I saw the new James Bond movie last night. It was awful.  As with most things, I blame women.

Women didn’t ruin the movie, per se – men did. Probably. I can’t be bothered to delve deeply enough to find out who is to blame exactly,  so once again, women have to take one for the team.

James Bond movies used to be the exploits of a man’s man running around shooting bad guys and seducing gorgeous women who could not help but succumb to his charms. That and being Batman is every guy’s dream.

Now when he goes to bed with them it is because they pretty much ordered him to and he is left a simpering lovesick chump with real feelings. It’s tough to watch.

And, killing bad guys? Forget it. Now he shows mercy. MERCY! For crying out loud!

The movies are supposed to be an escape…hell, the theater in Charleston, WV that I went to last night is called, “The Great Escape”!

I don’t go to see some brooding nancyboy questioning his life’s work and doing what he has been tricked into believing is the right thing – I get that all around me all the time.

The problem with the movies is the same as the problem with everything else anymore – women. No offense.

You see, there is a lot of power and influence that comes with the voice of authority that any industry that large gets to speak with. So, no longer do talented or brilliant  people rise to the top – this kind of power brings out the sociopaths. They crush the talented good people by crossing all lines and stooping to any level.

It is true in entertainment, sports, news, charities…everything. it is all run by people with no conscience because it is all just business.

Not content to be rich fatcats, they strive for more. Enough is not enough. If there is more to gain, they want to rake that in as well.

Let’s take football, for instance. No one in the NFL front office was going hungry. And, it was no longer enough to stand toe-to-toe with God for ownership of Sunday, their experts determined that women weren’t watching the games. Instead they were off shopping, or playing bingo or gardening or…I don’t really know what it is women do when the game is on….that’s not the point. The point is, it was not enough for men to be mindless zombies, they needed women to be as well. So they started doing things to attract female viewers.

The problem is, just like in the movies and real life, NOBODY, not even women, know what the hell is going on in the mind of a female. And the next the you know they have the players wearing pink cleats in the hopes that will do it. What the hell?

Violence is ugly, but the ones who pull the strings have somehow convinced men that they should be entertained by watching women in the MMA. Who wants to watch that? Ask yourself how you got led down that path then do sone serious introspection about how the media is manipulating your mind and made you the suckers that you are.

Hell, they have even convinced women that they should be allowed in combat. Trust me, you dont. As a former infantryman, let me let you in on the reason women aren’t allowed on the battlefield. It isn’t that you aren’t capable of squeezing a trigger; it is that men do not act right when women are around. We will get everyone killed when we start playing the White Knight in front of y’all.

But can I really blame women for ruining James Bond? Yes. Yes I can.

You see, men, just like sociopaths, have no idea what it is that women want, so we guess and hope for the best. All we know is what we want and most of the time the answer is: women. But, how to get them?  So we ask them out on dates. True, we would just like to have sex and maybe have them make us a sandwich. However, through trial and error we have found out the direct approach almost never works so we came up with the concept of courting. Going out on dates so they will have sex with us and make us a sandwich.

We have no idea what to do on dates. We don’t really want to hang out with women in a social setting. We have to dress in real clothes and not cuss or burp or fart or let our eyes stray to appreciate the view of other passing females, let alone refraining from commentary. We don’t have that kind of self-control.

Out of ideas, we take them to the movies. At least we can sit in the dark and be quiet for a couple of hours to ensure we don’t say something wrong. And, naturally, we let the girl select the movie. And, therein lies the problem. Women never want to see James Bond running around shooting bad guys and seducing chicks. Weird, right?

This was ok when Albert Broccoli was running things over at Pinewood Studios. He was making all the money. But, he died or retired or whatever, and now a bunch of people have to split the profits. Each one of them wants to make as much as Cubby Broccoli did. The only way to do this is to get women to start selecting 007 movies on date night. The only way to do that is to ruin the franchise. Incidentally, this is the same reason Chic-Fil-A will suck within a year. The visionary died.  Cost-cutting will come in to boost the now split profits.

