Drinks, Doctors and the Price of Love:
My Humanitarian Mission to the Deep South (Vol I):
As you the avid reader know, I have been on the road these past few days. Spreading good will and love for this great nation, much the same way I imagine Johnny Appleseed must of with apples.
Allow me to take you back to last week, Wednesday last, to be precise. After a normal day of labor here at the salt mine, I was invited across the street to my favorite bar to enjoy the company of my fellow workers. I met all ready in progress, Pastor Bob, The Dungeons and Dragons Player of the Week and the Bitter Red Headed Lady.
Our discussion took on an Oz theme, when we debated at great length as to who really is behind the curtain (so to speak) at our place of employment. That followed by spreading vicious rumors about co-workers not present. They took their leave, sadly I did not.
M. Chamberlain, serving in has capacity as barman, was attentive to my every need. Friends, at that point in my life I made what I would come to recall as a regretful decision, that being, that I needed more hard liquor. Somewhere during this pre-trip preparation, I slipped into a time warp and was struck deaf, so much so in fact that I some how missed my loving a dutiful wife’s 14 calls to come and join her for our evening meal.
She took it upon herself to hop upon her bicycle (the one I bought from the pimp last fall for 15 dollars, still in the box) and peddle uptown to my favorite bar to retrieve yours truly. Pickled, was I. Let’s just say, I was in what even for me was “rare-form”. The Crosses this woman bares in the name of love.
Thursday morning, I had a doctor’s appointment, which I am sure I looked and felt my best for. I was sweating out the hard charging of the night before. While at this appointment I received what can only be termed the very best medical care they are able to soak my insurance provider for.
After a two hour wait, spent reading several two year old Newsweeks, I was called in. After 7 and a half minutes of double speak and two new scripts, I was sent on my way. Friends, I did not go on to work.
After a detailed discussion over the results of my testing with My Flower and her extreme displeasure at my reticence to heed the doctors instructions (as you know I have several advance medical degrees of some of the finest medical schools in the Bahamas, what the fuck do they know.)
I went to eat. You see a trip to the south for me requires some seasoning, of the mind, body and soul. My mind, still reeling for the abuse I put it through, I liver spanked and sent to bed, my kidneys, working mandatory overtime, I decided it was time to focus on my stomach and all associated organs (which I might add are some of my favorite). Sadness to he, who doesn’t prepare his stomach for the fine dinning experiences of the Deep South.
I lunched at a famous hot dog stand in this my fair city, eating 6 Coney dogs with extra onions (onions clean the blood, or so I was told when I was but a strapping young lad). I then retired to a rare book store where I am well known, followed by a trip to an Army-Navy surplus store and finally a gun shop (I had to stock up on much needed supplies for my trip).
Afterward, I found myself once again driven by this beast called hunger, and only one destination would do this great city’s version of a White Castle. Which I should note was the very fist time I had ever eaten at this particular establishment sober. I would recommend to you the reader to refrain from ever doing so; there is something much more palatable in intoxication that makes this a better dinning experience than in reality it is. I ate 12 sliders, and friends they did their duty.
I then retuned to the manor house, packing and making my calls. Confirming our departure time with Pastor Bob, who agreed to drive, since this was after all a humanitarian mission, J. Thomas, to let him know I was in fact going to be in Memphis, and to the local Baptist church’s prayer tree, since, knowing me, any little bit might help.
I turned in early, sharing nothing but loving thoughts and positive energy with my Pretty Bride (ie: we were still not speaking to each other, since my doctor’s appointment that morning). It was with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head that sleep finally took me.
Road Food, Porn Shops, Arkansas and me:
My Humanitarian Mission to the Deep South (Vol II):
Friday morning pastor Bob picked me up at the manor house at 2:30 am. He immediately acquiesced to my demands of the drivers’ seat, bowing to my far superior driving skills and my innate sense of direction (I am much like a homing pigeon). I was to remain in this position for the remainder of the trip.
You see we had a schedule to keep. One of the greatest joys I have had selling Bibles door to door in the great state of Indiana, is the fact that I get to learn where good food is. And brothers and sisters I wanted to get some donuts. Not any normal kind of pussy donuts, I wanted square donuts. There is only one place to get good square donuts and that is Terre Haute, IN. I made the 4.5 hours drive in 3, just in time for them to be putting the first donuts out. I like the beat the crowd and damn they were tasty. After that sugary treat, it was a mad dash to Effingham, IL. Which like most of that state is rather unremarkable. From there we took a left and we headed south.
