Women are strange.  But, you know that.

It is still raining in Memphis, which I like. It does not deter me from doing what I otherwise would have done. So, I’m up for whatevs. But, Trixie, on the other hand, is on vacation. So I asked her what she wanted to do on her last full day in town.

“Clean out the van.” She said, meaning my trusty EM-50 Phantom Rambler.

See what I mean about strange? Cleaning out someone’s mobile abode while I am on vacation rarely ever cracks the top 10 for me.

But, she’s my girl and if that is what she wants to do, then that is what we will do.

Of course, it’s pretty crowded back there with two people. So, I mostly sat in the front seat playing a game on my phone while straightened piles of debris and rooted around beneath the seats.

I’m among the first to admit that I am not tidy, in the conventional sense. But, when her hand emerged from under the back seat with this item… (pic related)

this is what makes the title so funny

…even I was surprised. I may be a bit disorganized, again, in the conventional sense, but ordinarily I would remember how I came to possess a hunk of bark.

My astonishment alone should be all the reaction to this find that there is, and then it can be tossed aside.

But, good ol’ Trixie had to knock it up a notch by giving me that look. You know she has THAT look… (pic related)

I mean, it’s not like I did it on purpose. That would be weird.

Once upon a Memphis lunch break,

While I pondered hungry for hungry’s sake,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of pulled pork menu,

Suddenly there came a grumbling,

As if my tummy was a’rumbling,

Rumbling for a burger venue.

“I wonder if they have b-burgers” I stuttered, “in this house of bar-b-que”

Aah, distinctly I recall,

It was in the early Fall,

When each separate  mealtime call,

Wrought that meat within my core,

Eagerly I wished the waiter,

Bring me food! Be the cater!

Cater the food I will adore!

The medium rare and radiant beef among this Porky Pig decor.

Alas, burgerless here forever more.

And the predictably, sad, uncertain,

Way I watched Trixie and her scan,

Slowly, SLOWLY as she read while I silently swore

Filled me with a sense of dread,

When to the waiter she finally said,

“I’m gonna need just a minute more”

Presently my hunger grew stronger,

Trixie said, “Just a moment longer”

’til I could wait no more!

“Madame”, I said, “Your forgiveness I do implore”

“Feed me now! Right this minute!

Give me a sandwich!

I don’t care what’s in it”

But, FOOD, I must before I pass out on the floor!”

The shedevil glanced up and said,

“Almost ready. Now don’t get sore.”

Deep into her dark eyes peering

Long I sat there wondering, fearing,

If she would ever decide on a plat du jour.

When the waiter returned the silence was unbroken,

And I felt like chokin’

With the echo of  the words then spoken…

“Just another minute more”

This I whispered and the waiter murmured back to me…”Sure”

And, my Trixie, never flitting,

Still is sitting. STILL is sitting,

Reading the menu they gave us at the door.

And her eyes have all the seeming,

Of a demon’s that is dreaming,

With no intention of ever of selecting either or.

And my soul has given up hope as I am passed out on the floor.

I just wanted a burger, which I will get…nevermore.

Its always Day 1, because when I’m with her time stands still. (Pause while all the ladies reading this swoon and glare at their husbands)…

…The road used to be quiet solitude occasionally interupted by edge-of-the-seat,  life-and-death adventures that the hero survived using nothing more than his wits and whatever he had packed in his EM-50 Rambler, driving from place to place as determined by the fates and chance while “Carry On My Wayward Son” played on a continuous loop to serve as a theme song for the travels.

Now I drive from fabric store to fabric store while my wife Trixie talks non-stop about curtains for “the van.”

Ok, it’s not really that bad but she has threatened several time to give the Rambler a good cleaning before she leaves. I don’t understand girls.

On the drive to Graceland yesterday we had a disagreement in discussion form. I posited that the Home of Elvis would be overrun with a throng of sorry-ass, no-good bastards whose only purpose for being there was to get in my way. She countered that we “would be fine”.

I continued to gripe and grumble about the expected teeming mass of humanity who have run out of ideas for entertaining out-of-town guests during this extended holiday.

Graceland is laid out so that you can’t see how crowded it is until after you have paid $10 to park. Shrewd.