I may be all over the map on this one, but, deep down, you know I’m right.

Now that I think about it, I’ll bet I would have enjoyed the movie more if Trixie had gone with me.

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It was with great anticipation that I planned my trip to The Great Smoky Mountains.

I’m pretty sure my parents took me there when I was a kid. Hell, for all I know they took me three blocks away and we stayed in a hotel while they told me it was The Great Smoky Mountains. What did I know? I was a kid.

Further, I am pretty sure I remember having a wonderful time. The details are a bit sketchy, though.  One of those details was swimming in the communal pool and my father turning to me and saying with grave earnestness, “I’d pay a thousand dollars for a Tuck’s Pad right now.”

I remember wondering how much a thousand dollars was and what, exactly was a Tuck”s Pad.  The blissful ignorance that is youth prevented that anecdote from spoiling one of my fondest childhood memories. The Great Smoky Mountains.

Since the only kind of returns I know how to make are of the triumphant variety, I decided this one would be grand.

To heighten my exquisite anticipation,  I avoided making a straight shot. I drove west, south, and east.

When the time came, I continued to make excuses to extend the delay. I went to Pascagoula, Mississippi just to take a pic of a squirrel (pic related)

But, I couldn’t find one so I took this shot of a cotton field instead.

From there I made a stop in Anniston, Alabama because it was down the road a ways from Jenifer, Alabama (pic related)

And I wanted to see if they had noticed. They had. I wonder if Jennifer Aniston knows.

Everybody loves a Guiness Book of World Records record holder, so I drove to see one that made the book in the 80s, the only decade that matters (pics related).

I went at night to beat the crowds.  It worked. I had the thing to myself.

I was getting antsy for The Great Smoky Mountains.  I drove to Pigeon Forge.  It is full of manufactured hillbilly charm. Dollywood, dinner theaters that feature the Hatfields and McCoys fueding it out every night, themed mini golf out the wazoo, country Xmas festivals and The Hollywood Wax Museum (pic related)

You got King Kong climbing the joint and Mt Rushmore reconstructed with John Wayne, Elvis, Marilyn Monroe and, for some reason Chico Marx. I dunno, maybe that isnt him. Either way, that building had to cost a fortune!

The Great Smoky Mountains, by the way, get their name from a perpetual haze that hangs about the ridgeline (pic related).

I slept in Gatlinburg that night so I could get an early start and be refreshed for my glorious return to The Great Smoky Mountains. By comparison, I was gonna make that MacArthur chump look like he was going to the market to return a piece of fruit…or something. I dunno. I was excited.

I rolled outta the EM-50 Phantom Rambler at the crack of 10am and made straight for Clingman’s Dome – the highest point in the mountainous state of Tennessee  (pic related).

Look at that altitude reading on my trusty GPS

The view is breathtaking  (pic related)

Or, so Trixie tells me. Since I was in a cloud I sent her a text and asked her to Google some images and describe them to me. Just…WOW!

But, this is a first hand account of what it’s like so, I will describe the smell atop Clingman’s Dome!

Kinda woodsy. Some pine. And rain. You know that smell that you smell when it is about to rain? It smelled like that. I’m not really sure what we are smelling there. I’m pretty sure it’s not water. Anyhow, yeah, it smelled like that.

But The Great Smoky Mountains isn’t all kitchy tourist traps and obstructed views. It is the crown jewel in the treasure that is our National Parks – receiving way more visitors each year than the rest combined…or something.

I went for the nature. I went for the hiking. Trails with names that capture the majesty  of the wild (pic related).

All in all, I think I picked me a winner.

Recently,  I stated my position as an opponent to world peace.  Today, I had an epiphany moment. I did like the bumpers stickers say and…visualized it. It was fleeting. But,  I got enough of a glimpse to trace it back to where we are now – a sorry and divided lot – and saw that the path to unification was due largely, to the most unlikely of characters.