Traveling at an average speed of 90, we made good time. Pastor Bob however often slipped to the floor board in heavy traffic, crying Sweet Jesus and saying Hail Mary’s (which of course proves my point that all Prots. are Catholic at heart). As Butchie would say “Ricky Bobby, Muther-Fucker”.
Since there is no good food in south-western Illinois I will not bore you with the details of that leg of our trip. Instead, I will say that on the way down we traveled through MO, stopping only at the Lions Den Adult Superstore, why? you the reader might ask. Well because the bill board said “Adult Superstore, Fuel and Food” how can one pass up something like that pornos, gas and a BLT? I seized it as an opportunity to pick up a little something for the Mrs. (she likes gifts) and by a little something I mean, anything that was smaller that me.
Did you know that Mark Twain is from Missouri? I did. But then again, I am smart like that, in a circus mind reader, Jeopardy winner kind of way, but enough about me, on with the trip.
We hit Arkansas in time for a late lunch. I stopped at a gas station and they recommended Gene's Pit Bar-B-Q in the boom town of Brinkley, AR. I enjoy some good BBQ, granted not as spicy as I like it, but good never the less. Well worth getting off the interstate.
Next, stop was West Memphis, is ever there is a tribute to the American Trucker it is West Memphis. Sadly, this was the first time I had ever seen it in broad daylight, which made it even less inspiring that usual. For those of you who didn’t know, West Memphis, is one big truck stop, bob tails welcome. Then friends, across the bridge to that City of myth Memphis, for Pastor Bob and I.
I have been going to Memphis, about once or twice a year since 1990. It’s a fun town, more so if you know how to navigate its steamy underbelly without getting yourself killed (they don’t call me JQP the Navigator for nothing).
It’s a city of One Million people and 10,000 bands, who all gig. A city where the women are hot, the music good and the booze plentiful. But dear reader, I was not there for drunken exploits and cheap gratuitous sexual encounters, I was there on a humanitarian mission.
J. Thomas, The Jazz Man:
Now I should let you the reader know that J. Thomas is my best friend, well the one who as known me the longest and put up with my shit the best. We have known each other since we were 14, when I told him I was going to kick his ass and he ran away from me till he found a big stick and beat me about the head with it. That J. Thomas, he’s a thinker.
We even became blood brothers, him cutting his hand in a solemn Indian ritual and me tearing off a scab because I am not fucking stupid enough to cut myself (AIDs, hell this was even before Herpes, that and what do I look like a 13 year old girl who wears black, cut myself, hell no).
You see J. Thomas, is going through a hard time. Early this summer, he was getting ready to go on a tour of Europe with his band “J. Thomas and the Jazztones” (they even have matching suits and everything). This dear reader is When the Worm turned For Him.
You see his wife and child were taking him to the airport, when at the gate, she leaned over and said “When you get back me and the baby will be gone, I already have a new place to stay and new friends” …It’s for the best” and with that she turned and walked away.
Now, I have done my share of breaking up, but damn that was cold. She knew he was going to be gone for 3 weeks, so she kicked him in the metaphorical balls. And gutted him like a deer on the first day of the season.
One thing I have noticed about Southern Women vs. Yankee Women, is Yankee women will bitch and bitch a lot, they let you know what they think is wrong with your relationship and exactly how its all you fucking fault. A Southern Woman, however, won’t say shit. She will sit there and put up with it until she has had enough. Then her ass is out the fucking door and if you’re lucky she doesn’t have a lot of think necked brothers, who then feel the need to kill you. Also Yankees mistake politeness for being nice, just because I am polite doesn’t mean I won’t burn down your barn you fucking cracker.
It’s just something I have noticed.
Suffice to say, J. Thomas was back from Poland, Finland, and Bulgaria and was in a bad place, you see he loved his wife and more so his child (my God-daughter) brother man had the Blues.