It was a very long walk from the parking lot to the ticket booth. My feet were actually starting to ache. Fortunately,  the good people of Graceland had taken that into consideration and provided instant relief… (pic related)

…tour packages priced so high that your whole body instantly goes numb.

As expected,  I was right.  All these assholes were doing some stupid touristy crap, preventing me from doing it.  Unimaginative dicks.

“Told ya” I said to Trixie.

“Shush. We’re fine.” She said without looking at me as she snapped pictures of blue Xmas trees.”

Eventually she agreed that it would be wiser for us to come back after these dorks had left town and a whole new set of dorks emerged to take their place.

We walked over to the Rock & Roll Cafe and had lunch. We agreed to eat lightly so we would be hungry for authentic Memphis BBQ on Beale St. We split the fried peanut butter and banana sammich and a hamburger. She would pretend to take bites and sneak food over to my side of the plate. Whatevs.

We discussed what to do next.

“Beale St!” She fairly shrieked.

I said that Beale would be overrun with a throng of sorry-ass, no-good bastards whose only purpose was to get in my way.

She countered that we “would be fine.”

I grumbled.

She asked, “Ok, well, what would you do if I wasn’t here? Where would be your destination?”

Great question!

I pulled up a few apps on my phone: Roadside America,  Field Trip and (my favorite) AtlasObscura.com.

I flipped through some nearby stuff and finally declared, “About 40 miles northwest, in Arkansas, there is an old Greyhound Bus Terminal that was built in the 30s. It cost a fortune at the time and is done in Art Deco.  I would go there!”

She took my phone and scrolled through it. And finally said, “Ok, let’s compromise. Let’s go to Arkansas to the GREYHOUND track, drink 30 oz of whiskey out on the DECK, served by a bartender named ART. What say?”

And,  so we did.

While there she said,

“I haven’t really been able to drink since you left because you haven’t been there to watch out for me. Can I?”

Having been there before, I replied, “Uh oh.”

We watches the greyhounds race.  Or, as she put it, “The doggies.” And her assessment was, “They all tried sooo hard! I wanted them all to win!”

“I’m not sure how that would work.” I said.

“Oh shush.” Was all I got as a reply.

Eventually, I was able to drag her out of there and back to the room. She kept claiming I was oppressing her. Stifling her fun and vacation. When I nudged her in the direction of the exit she went all “Dog Day Afternoon” on me and started chanting, “TUNICA! TUNICA! (The name of that casino town in Mississippi that we went to yesterday). She demanded I take her there.

I got her back to the room and told her it was “pajama night” at Tunica and that she better get changed. She muttered, “This better not be a trick.”  Even as I snapped this picture…

I love the road, but it is nice to have a bit of normalcy and routine back in my life.

I may not be The King, but I do have a pretty little thing waiting for me down in the EM-50 Phantom Rambler, which is beginning to smell a lot like a Jungle Room, if you know what I’m saying.

If you dont, then I have to ask: Are you a Christian child?

If you responded with anything other than, “Ma’am, I am tonight!”, then you need to stop reading and listen to “Walking in Memphis” by Mark Cohn.

Since I am lazy, then by projection you are as well. So, here is the link:

Marc Cohn – Walking in Memphis

Ok, now that I can take you seriously as a human being and not a Philistine…in my travels I have made a point of going through Mt Airy, NC, Morgantown, WV and Sylacauga, AL, the boyhood homes of Andy Griffith, Don Knotts and Jim Nabors (Andy, Barney and Gomer) respectively.

That show was meaningful to me. It illustrated the important lessons in life that I have tried to carry with me. Namely, values, community, and that even a scrub like Barney Fife can land a hottie like Thelma Lou, who is waaay out of his league, if he simply believes he can. (pic related)

Today we tour Graceland and tonight (I’m thinking, dusk-ish. I’m not a young man, after all) we turn Beale on its ear and party like we don’t still have tummy aches from eating too much yesterday! We do though 🙁

Speaking of yesterday.  Trixie and I had a traditional Thanksgiving…with blackjack and hookers.