So far in my journey I have visited 12 states.  Well, it is 12 if you count Tennessee and Kentucky as different states even though they are really the same place, just like Vermont and New Hampshire are the same place, if you know what I mean. But, the Tennessee/Kentucky thing is weird because Kentucky and West Virginia are the same place, but West Virginia and Tennessee are not. I know. Strange.

Anyway, even though we are so divided, every place has its similarities – the same stores, the same restaurants, the same strip malls, the same movie theaters, the same traffic patterns, we drive the same cars. We all have the same accent because we all watch the same TV shows and, life really does imitate art. Or the medium is the message or…whatever. but, because of that, those are MANUFACTURED similarities.  There is nothing organic about it. We are programmed. Dammit, the zombie apocalypse is here and now. I’m pretty sure that’s why that Mexican company brought Twinkies back (I don’t expect anyone to get that reference).

The differences that exist are vague and subtle. It pretty much comes down to sports. Which team the locals cheer for. Now, I’m a Redskins fan…sorta. I’m not really a fan of any team. The old bastards were right back in the day – free agency did ruin the game. Now, instead of cheering for the home team, we all sit around and watch as billionaires play real-life fantasy football. It is sort of like watching Mel Brooks play chess in “History of the World part 1”.

So, yeah, we select our favorite billionaire and cheer for him to make the best trades and stuff. I don’t really waste my time with it.

In Georgia, they cheer for the Falcons owner, in South Florida, the Dolphins owner, in North Florida the Buccaneers owner in Louisiana, the Saints owner.

In places like Mississippi and Arkansas they wait with bated breath in the hopes the NFL will recognize their state and sanctify them with a franchise. Until then they cheer for college teams.

We are similar in that we all gather at Buffalo Wild Wings and watch our team lose, even though we enter into it swearing that our billionaire made the best moves and thus, WE are number 1.

The whole thing leaves me sour frankly.

And, even though we cheer for different billionaires, there is one who shines like a beacon…one BASTION to integrity left in this country and he is everywhere…Georgia, Florida…even Arkansas and Mississippi. Is he in D.C.? Yes especially in D.C.  Ubiquitous is the word. He is tireless and cannot be defeated.  If you destroy him, just like the mythical Hydra, two more ugly heads will rear up in his place. Through him we find a common ground for disgust and hatred, and therein lies our route to peace.

I am speaking, of course, of that asshole who makes it clear, through every garment on his body that he is, a Dallas Cowboy fan.

It is not enough for him to root for billionaire Jerry Jones, even tbough he has never so much as set foot in the great state of Texas, he needs the world to know it no matter what angle you see him from.

He wears the blue, gray and white and has that one big ass star embroidered and emblazoned on every article of his raiment.

I don’t know why…maybe his mother didn’t hug him when he was a child. Maybe for the same reason people worship the devil. When you don’t stand out in any way, shape, or form maybe you just want desperately to be noticed.

I thought that he was hated only in the Washington metropolitan area but, it turns out that people consider him a douche no matter where he is. And, no matter where, he pretends to not care.

So, when you see him – and you WILL see him, that fucker is everywhere – give him a little nod of approval or maybe a friendly smile, for, that simple son-of-bitch is our only hope.

Missing my one-of-a-kind, Trixie.

“Big Fish” is one of my favorite movies. If you haven’t seen it, you should go watch it now cuz I’m gonna spoil the hell out of it here.

It stars Albert Finney and Obi Wan Kenobi. They both play the same character at different points in his life.

The character, Edward Bloom, is dying and his adult son has returned home to make one final attempt at getting to know his father.

The son, William, is played by actor Billy Crudup. This is distracting because for the first 10 minutes of the movie, one finds himself having the internal conversation in which he keeps asking, “In Hollywood, where name change is so common, how do you land on ‘Crudup’? It’s like you are given a task and you just, you know, crud the whole thing up.”

Then eventually you settle down and get into the movie.