Dry as a dessert and Hickory Smoked
My Humanitarian Mission to the Deep South (Vol III):
Pastor Bob and I arrived early Friday afternoon. We were warmly welcomed by J. Thomas, the man with a sax for an ax, and enjoyed some sweet tea in the shade of a magnolia tree. Time was spent observing the colorful street life evident in the neighborhood he resides. I felt at home, however Pastor Bob, made sure to put his money in his sock and lock up his car. I would have done the same but I tend to keep a straight razor in mine.
Well, we were there, un-packed, road weary but ready to hard charge. During the discussion of who, what, when and where, we would go next, I was struck by a moment of divine inspiration. I uttered the words, that only rarely before have crossed my lips and never during one of my many trips to the jewel of the mid-south.
I said, “whatever ya’ll want to do is fine with me. I am not drinking this weekend, I will do the driving”. Yes, dear reader, pick yourself up off the floor. JQP not drinking. Shock and dismay was written on the faces of those present. “The Boy-King not Drink?” Peter Pan, growing up?” Bacchus on the Wagon?” Dear reader, there was much gnashing of teeth and rending of clothes. Fear not, I still retained my Pan Flute.
Why you might ask, had I taken such a radical departure, form culturally accepted norms and/or my routine behavior? Behold the reasons and method to my madness.
The Wednesday prior, as I already addressed, I got drunk, drunker than usual, let’s just say that besides my concept of time being disabled, my self-editor was also put out of commission. Much, to my relief today my Flower told me she is no longer mad at me, which means I can sleep now with both eyes closed and without fear of waking up on fire (unless it’s all a clever trick, women are sneaky that way). Let’s just say mistakes were made and both JQP and alcohol were a factor.
Also contributing to my course of action was the culture that both J. Thomas and I were raised in. Think “Lord of the Fly’s” with an edge.
A man, from our place in the world, when faced with emotional pain goes through a very scripted series of actions. First, he gets drunk, then he get drunker, then he gets into a fight (repeat if necessary; need not be Irish to apply). We are simple men, we feel driven to translate our pain, our hurt, into something real, something tangible. Whether that translation is a broken nose, or a black eye, or a gunshot wound (both for ourselves and/or others).
I decided that someone needed to stay sober, since being in the custody of those fine members of Southern Law Enforcement, was not how I wanted to spend my summer vacation. This was met by a great deal of resistance by those present. With statements like: “You fucking pick now to go on the wagon?” “Who is going to start the fights?’ “Bullshit, if I buy it you will drink it”
I retorted like Cain in Ku-Fu with this: “Young grasshoppers, who was it who go you out of jail last itme you got busted? (I established eye contact with each in turn)”. They in unison replied, “It’s sure as fuck wasn’t you JQP”. There in lay the lesson, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t fucking me. Nor will/would it be, as a matter of fact, I was going to do my best to make sure, no civilians were harmed during the making of this trip, just as I was going to insure that the dumb ass actively wouldn’t go off the scale as it normally does. Fret not dear reader, like an onion, there are many layers to this story.
That being done, we decided to go have a few drinks and eat some ribs. We went to Young’s Deli in midtown Memphis, where Pastor Bob accompanied by J. Thomas washed the dust from the road down with a few dozen PBRs. I drank sweet tea, so sweet in fact I at one point thought of asking our half assed waitress (to be a waitress at Young’s, you have to A) have sleeve tattoos, B) be indifferent to the needs of your customers) for a shot of tea to go with my sugar (this was to be a reoccurring theme). The Deli in midtown, if not all of midtown is one of those places the tourists miss, its designed that way. Everyone is hip, everything is over priced, it is the place to see and be seen (much like Broad Ripple is in Indy). …and yes, the ladies are fine, granted there seemed to be very few from the south, they we are from the north somewhere, see what a liberal arts degree will get you.
After J. Thomas and the Pastor had enjoyed enough of their liquid psychotropics, I suggested dinner might be in order. J. Thomas called his friend Casper the Friendly Ghost (who I might add is a biologist, Canadian and left handed on his mother’s side). and we set out, for what would have to be the finest ribs I have ever had (outside of South By-God Carolina).
We went to the Central BBQ, which also happens to be in Midtown. Brothers and Sisters that was some damn good eaten. I got two racks and went to town. There is an almost sexual joy in eating good BBQ Ribs, it’s like touching perfection, I imagine women experience something close to that when they have orgasms (at least as they seemed to in “Ass Blasters III, The Return of King Dong”). Granted like all of TN, their hot BBQ sauce left a little to be desired to a refined palette such as mine. Way good, you would be remiss if you didn’t eat there on any trip to Memphis.