Ok, not really, but we did go to the All-You-Can-Eat buffet at The Horseshoe Casino in Tunica, MS. As is always the case, the casino won. My performance at the gaming and dinner tables was pitifully inadequate. But, like I always do, I hung in there waiting for Nike (the goddess, not the shoes) to point the finger of victory at my side of the table.

Oh well, you know what they say:

Unlucky at cards…

I am waiting to pick Trixie up from the Memphis airport.

In the mean time, tradition dictates that I take stock of my life, count my blessings, and express that which I am thankful for.  Ok. Cool.

My own little twist on this is to do it like I am playing Boggle.  I’m going to try and list the stuff that is unique to me.  That no one else is saying. This is not to say that I am not grateful for family, health, no-good bastard friends like you all, God – in whatever version you perceive her, him or it to be…all that stuff. It is just that I think you all have that covered already.  I am particularly thankful this year and I want to keep the tradition breathing.

At the risk of being cliché,  I am thankful for my wife. You really don’t know what an amazing person she is because most of what she does for me, for family, for friends, for her idiot cats is done quietly and is only the kind of thing anyone would notice if it wasn’t done.

But, me, I’m a professional observer. I watch. I see. She is really something special.

Ok, but enough about her. I am thankful to be living a life-long dream! I am on the road and seeing America. The beauty. The ugly. The unremarkable. The quirky. The normal. The astounding. There is so much that I see and even more that I miss.

I meet a lot of folks and about 1 in 3 tells me that they have always wanted to do what I am doing. And, I see in them that quiet desperation and I know that they will never do this or anything like it. It is a pipe dream – meant to go unfulfilled. And they will go to the grave never realizing it.

I know because I didn’t realize it either.

Back in July, Trixie asked me to ride over to Dundalk with her after work. She wanted to look at a van that some fella was selling.

This wasn’t the first kooky request my girl had ever made, so I just went along.

We test drove it and she struck a deal on the spot.

Only then did I ask her what she planned on doing with an old van.

She said, “You’re going to start getting it ready for your big trip.”

“What big trip?” I asked.

She explained, “For years now I have listened as you have told me about all the cool places you have driven by while you were working. And, how you wish you had time to stop and see some of this stuff. Well, as soon as you get this fixed up, you are going to quit your job and drive around the country and live your dream! Or was that all talk?”

I was dumbstruck. I didnt even know she was paying attention. Hell, i never came right out and said that i wanted to do this. But, I really did.

Since that time I have wrestled with many emotions and questions about what it is I am supposed to do. What a marriage is supposed to be. I can’t just break off and go…can I?

Everytime I would have doubts she was there to quash them.

I didn’t break off and go. I was pushed. At times I was dragged kicking and screaming through the buttressed walls of convention.

Now I am doing it. And I am thankful each day for the opportunity and the indomitable spirit of the woman who made me do it.

But, tradition dictates that today I express that gratitude.

Thank you, babe! You are one-of-a-kind.

Livin on the road my friend, is gonna keep you free and clean
Now you wear your skin like iron
Your breath as hard as kerosene

– from “Pancho & Lefty” by Townes Van Zandt. Sung by Willie Nelson

Being a self-imposed vagabond, or “Rubber Tramp” as some call us, so to differentiate us from “Leather Tramps” – rubber tramps have wheels, leather tramps just shoes as a way of conveyance – means not knowing what kind of neighborhood I am in when I park for the night.

I sleep mostly in Wal-Mart parking lots since many of them still have overnight parking policies. But, the problem I face is, one can find a Wal-Mart in just about any type of neighborhood. So, it tells me nothing really.

I mean, one of my tertiary goals on this adventure is to not be awoken by someone breaking into the EM-50 Phantom Rambler. So, I have learned to look for clues that would indicate whether I am in a high-crime area or not.

I don’t always know why certain signs are regarded as clues, but I trust my gut. If something doesn’t seem right, I move on to the next Wal-Mart.

Often, I look no further than my gymnasium,  PF (Planet Fitness). An area with a Planet Fitness tends to be in a reasonably safe neighborhood.

Of course, the argument could be made that some dude with out-of-state tags, sleeping in his car, automatically knocks the neighborhood down a notch. Point.