The boy, like most, has anger toward his old man. He feels that his father has never been genuine because all he does is tell tall tales.

His outrageous lies involve a giant, a witch, Siamese twin spies, a small town called “Spectre” that is paradise itself, one really big ass fish that may or may not be living in the family swimming pool, the extreme lengths he (Edward) has gone to to win and keep the love of his life (including shoveling elephant dung at the circus for a month for the payment of a tidbit of personal info about her, e.g. she likes music) and other forms of ridicularium (I just made that word up).

The movie takes place in Alabama. I am in Alabama. Spectre, if it exists at all, is rumored to be as difficult to find as Shambala. Today I found it. It cost me $3 (pics related)

When Tim Burton made this film, he came to a private island near Montgomery, Alabama and built the small town (more pics related).

The film came out in 2003, I think. And, though serene and pastoral then, it is merely a goats town now…

HAHA!

Though so much of the sets were constructed out of plywood and styrofoam, they are still standing today.

The town’s idyllic simplicity was represented by the practice of the townsfolk taking the shoes of visitors and slinging them high out of reach onto a cord strung between poles (pic related).

Just like they do in the’hood

Of course, that angry son eventually learns the truth – that truth is subjective and…”A man tells his stories so many times that he becomes the stories. They live on after him and in that way he becomes immortal”

But, you see, Edward Bloom wasn’t lying – not really. Maybe he was doing some exaggerating or maybe, just MAYBE he was telling the honest truth about events the way he saw them with his own personal flair and panache.  And, perhaps that is why I identified so strongly with him.

The greatest poet who ever lived, Norther Winslow, put it best when he wrote:

The grass is so green,

The sky is so blue…

…Spectre is really great.

I’ve spent the last seven days in the backwards backwoods that is Mississippi,  Arkansas,  and Louisiana. I could feel normalcy return as soon as I crossed the border into Alabama.

Ha! I’m just kidding. I had to push through to Florida!

Double Bazinga! I loved Mississippi,  Arkansas, and Louisiana. ..even Alabama…a little. The people are wonderful.

I would love to keep seeing the sights, but my laundry isn’t going to do itself like it does at home.  One of the reasons people stay put, I suppose.

I am sitting in Sudzy’s laundromat in Pensacola, FL.

I had a little excitement last night in the form of having a Blue Angel buzz/photo bomb me last night (pic related).

I stopped to take a pic and…WHOOSH!

Of course, you, a reasonably normal and suspicious human being called shenanigans almost right away.

One of things I love about Trixie (and the main reason a chump like me was able to land her) is, she will believe anything. (Convo related)

We are perfect together in so many ways.

With my entry into Florida, I have technically knocked out the entire southeast. After I fluff & fold I will really need to get back to that laundry then decide where to go from here.

Trixie is cringing. Because of the title…she knows what’s coming…anyway…

If you’re normal, like me, when you hear “Mississppi”, you think, “Rocket Scientists, for sure”.

So, as soon as I crossed the Louisiana border back into The ‘Sip, I went straight to The NASA Infinity Space Center (pic related)

I’m just kidding. I had to pee and this NASA Space Center is part of the Rest Area.

They say you can put the rocket scientist into Mississippi,  but you can’t take the Mississippi out of the rocket science. They have a remote submersible that they named “Rufus”…and they even misspelled his name (pic related)

They have a boat used for military infiltration by elite SEAL teams painted in woodland camouflage like they are on a coon hunt (pic related)

I tease Mississippi because I’m bored.  I’m on the Gulf coast and it is raining (pic related).

But the truth is, I love the rain. I also love the fog, the snow and twilight – any period of limited visibilty, really. It quiets my mind and the world – gives it that “kind of hush” Herman and his Hermits sang about. I also love the ocean for its power and enormity. And, when rain meets the ocean – it is nature meets nature – so meta.

A chilly, autumn rain is the most romantic setting. It helps you to appreciate warmth and makes you focus on beauty that is close at hand. For a moment you have to take your eyes off the horizon and look at what is here.