We past the time between bites, learning about Caper’s primitive society in Canada, it was with foresight I had brought my Canadian-English dictionary. It seems he is from a tiny fishing village called Vancouver, and was so poor he had to live on a boat. Poor man, to be from a country so poor they don’t litter.
In our next exciting installment hear our hero say “Don’t worry, what could happen to us in Mississippi?”)
On Metro-Sexuals, Mississippi and Old Muddy:
My Humanitarian Mission to the Deep South (Episode 4):The four of us (Casper, J. Tomas, Pastor Bob and myself), then went to several midtown hip-joints. I found myself to be metro-sexualed out; the guys at these places used more hair care products than my Loving Bride. Much too trendy for me to be comfortable, that and there was about a 15 year age difference between ourselves and the other patrons. I felt like those guys who used to come to all the high school girls volleyball games, just because they were big fans of the sport.
J. Thomas, did his best to try to start two or three fights, one even with someone who deserved to have their ass beat and then handed back to them, but with my new found skills in sobriety, I was able to negate any trips to ER/City-County Lock-Up. We ditched Casper, while he was throwing some Canadian style Mac Daddy moves on an 18 year old co-ed, who was otherwise occupied throwing–up. Promising to call him if we did anything Saturday.
We then trekked into the steamy underbelly of Memphis, to the kind of places where men of my temperament often find ourselves, juke-joints, roadhouses, cat-houses and dive bars…places where one can relax.
The night ended with Pastor Bob and J. Thomas noodling for catfish next to the City of Memphis Sanitary Sewer Outlet #316, almost drowning when they swamped the John Boat they had liberated from the shoreline.
There is something to be said about the beauty of the skyline of Memphis reflected in the face of Old Man River, more so when you’re watching two highly inebriated men try to grab catfish in a flow of semi-treated sewage.
I had to promise more beer to get them back to shore. Pastor Bob and J. Thomas looking and smelling their best, I loaded them into the car, stopping at a liquor store to buy four bottles of Boon’s Farm, which I encouraged them to drink quickly. After spraying them off with a garden hose in the back yard, I tucked them in. Reading some Spinoza, to them for a bedtime story.
Saturday I woke with a smile on my face and good will for my fellow man, it’s odd how not getting shit faced drunk the night before can help a man bounce out of bed. I preformed my highly ritualized personal hygiene tasks and set about waking the “sleepy-heads” since it was already 7am. They however seemed to require more than 3 hours of sleep since my efforts were met with great resistance.
I finally got them around and ready by 11, at which time we called Casper, he dashed right over. Canadians are prompt and cheery people, annoyingly so. The question on everyone’s lips was “where in the fuck do you want to go so goddamn early?” My reply was “if you have to ask you can’t go”. With that we all loaded into the car we set out.
…into the state of Mississippi.
I drove them into the very heart of the Deep South, on a quest that would be both literary and fulfilling. We went to town Oxford, MS. If you ever get the chance I would suggest you stop in. Not only is it the home of Old Miss, and William Faulkner, it also has one of the best book stores in the South. But first things first, we had to eat.
We lunched at the Ajax Diner, and friends I don’t think you could go wrong there. I had the best chicken fried steak of my life and my choice 3 of the 30 sides available were perfect. With food and Bloody Mary’s (served with pickled okra as a garnish) in my traveling companions stomachs, they settled them right down, they were like newborns sucking at the teat of Mother Vodka.
It was after this meal, the J. Thomas said “lets walk over to Faulkner’s place, its only a few blocks away. So, we started out and what was “only a few Blocks away” turned into our own private reenactment of the Baton Dead March.
Picture if you will, Pastor Bob a member of the Clergy, J. Thomas, a professional Jazz musician, Casper a Odd Canadian, and myself, walking single file in rural Mississippi at 1in the afternoon, in August. It wasn’t long before tempers flared, chiefly over whether our not members of the Church of Jesus Christ, Latter Day Saints, are called Mormons, and concurrently do they or do they not wear special underwear.