The PF litmus test isn’t foolproof, though.  Take Jackson, TN for instance. The colors of the PF sign looked a bit washed and faded. Hmm. Not good. Directly across the street is a coin laundromat, while necessary to my travels, it is definitely a red flag.

I began to move on when I spotted a Chic-Fil-A.

“Well, this changes everything.” I thought and put the Rambler back into park. That’s when I noticed the Goodwill Store. Uh-oh. But, wait! They have a drive-thru drop off lane!

I needed more data. I scanned my surroundings. A store called, “Dirt Cheap”. I didn’t like the sound of that. But also a Smoothie King. I was so confused.

As I sat there gathering info, some clown came to a complete stop before inching his way over a speed bump in the parking lot – never a good thing to see, for some reason.

The next lot over had a vacant space at what should have been an anchor store. No good.  But, then I saw a landscape crew cutting the grass on that little island between lanes of traffic.

As a side note, I drove over to said strip of land . (pic related)

How I got there… is The EM-50 Phantom Rambler (pic related)

And that, my friends, is the difference between a Median and a Mode.

Back to the story…

I wasn’t sure what to do, and then it hit me! I Googled “tattoo parlors near me”.

The result was a half a dozen shops with names that indicated violent episodes of mental disorder and anti-social behavior written in fonts that suggest it was scrawled out on the wall of a dark alley with the remnants of a can of spray paint left over after the artist had huffed his brains out. Names like: Twizted Chainz, Black-Hearted Blood Lusters, Barking Madd Inksterz, Broken Dreamz, Raging WeirdoZ, Evil Mind Tattoo, etc.

Finally, I could heave a sigh of relief and park my van. If there is one sure sign of white-bread, suburban, middle to upper-middle class, boring 9 to 5 neighborhoods this is surely it.

And now, I wait for Trixie. She’ll be here in 16 hours or so!

Safe travels, my friends!

When the world finally starts to make sense and I am nominated for the Supreme Court, this is the picture that will be introduced at my confirmation hearing that will inevitably cause me to be dropped from consideration:

Yes, today I went to Nathan Bedford Forrest State Park in Tennessee.

You may be aware that he was a Confederate General during the Civil War. Or, maybe you know him as the very first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. But, let’s face it, the only reason you have heard of him is he is who Forrest Gump was named after and, you even forgot about that part until just now.

Some argue that point. They insist that the whole “him being the first Grand Wizard thing” might not be completely true since there is no hard evidence to support the claim. While others counter that he was sworn into the office on April 9th, 1867 in room 10 of The Maxwell House Hotel in Nashville, TN.

Whichever side you choose to believe, you have to admit that this raises one obvious question:

How does every commercial for Folger’s not end with the line, “Good to the last drop, huh? Well, at least we didn’t invent the KKK!”?

Hell, even the memorial to N.B. Forrest looks like a statue of a behooded Klansman. (pic related)

And, this is why I went. To hear the other side of the story. Sure, it is easy to be outraged that there is a park named in honor of a slave trader and enemy combatant of the U.S.A. I mean, please. Right?

But, the hard truth is, this place exists. Since all I know is what they tell me, and they choose what to tell me, maybe it is time I sought out the rest of the story.

I reported to the ranger station and read some of the posted literature on why snakes get an unfair rap on their rep. (The short answer is, that besides eating disease-carrying rodents, they also consume a huge amount of insects. But, with my attention span being what it is, no answer stays short, hence…Tommy Rambles On…and I got to arguing internally about the insect thing. I mean, sure, you find one crawling across your mashed potatoes & fish, you’re gonna be grossed out. Unless it turns out to be a ladybug, which we then think it is ADORABLE! that the insect crawled across our meal. Which, in western Tennessee,  is a good thing because, seriously, ladybugs are everywhere…pic related)

They were all up in my Kool-Aid

If you ask me, the snakes are laying down on the job. Heh heh) when I was greeted by Ranger J.C. Johnsonius.  I am not kidding. That is his name. And, he was about the nicest snot-nosed, punk kid ever to carry a sidearm.  I put him at 13 years old.

For some reason, in my mind’s eye, I am 33 years old. Just like Batman, I stay the same age over the years. And, Ranger Johnsonius was a good 20 years younger than me (in truth, 25 years younger).