One of my favorite memories is standing with Trixie in a shelter on a hiking trail in Shenandoah. The world was subdued and gray. The air was cold and wet. Her hand was warm and dry. And we stood there until the end of time just appreciating the solace.

So, here I am again. Cold autumn rain. No Trixie to reach to anywhere but in my thoughts.

Eventually my thoughts drifted to another of my favorite memories. Most of you know this story – I like to tell it every couple of years lest I be doomed to forget. But, this time I’ve brought visual aids.

Early in our relationship, we were still getting to know one another, she told me that when she graduated high school she moved to Ft Lauderdale.  While sharing her memories she mentioned that she might have been in a movie once when she was 18. She was at the beach when a film crew showed up to shoot a scene and they needed extras. If they were interested, they were to dance a Conga while the female lead sang a song entitled, “We Go to the Beach Because It’s Fun”. And it is.

She didn’t know the name of the movie or if was even released. It was just an anecdote told in passing. No big deal.

It became my life’s mission to find that movie (aaaand…pic related)

The beach extras were given two instructions:

1. Have fun!
2. Don’t look at the camera.

Yes,  she is in it for a quarter of a second. Yes, she has fun.  And yes, she never takes her eyes off the camera. The movie is rated R. But wait! It gets so much better!

First, let’s watch. She is in the shot at about the :17 second mark. She is not in the rest of the scene.

Ok, so there was that. After they shot this scene, the film crew packed up and left.

The rest of the movie was filmed in L.A.  I have no idea why.

And, it (the movie) is awful. Truly. The acting, the editing, the writing…awful. Unwatchable on all levels. The only reason to see anymore after Trixie’s big scene is because of…The cameo.

Let me set it up. Our young hero is in search of his dream girl (ha! Should have stayed in Lauderdale). He is about to make it with a hot young prospect but needs a bottle of Dom Perignon to get her to come across (this was before date-rape and “alcohol=no consent” was a thing). The only bottle in town is held by a drunk in an alley…let’s watch…

Did you see that thug on the motorcycle!?

That was Ron F.N. Jeremy! The Hedgehog himself! Greatest artist of his kind! The hardest working man in show biz!

So, now when you hear me talk about the time Trixie made a movie with Ron Jeremy when she was 18, you will know I did not make it up.

I’m only a stranger looking to find better nature in my fellow man.

– Jordan Page

Well, Jordan should go to The Sportsman’s Paraise (Louisiana). That’s where I found it in the form of a proud army veteran named Joleen. (I have no idea if I spelled that correctly.  She goes by Jo).

When, through my blog, word reached, literally, almost a DOZEN, folks across this great land, one of them happened to be my buddy, Ethan.

He messaged me that he had a friend in The Crescent City (N’awlins) and that I should contact her for travel tips. I did. Even though I thought that the “friend of a friend” connection was kind of thin.

Jo invited me to her home as soon as I could get there. She informed me that she had other visitors in town from other parts of The Pelican State (Louisiana) and even some from way the hell up in Michigan. It’s almost like she likes people – even strangers. But, wait, she gets weirder.

Upon my arrival she fed me. And, I don’t mean snacks. I’m talking biscuits & gravy, Belgian waffles, something called Boudin (which looks like a giant snausage but is way better…pic related)

and a screwdriver (the cocktail).

During chow, Jo gave me tips on how not to be an asshole. This consisted chiefly of instructing me to quit pronouncing it “N’awlins”. It’s “New Orlins”. I grumpily complied.

Plans were made for me to accompany her and her gang when they hit the town on Frenchman St. At no point was I made to feel anything other than welcome despite being 2 or 3 decades older than the others. It was clear to me I would not be able to hang with the youngsters with their loud music, their skinny jeans, their ability to stay up past 9 pm and they fact that they “pre-game” more alcohol than I can handle in a month.

They were a fun bunch.

I went with them for a drink, then excused myself to visit the town on my terms.