After 17 miles, all up hill, the temp. at 110 degrees, with 100 % humidity. We reached Rowan Oak, Faulkner’s home, I being a Faulkner fan (yes, I read all of his works) enjoyed myself and Praise Jesus, the place was air-conditioned plus they gave out free water. After several hours spent being tourists, we once again walked back to town.
This time going to Square Books where we each bought some iced tea, grabbed a book and fell asleep, no really, soundly fell asleep, one member of our party being woken up because they were snoring loudly, another forced to buy a book after they had drooled all over the cover. After that, we once again loaded into the car and headed back to Tennessee. We had plans.
However, if you the reader would like a feel for life in Mississippi among the ruling elite I would recommend a visit to Oxford, if nothing else the food is kick-ass.
We dropped off Casper and headed to Beale Street to listen to a friend of J. Thomas’s play a gig. Now if you have never been Beale Street is the center of Blues in America. Has a result, besides Japanese tourists, there is a good chance you will find a real Blues act. Not to mention the street people who will do their best to separate you from your money.
If Walt Disney was a black man with the Blues, this is what he would have created. We ensconced ourselves, at an establishment called the Black Diamond, as Pastor Bob noted, their motto is “Service with a Smirk”. I immediately felt at home here. It is not a tourist place, as a matter of fact its not even tourist friendly.
It’s the kind of place that late at night people could get shot at. Just my kind of place. I found the wait staff most helpful, to the point that several times during my stay there they took it upon themselves to tell me where to go. Definitely someplace I will return to, if you stop in, ask for J. Thomas, it’s the bar he hangs out at, he will show you around and most likely hit you up to cover his very large bar tab.
After the lads had gotten there fill of fermented hops and cheap whisky, we headed out to what can only be described has one of the greatest food experiences of my life. Gus’s Fired Chicken. With the discipline of novices, ready to take Holy Orders we descended on this chicken shack of chicken shacks.
We ordered our drinks, cheap beer for the Pastor and J. and sweet tea for me, and the 48 piece chicken dinner. With an appetizer of deep fried dill pickles. Not a word was said between us for the next hour and a half. Folks that is the best fried chicken there is. After dinner we drove back to J. Thomas’s house and turned in.
Sunday, both the Pastor and I woke early loaded up the car and hit the road. Did my trip help J. Thomas, hard to say, the pain that one goes through is their own, no matter how often I wish I could take it from someone else, I cant. I do know that now he knows that he has friends who are more than willing to drive 700 miles to see him, just because he is going though a super shitty time in his life and right now I think that’s enough.
Our trip back to the Great State of Indiana was uneventful save one thing. For many miles I had been seeing these bill boards for a place that served “throwed rolls”, shit how can you pass something like that up?
Which takes us to Stikeston, MO home of Lambert's Café. This place is a gem, they feed you more than you can eat and throw things at you, chiefly rolls (really, I saw a kid get an eye put out while I we were there). The food is damn good, down home cooking and reasonably priced. Well worth getting off the highway.
When rolled into home around 7:30pm, I was greeted with a “oh, your fucking back” (see my Flower was still just a little mad at me). But after I gave her the presents (spoons from every state we visited and a dildo from Lion’s Den) my Flower was a little warmer toward having me under the same roof.
All in all, it was a good trip, unusual in so much as I was sober the whole time and came back with no bruises/broken bones, plus with money in my pocket. It was good to see J. Thomas and be there for him, that’s what friends do. That and even Pastor Bob didn’t piss me off, which in and of itself is unusual. No fist fights, no jail time, just a lot of good food. Damn, I love the South.
References:
Indiana
http://www.hollyeats.com/ConeyIsland.htmhttp://www.hollyeats.com/Powers.htmhttp://www.hollyeats.com/SquareDonut.htmArkansas
http://www.bbq-porch.org/reviews/ar.aspMemphis
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midtown,_Memphishttp://www.centralbbq.net/index.htmlhttp://www.bealestreetonline.com/clubs.htmhttp://www.hollyeats.com/GusOxford, MS
http://www.hollyeats.com/AjaxDiner.htmhttp://www.mcsr.olemiss.edu/~egjbp/faulkner/rowanoak.htmlhttp://www.squarebooks.com/MO
http://www.throwedrolls.com/sikeston.htmlI remain,
JQP Esq.