He is patient, casual, friendly and professional. I am none of those things and got right to the point:

Me: Interesting person to have a state park named after.

JC: In truth, some folks find him kind of controversial.

Me: Yeah, about that…how is he regarded in these parts? Is he a hero?

JC (after a brief pause): To some, I suppose he is.

He said this in the same tone one might say, “Fuck you, yankee.”

But this ranger is far too polite to utter that to a stranger.

This only served to confuse me further. I mean, Ranger Johnsonius is a genuine nice guy. You can feel it coming off of him.

I explained that up north we are taught from about age 5 on that the south is backwards and evil…yadda yadda yadda…we don’t really get the whole heritage thing.

Patiently, he invited me to drive up the hill to the museum and view some of the videos that explain in detail what a military genius Forrest was. There I could learn more about some of the important battles that he fought in.

I drove off. I stop by the lake to take in the view (pic related)…

It’s in there somewhere beyond the trees

…and read the stone marker explaining the history of the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), of which, I believe my grandfather Elzie was a member, and the work they did on so many of the parks in America during The Great Depression, including the building of this log cabin…

Just then, Ranger Johnsonius pulled into the lot and approached The EM-50 Phantom Rambler. He had chased me down because it was getting late and I probably wouldn’t have the time to take in all the info the museum had to offer. He wanted to get an email addy from me so he could send me some literature if I was truly interested in reading more. I gave him one of my cards. (pic related)

I didn’t look to see which one I gave him – they’re all different.

And, the truth is, I am interested. But, it doesn’t matter.

The most dangerous force we face as a society is homogenization. I don’t want to tell anyone who their heroes should be because none will stand up to scrutiny (just like I won’t at my SCOTUS hearing).

I don’t want to force everyone to be the same. To think the same, act the same. Have the same hobbies and interests. To learn only one side of any story. I don’t know what happened, I only know what I am told, and, hell, I only remember some of that.

If I’m going to judge someone, I think the right idea would be to use the content of their character and not so much the folks they admire or the thing they claim is their heritage.

Nathan Bedford Forrest is an important historical figure, I suppose. He seems to spark something in some people, and well, spark something else altogether in others.

The park is beautiful and well-maintained. I found the staff to be courteous and professional.

I don’t know what’s best for everyone, not even myself (that’s Trixie’s job) so, maybe it was a good thing I posed for that photo that will serve to be my undoing.

Back before “Netflix & Chill” became code for “have sex” we had other terms. We would say they were “doing the nasty” or, “they’re upstairs”.

It was during these simpler times that my wife, Trixie, went by another nickname. Back then she was “Michie”.

Yep, it was Tommy & Michie, sitting in a tree…k-i-s-s-i-n-g… She didn’t get the Trixie handle until many years later when I was watching a mini-marathon of “Speed Racer”, my boyhood hero, when I realized just how startlingly much I had in common with the descriptively-named cartoon character and I began calling her Trixie.

But, there are times (when I  am identifying with Ultraman or Papa Smurf) that I still think of her as Michie.

Because of that, I drove through the night to the tiny unicorporated town that is her namesake, just to be with her. (pic related)

The most noticeable difference between my wife and this town is that one of them HAS no limits…HA!

Still in Tennessee,  killing time until I meet her in Memphis, I searched the map for interesting places.

There is the home of Buford Pusser – the sheriff whose story was made famous by “Walking Tall”. It is in Adamsville.

I didn’t take any pictures because I wasn’t in a very photo-ey mood.  To get to his home-turned-museum, once must drive along the historic Trail of Tears.

It had been a while since I had read about the forced relocation of the Indians, who were made to march west and give up their ancestral lands, so I brushed up on it.

Depending on whose estimate you go by, it can be argued that there were more Indians living in the Americas than there were Europeans in Europe.  Not that the numbers matter. But, it makes it tough to have respect for the law when those in charge just make it legal for them to take and do what they want.

So, yeah, I wasn’t in a very “point and click” mood at the sheriff’s house.

But, I wanted to see America, and The Trail of Tears is a big part of its history.