I made for Bourbon St! But, I got lost and ended up on Rampart. The Voodoo Lounge. Bar and Ghost Tour Emporium. Open 24 hrs (pic related)

Well, I do love a crowd, you know, from a distance, and when I finally found Bourbon St I got that crowd (pic related)

There were street musicians and this one guy breakdancing (pic related).

This was really ironic because I hadn’t seen a breakdancer in about 25 years and then I stumble upon one, who is my age by the way, right when I am internally thinking about making the switch to Velcro because tying my shoes is too much effort anymore.

Bourbon St had all the charm of one those “exclusive” nightclubs where you have to stand with your hands above waist level because it is so crowded. It also has that loud music that allows for conversations like the following:

You: why do we come to these places? It’s too crowded, the drinks are way expensive and the music is so loud you can’t hear yourself think.

Your friend (giving a thumbs up): OK!

I sought succor in a little bistro. I could see they had the World Series on the tube. My dogs were barking. I could use a seat.

I approached the Maître d’, a youthful African American named, “Smooove” according to his name badge. I inquired about a seat for one. He discussed it with his underlings in a closed huddle. Then, one of them, who looked genuinely nervous and a tad gunshy, led me through a gauntlet of patrons (this will make more sense in a moment, I think). Finally, we arrived at the end of a bar that was set in the center of the room. I gave the fellow a buck. I dunno. It was packed.

I order a diet coke and a menu. The commercial break ended and my waitress scurried away.

It turns out that, of the perhaps 100 or so customers packed tightly into the dining area, we could be broken down into 3 parties.

There was me (pic related)

A family of 4 from the midwest, as I am guessing from the shirt of the dad – Royal Blue with a small “KC” on the breast (Go Royals!)

And 95 assholes from New York City who had left the Big Apple together to come down here and “cheer” for the Mets.

The thing is, anytime anything would happen – and, I’m talking ANYTHING. from a home run to a foul tip – they got up from their seats and jumped around like someone had called “all skate!” during an earthquake in a gorilla cage (Don’t be racist. They were predominantly white). It was pandemonium!

When the Royals took the lead, the only sound was Dad lightly clapping. Ballsy.

I had been wanting to try some authentic N’awlins cuisine so I ordered a burger. A Bayou Burger. The meat was deep fried. If that strikes you as maybe not such a good idea, then I’m sure you would agree, why stop there. It was topped with deep fried cheese, deep fried onions, and deep fried pickles.

The city itself is unique in many ways. For instance, the weather. It rains hard for about 30 seconds every half hour. This results in a climate that Hollywood portrays as “sultry”. But, in reality creates humidity levels that make it impossible to dress for comfort and as a result you often want to strangle the nearest stranger for no good reason.

The people are a bit different as well. There seems to be no racial tension that I could detect from either side. This might be a result of the city planners.

The roads are awful. Pitted and unpatched. Warped and narrow. And the people like it that way. It makes them make do without a lot of meddlesome rules and regulations. It is not uncommon to see a vehicle parked partly on a sidewalk. As long as he leaves room, folks can get by whether they are walking or driving. You do what it takes while letting everyone do their thing.

The ones I met seemed to have an attitude of doing what it takes to get along.

As I was making the 2 mile walk back to the Rambler, a fellow was openly urinating on the dark sidewalk ahead. When he saw me, he turned away and apologized. He didn’t think anyone would be coming.

I appreciated that and told him, “No harm done”, then vaulted his puddle without much effort.

I have considered staying another night but, I dunno, Halloween in N’awlins is just so touristy. I move on. Probably drive west just so I can be nearer Trixie.

Cracklins are fried pig fat with the skin still attached – lIke thick, hot pork rinds. When you couple that with the idea that they are something of a staple in the Delta region – a region known for it severe Christianity – you get the greatest named establishment I have ever seen (pic related)

There isn’t much to do when you are sightseeing in rural Louisiana – even less if you live here.

