On Metro-Sexuals, Mississippi and The Big 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 making some Canadian style MacDaddy 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 a 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 the 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 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 Bataan 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 dashing as always in my Brooks Bros. Seersucker suit, walking single file in rural Mississippi at 1 in 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 street people who will do there 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, thats 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.

Oxford, MS
http://www.hollyeats.com/AjaxDiner.htm
http://www.mcsr.olemiss.edu/~egjbp/faulkner/rowanoak.html
http://www.squarebooks.com/

Memphis:
http://www.bealestreetonline.com/clubs.htm
http://www.hollyeats.com/Gus

MO
http://www.throwedrolls.com/sikeston.html

I remain, much like your Great Uncle the one they kept locked up in the attic:

JQP esq