November 18, 2013

Morning:

           Did I lose all my readership? No pics or real data for a 25 days now in a row. My averages are off. Although I have certain bragging rights, total readership is now a highly secretive matter. But I think all will be right, everybody will come bouncing back. Except for the easily distracted who don’t belong here in the first place. I cannot stress enough, this blog is for educated, cerebral, academic, intellectual people who want to enter relax mode. That’s why this is the only enduring blog that isn’t political nonsense.

           Here I am, on Beale Street posing like a tourist. I took a chance and left the batbike at the Amtrak station, the trip is around 400 miles each way. The miracle of modern phone service; I called JZ as I strolled to Beale a second time since I arrived. He should be here, but I cannot waste time waiting for others to make decisions. Isn’t it odd how Wallace or Theresa could be here expense-paid except for their crummy attitudes? JZ isn’t here because he moved too slow, but that is not anywhere near as much of a pity.

           I got a little ack-ack for spending money several times as fast as what I saved going cross-country. Memphis was worth it. The pod is fine but my personal endurance has limits. The pod is a success, but it is not quite efficient yet. It takes time to set up and take down. It does not like rain. It also allows people to stare as I egress, so I’ve learned to back it against some natural blind spot, not the easiest maneuver with a motorcycle trailer, believe me you.

           Here is the rig at Hammond, with around 7,000 miles on it. The pod is more comfortable than the motel. I awoke this morning (at the motel) with pain in my joints, but the rocking motion of “The City of New Orleans” was a factor, so I can’t blame the motel alone. Unable to sleep I walked up to Denny’s on Fourth Street. The smothered fries are five bucks. Memphis likes to name their streets with spelled out numbers and dates.

           So what’s with the Morning/Daytime sequence? Well, that is because I write more than I type. Without a keyboard, I keep notes and what you are reading is a result of my more copious penmanship. You will also notice how topics overlap day to day at times. Same explanation, but there is also a complete clamp-down on all information concerning numbers and totals there as well. Are we to suspect there may be some money getting involved? Most blogs favor quantity, that is not the case here, and we are dealing with self-imposed censorship.

Daytime:

           I walked to the downtown library. I told you how you get fifteen minutes, which is not consistent with great hospitality. Can’t have strangers in town using up valuable computer idle time. So I took the trolley tour. Get the $3.50 day pass, the dispenser is on the trolley, not on the sidewalk outside. See Main Street and don’t worry if you miss the waterfront tour. It is a shabby part of town. The trolley does speed up when it hits an open stretch of otherwise unused Amtrak rails.
I walked an easy block from one trolley stop to the famous Blues City Café for the equally famous catfish. That’s farm-raised genetically modified clone food, and even though I’m one of those few who find catfish bland-tasting, I had to do it. Around $15, the coffee is extra.

           Like most of post-modern America, Memphis is chock full of people just doing their job. And not a single thing more that might get them out of that rut. The cab driver drove cab, he did not have a clue what prices the local motels charged. The motel clerk could not tell you where the nearest Karaoke bar was. The librarian had no idea what the trolley fare was “these days”. If I was in the tourist industry, these would be matters of intense interest to me. If I’d known Beale street was just a few minutes from the motel, that cab driver could have doubled his fare. But he was too busy just doing his job.
           The trolley is a hoot. Wooden boxes on wheels, no suspension and seats that reverse depending which way they are traveling. The conductor pulls a handle and the chair back flips to face the opposite direction. All the hardware and brass were purchased from Sears & Roebuck. These are hand built cars, no two are even remotely alike.

Evening:

           I sang as the Blues City Band Box. How many musicians around here have done Beale Street? It was noon, there were only two customers, and they were the waitresses from next door on a break, but pay attention to the point I’m making, dammit. Now I can say I’ve entertained on Beale Street. There is very little to do in Memphis except Beale Street, and very little to do on Beale Street except drink. But if you are going to have a few, find some place like Beale.
           By 7:00 PM it was packed and the ratio of women was great. This ratio has an interesting side-effect. Above a certain point (which I do not define) women have to compete. Not for men, they are not that foolish, but with other women. And you get the sexy fashion show.

           One fashion that has gone full circle is the thigh-length boots, what Marion calls CFM boots because she can. Too bad naturally skinny women will never come back into fashion. Sigh, mine was likely the last generation that will ever have seen those in great numbers. Something else I havened seen in years is packed bars and crowded streets. And this is a nothing Monday. If you lived here, the polish would wear off quickly, but to me you cannot change the allure of a night spot with ever-changing clientele. And I do miss seeing so many natural blonde women. They are extinct in Florida.

           By popular request, here is the photo of the day. The catfish breakfast at the Blues City. It had most of the character on Beale Street. Later, I found a soda shop. I never went to those even when I was a kid and all the teens hung out there. That was the generation before me, I think. Called A. Schwab, it serves coffee and has a selection of unusual candies. Their top selling ice-cream flavor? Whiskey Pecan. Mmmm, try it.

           I lingered there (Schwab’s) an hour because I met Sarah, the server. What they used to call a soda jerk, I believe. Talk about my type, but far too young. Mind you, if she’s spoken up. . . . Elvis once fixed her grandmother’s sink. Next I walked outside to find I was easily the oldest man on Beale Street by at least twenty years. Now, hold on, that’s misleading because in the next few hours, I met three women who were not my type, that is, I am the one who didn’t make the move. Any female who engages me in conversation quickly picks up I am not like most other men. I don’t have to be.
           How so? In this case, within a few minutes of every bar I walked into, I had all the prettiest women at my table, or was invited to join theirs. I don’t always report this every time, but there is nothing, repeat nothing unusual about me having all the available women at my table. Nothing unusual at all. But being unique has, since age 35, repeatedly backfired on me. Older women can be exceedingly boring.

ADDENDUM
           Google is furious. I told you how they locked me out of my blog and forced me to open a Google account, something I didn’t want. And they required a phone number for that, as if nobody knows that single slip can give them what they are really after. Let’s just say they didn’t like the phone number I gave them, and how I was able to intercept the return call. More pointedly, they didn’t like what I must have known and done to even know that phone number existed. Screw ‘em, I say.
           On a tidier note, Robbie, my California pen pal, and I are still discussing SciConn, our mutual dating club. Like myself, she is considering dropping her membership because the same quality of people are there as in the free sites. We shared a lot of the same observations despite how we turned out to be quite different if not opposite people. I read her 110%, but she seems to have me misjudges on every major point.

           For example, yes, I would like a relationship. But to her that implies extremes of romance and commitment. This makes me feel she over-analyzes everything. It isn’t directly applicable, but here is a situation that I believe she would interpret wrongly. I sleep with the light on. To some women, that means some childhood fear I need therapy to overcome. The real reason I leave the light on? Because I like to read. That’s it, baby.
           Thus, much of the advice she dishes out is comical, as if I know nothing about long-term relationships with partners who eventually move on. I would like the same again, but after age 35, women in the middle range of the looks/weight/attitude pool get picked off, leaving only the hopeless cases. Like Theresa. And Patsie once the kids are grown and her husband throws her ugly, opinionated, smug ass out the door. Such women, once they are no longer young, find out the hard way they are about as popular as the Memphis food tax.