So, working on a rumor that one of the local denizens adhered to my credo, “A man can’t just sit around”, I went to see what he did with his idle time.

He built a giant mailbox (pic related).

I’ve included my head for scale. Imagine how big that thing would look if I had used a normal-sized head.

The fellow built this thing to honor the hard-working men and women of the United States Postal Service, who are fairly represented by the likes of Mr. McFeeley from “Mister Rogers Neighborhood”, Reba the mail lady from “Pee Wee’s Playhouse”, Newman from “Seinfeld” and most accurately, Cliff Claven” from “Cheers”.

I’m just kidding about the honoring and the hard working thing. I have no idea why he built it. Prolly cuz a man can’t just sit around.

It is out in the cotton fields, which are HUGE by the way. I don’t know how you could ever afford to staff enough folks to gather the crop. I mean seriously. I have no idea what they did before it was automated through machinery.

From wherever that was, I drove to Natchez, Mississippi because when Fletch inherited that mansion, he went to a biker bar and met a gang called that “Nazis from Natchez”.

I crossed the Mississippi again (pic related)

I went to Jim Bowie’s Tavern (there is an Alamo connection in here somewhere with the Pee Wee Herman mention earlier. Figure it out for me, will ya?)

I perused the menu. I asked for recommendations from the barkeep, who I will call “Bubba” because it fits my preconceived notions even though his name was really something boring like Ed. He said the wings. Please. If I want wings I will go to Buffalo.  Or, anywhere else in the whole wide world. I got the seafood gumbo (pic related…nevermind. I erased it. Hey, Trixie, post the pic of my gumbo I sent you last night. Will ya?)

I was hesitant to order it because, well, I didn’t know what it was, but for some reason I associated it with okra, which was served to me exactly one time…while I was in the army…in the field. I would describe it as, white in color, swimming in a thick clear sauce that, I supposed, consisted chiefly of the head cook’s ejaculate. I did not sample it.

But, after a few beers, one gets…experimental, shall we say. It was so good. I felt like Mikey from that old Life Cereal commercial (pic related).

After, I stood along the banks of the Mississippi and watched some of those Mark Twain style riverboats float lazily by. I was too tired to do any more driving so I climbed into the EM-50 Phantom Rambler and snoozed it up.

In the morning I decided it was time to make for the most haunted city in America, Nawlins, in time for Halloween. But, well, Roadside America said that Natchez had a “must see” in the form of a diner.

Built in 1940 to cash in on the “Gone with the Wind” craze that was sweeping the nation is Mammy’s Cupboard (pic related).

When it was erected the original color of the woman was black. This strongly divided the community into two camps:

1. Those who said that it was wildly racist, and…
2. Those who said it was just run-of-the-mill racist for this vicinity.

So, over the years, whenever she got a paint job, the tones became increasingly lighter until she looks normal (haha…just kidding. That would be Darryl Gates level inappropriate)

They are only open from 11 to 2 Tuesdays through Saturdays. This meant me hanging around Natchez for a few hours. I explained my predicament to Trixie. She insisted I wait. I am glad she did. I was dying to get a look under Mammy’s skirt (heh heh). Word on the blog-o-sphere is that the ceiling is lined with lace and petticoats and junk. It is not (pic related).

It is a tight squeeze getting in there (giggity), only about 10 tables, but well worth the effort.

The menu had few selections, but good ones. The food is all homemade out of real ingredients. Service was quick and friendly.

I got the roast turkey sammich on homemade sourdough, with (again, homemade) blueberry chutney, avacado and mayo. It comes with soup and potato salad.

The desserts are kinda messed up, cuz you want to try them all. I decided one slice of pie, banana caramel (pic related)

and a chunk of Hummingbird cake to go.

I crawled back to the Rambler with my doggie bag clenched in my teeth and stretched out hoping the good Lord might take me now in my state of bliss. Short of that I hoped my lunch would digest a bit so I could move enough to drive.

Now rested, onward to The Big Easy.

Smooch to Trixie :*