I was somber, sad, sullen, gloomy maybe even a little morose. I put down my thesaurus and picked up my road atlas. I was determined to find a fun-loving sounding place to lift my spirits. I pored over the map and saw, Three-way,TN. Nah. They would just make me think of Trixie (ZING! I wish). So, I didn’t go there.

Eventually I settled on Skullbone, TN. Population: fiddy (50) but claims the title of “World Bare-Knuckle Prize Fighting Capital of the World!” (pics related)

They have a M*A*S*H-esque style sign post in the…center, I guess…of town. I mean, the whole city is just one intersection that doesn’t even have a traffic light – just a 4-way stop. (pics related)

I spoke with, Ruby Hampton, the friendly lady who, with her husband, has owned and operated the Skullbone General Store for 51 years. (pic related)

She tells me that, over the years, they have gotten a few wanderers who were attracted by the town’s unique name. I was hoping to be first.

From there it was a short drive to yet another world capital Bradford, TN, “Doodle Soup Capital of the World!”

Since I’m already up in that tree…k-i-s-s-i-n-g…I’m going to go out on a limb (ba-dum, tsss) and say that this title was awarded without contest since no one outside of Bradford even knows what Doodle Soup is. But, one weekend each year they have a festival celebrating it. I think it is some kind of stew that you make at home. I can’t be sure because the town is small and I couldn’t find any eateries.

But, in case you are interested for some reason, I have included this link. ..

http://www.doodlesoupdays.com/

Plan your next vacation accordingly.

All the world’s a cage; and, the men and women merely prisoners.

I have been on the road for about a month and a half now.  Yesterday, I walked the streets of the Country Music Capital of the World — Nashville, TN.   Last night I ate dinner at the Applebee’s in The Mule Capital of the World — Columbia, TN.  I’m not sure how strongly contested that latter title is, but I can tell you that when you see that honorific on a sign posted in a restaurant right as you bite into your hamburger, it gives you pause.

Nashville didn’t do it for me, and I know that I am not being fair when I say that.  I really only went for the award-winning bathroom at the Hermitage Hotel, but then decided to take in the sights.  There is something about the skyline of the city that makes one feel like an unauthorized hobbit approaching mordor with contraband jewelry. (pic related)

The feeling doesn’t get any better when you discover that it is the AT&T building. (pic related)

OK, so maybe you aren’t a LOTR geek, or a conspiracy kook like me, but even still, you have to admit there is something unsettling about the headquarters of a telecommunications giant looming over a city like a humongous one-eyed demon king, lord of all it surveys!  Right?

The Hermitage is high-end.  The staff is courteous to the point of obsequiousness – stepping forward to trigger automatic doors for folks who are approaching, bowing or diverting their eyes every time they speak to a visitor.

Across from the Hermitage is a public parking lot — $2.50 per hour with a $10 max for the day.  Tough to find, but a great deal compared to the others that were nearby — $9 per hour – no daily cap.

It was a short walk to the downtown area.  I passed the court district, which meant small parks.  Which meant the homeless.  It is tough walking from a place that has down-covered toilets seats, past desperate people with large bundles of their filthy belongings en route to the glitzy and gaudy area to be entertainment.  But, within 5 blocks, I had experienced all of that.

Broadway in Nashville is…awful.  I dunno, maybe it was my mood.  The lyrics to Poison’s “Something To Believe In” kept playing in my head…

“…A mile away live the rich folks
And I see how they’re living it up
While the poor they eat from hand to mouth
The rich are drinkin’ from a golden cup…”

I’ve always had a problem with the expression, “There, but for the grace of God, go I” because, if you think about it, what it is also saying is, “There, because of the other side of God that we don’t like to talk about, goes THAT motherfucker.  Poor bastard.”

And, just like that, I emerged into the garish neon district.  (gallery related)

Everything is a saloon. Hundreds of them.  They all have live music, which is demarcated with this quaint little mass-produced sign.  (PICK related,,,haha)

The most famous of these locations is, of course, Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge.  I will be honest.  I had never heard of it.  But, everybody talks about it like it is the place to be.  I think it is the purple building.  I can’t be sure.  I took a lot of photos.  (pic may be related)

is it just me, or does it seem like AT&T is leaning in to photobomb every shot?

