we three had absorbed much information from Clarence, we remembered our other must-see destination, Raiford's Hollywood Disco. We asked Clarence if he knew the place and if it was worth checking out. As it happens, not only did he know the place, he was a frequent patron, as well as a friend of the owner, Raiford. Not only that, but he said that his shift ended a few hours ago, and that he'd be happy to take us to Raiford's, which was only a four-block walk. We all agreed that the idea was tremendous, so we finished our drinks, told Karen that we'd be back in a little while, and strolled down the street to Raiford's.

I'm sure some of you out there have heard the term "off the fuckin' hook" before, right? Wrong. Forget everything you ever thought you knew about what a dance club should be. In fact, until you've been to Raiford's, you should just go ahead and consider yourself uncultured. You see, Raiford is a 65-year-old black man. Apart from owning the place, he runs the DJ booth. I know what you're thinking, how cool a place can this be if a senior citizen is picking out the dance music? Again, you fail. Old black people are not like old white people. As black people age, they somehow retain their taste for good music, whereas white people seem to grow more lame with age. Trust Raiford, he knows what he's doing. Now, Raiford has two fine-ass daughters, and they take care of the bar. Raiford also employs what he calls "the brutha with the gun" who ensures that, to use Clarence's phrase, "Ain't no problems here."

To illustrate what I mean, picture a Dallas dance club, filled with everyday Dallasites. You've got a pretty good cross-section of cocky dudes, catty girls, douche bags, belligerent drunks, elitist and cliquey assholes, etc. Now imagine that same dance club, but remove the cockiness, the cattiness, the belligerence... in short, remove all attitude and pretense. Now you're starting to get an accurate picture of Raiford's. Clarence was right, "Ain't no problems here."

At Raiford's, you can't buy a bottle of beer. You can't buy draft beer either. Or wine, or shots, for that matter. All they sell at Raiford's is forties. If this sounds too low-brow for you, then you're exactly the kind of douche bag that Raiford's was built to avoid. If this sounds hilarious to you, then you'll fit right in under the disco balls and multi-colored strobe lights. Bring your dancing shoes, though, 'cause everybody dances at Raiford's, even yours truly, although I defy anyone to produce photographic evidence to prove it.

Around 2:30 AM, we three, and Clarence, were exhausted from dancing, so we made our way back to Earnestine & Hazel's. When we got there, Karen greeted us like long-lost relatives. She whipped up some more soul burgers, brought some drinks, sat down with us, and the five of us ate, drank, and laughed until well past closing time (3 AM). Finally, we thanked both her and Clarence for their endless graciousness and paid our tab. On the way out, Karen gave us her phone number and address. She said not to bother renting a hotel room the next time we were in Memphis because we were welcome to stay with her for free. Now that’s some fuckin’ southern hospitality! We each hugged her tightly and wished her well, and promised to look her up on our next trip. Then we shook hands with Clarence and drove back to the hotel for some much needed rest.

The next day, we checked out of the hotel, and headed out of town. On the way through downtown, we stopped at a place called Dyer's, which is alleged to have the best burgers in Memphis, but all we found was poor service and disgusting food (don't bother). It didn't matter, though, because the three of us were of the opinion that, after the events of the previous night, all other things would pale in comparison.

During the seven hour drive back to Dallas, I was fortunate enough to witness the creation of two new Freezin Beggar sketch characters. I won't reveal anything about them, but let's just say that they're loud, obnoxious, and utterly hilarious Texans. We laughed all the way home.

If you've made it this far, I applaud you. I suppose I owe it to you to wrap this up, so here goes. You know those stories about people who've been in prison for a long time, and when they're finally released, they have trouble readjusting to free society? I think I'm experiencing the opposite of that right now. I feel like I took to Memphis like a pyramid to a riverbank. I had so much fun in Memphis that I'm actually considering moving there. So the only problem I can see with this trip is that we may have jumped the shark. I don't know if there's a way to top our weekend in Memphis, but goddamnit I'm gonna try!