They had a hawker out front yelling at folks to, “COME ON IN!”  So, I did.  Sort of.  I’ve seen pickle jars packed less tightly.  Tootsie’s threw me back to my basic training days when we troops would get stuffed into cattle cars while the Drill Sergeants instructed us to, “Make your buddy smile!”  No one, no matter how drunk, could be enjoying this.  I exited right away.

I passed this guy (against the wall with the guitar)

He was there. With his cardboard box for tips.  He was strumming and singing gently.  No one but me seemed to listen.  Hell, the bustle of the crowd (not pictured) made it difficult to hear him.  And, it fucked me up.  A thousand times I have walked briskly by street performers just like everyone was doing now.  This time I decided to stop for a moment.

This guy is the milkshake of country music singers — his voice was thick and rich and creamy and he gave off an aura of being made from the natural ingredients of a C&W performer.  In short, he was great.

I am slamming on Nashville — I know it.  But, I think I know why.  This city was built on something that is the exact opposite of what it has become.  Or, maybe I don’t know what the hell I am talking about.

Tourists come to the C&W World Capital and walk right by someone, who, for all I know…but for the grace of God, could have been Johnny Cash.  And, all we want is to get to the souvenir shop.  The stuff we have been told to see.  Once again we eat what they feed us and not what we hunger for.

And, this guy — he has talent, skill, passion and he plays for the tips that stranger’s toss him when they feel sorry for him.

(Poison again, “…and, it just makes me wonder why so many lose and so few win…

Give me something to believe in…”)

I get the sense Nashville once oozed a unique charm, that made it one of America’s great cities…but now, it is just another amusement park that caters to those who can afford the admission.   I’m sorry.

I left.  I drove south with Rockwell playing in my head…

I always feel like…somebody’s WAAATCHING me!

Fully aware that I enjoy this freedom by the grace of Trixie.

You ever notice how TV shows with the most immature humor carry a disclaimer that it is meant for Mature Audiences only? Well, this post is like that.

I must have suffered some kind of hilarious trauma when I was 12 years old or something because my sense of humor pretty much stopped developing then.  I speak, of course, of bathroom stuff.

I drove to Nashville to the Hermitage Hotel…and, dammit! An announcement has just been made to evacuate the building for an unspecified emergency…seriously.

Ok, all is clear and there is no way I am ever going to convince anyone that that just happened but it did. Here are some of the details…some Jazz Age Era music, like from the 20s, was playing over the speakers. At the absolute perfect time, I swear this was so perfect…I insist I am not making this up…the music was replaced with the sound of a klaxon. After three cycles, a man’s voice announced that an emergency had been reported and to please evacuate the building. It was soooo perfect! Dammit!

Anyway, the Hermitage Hotel in Nashville is very fancy. (pic related)

The bellhops don’t wear those pillbox hats, but it is fancy enough that they could get away with it.

The Award-winning  Hermitage Hotel is famous, in certain circles.  I did not know that these circles even existed but, every year the trophy for “Best Public Men’s Room goes to them. (pics)

It is done in Art Deco.

I was about 100 miles from Nashville when I made the drive. However, if I was going to make the effort, I was going to get my money’s worth (even though it is free). I put myself on a rigid constipation regimen for 2 days prior. I wanted to absolutely destroy that room.

My grand entrance to the lobby was delayed by a exiting wedding party. I took pics of the bride. But that is boring.

I made straight for the concierge.

Me: I hear you have a must-see Men’s Room.

Concierge: Yes sir. Down the stairs, to the left, down again. Straight on.

Me:  Got it.

Fortunately the bathroom was empty because men’s room or not, I was gonna take pics…

As soon as I settled in, I am not making this up, a tour group came through. For them, it was just in time.

Here was my view, btw…

And, I began to compose this story.

Upon finishing my business, but not my story, I, hehe…shit you not…the klaxon erupted and they cleared the building.

It was the most fulfilling experience of my life.

By the time I composed myself and exited the bathroom, the alert had been cancelled so I went to get breakfast in the Capitol Room. (pic related)

My waiter apologized for the ruckus. Apparently it was a false alarm. No idea what tripped it.

I laughed. Out loud. Like a 12 year old.

I volunteer as tribute to see Trixie!