Author: Jenn Hall

For those of you that revel in the millennial delight that is reality television, you may or may not have missed your chance to watch Memphis shine last night. Twice in fact.

Oh that’s right–we may be a smaller city, but not too small for Elimidate, the riveting comedy-drama that pits four singles up against one another for the wonderful opportunity to win a date with some swinging single!

Not to mention our wild-card presence Trenyce, on American Idol, which I swear that I don’t make a regular habit of watching. Really.

As I may have mentioned before, reality TV sort of terrifies me. Perhaps I’m too serious, but the idea of the nation’s biggest exhibitionists defining in the public forum what “reality” is supposed to be, or at least lending a marketing campaign to reality is a bit unsettling.

But I think that’s just my academic view.

Because I love to snicker. Isn’t there something about the format of these programs that allows our mean-spirited sides to come out for a minute, as we develop love or hatred for the “real” characters that fill these shows?

Isn’t it sort of a form of new wave therapy, in which we can make ourselves feel better that we aren’t one of “those people?”

Anyhow, Maybe I’m losing my point here. It seems that the format is here to stay, love it or hate it. (Damn those Friends characters for demanding their exorbitant pay hikes. Surely reality TV is a cheaper option for the networks.)

But back to last night.

Oh Elimidate, how I love to hate you.

On this particular episode the nation got to watch as four women clawed over a U of M student named Randy whose claim to fame is that he knows how to treat women “like a queen.” He followed that up with the proclamation, “and I’m your king.”

Sounds like my kind of man.

Anyhow, on their date the contestants clawed all over Sir Randy on an evening that included stops at Silky O’Sullivan’s, The Pig on Beale, The Flying Saucer, and finally Raiford’s.

The highlight of the date had to be the series of lap dances and ear-nibbles that were the Flying Saucer portion of the date. Not because of the dances themselves, but more so because of the hilarity of the people in the background–a fine collection of rowdy drunk Memphians hooting and roaring with every one of the girl’s moves.

I also liked one of the girl’s quips at Raiford’s, describing her competitor as “Scary J. Blige.” Nothing like a group of girls dissing one another to make for a fun half-hour of TV.

To be honest, I normally hate Elimidate, but I found my self enjoying it, just because I recognized the landscape. Mr. Raiford himself even had a cameo appearance, getting down on his multi-colored dance floor.

And Randy liked it too I guess, describing the evening as the best date he’s ever been on. A date with four women? Go figure!

If you missed this gem of late night TV, I cry for you. It truly was an enriching experience.

But hey, there’s always re-runs, and maybe you’ll get lucky and Trenyce will make it to the next round on American Idol.

That might speak better for us as a city, anyhow!

SNOWJOB

Maybe it’s just me, but I’m a firm supporter of the idea that there should be at least one snow day every year.

Even if there’s no snow.

It’s an inalienable right, an enhancement to my pursuit of life, liberty, happiness and so forth. It’s an excuse to indulge in whatever whims might normally be barred from a weekday, what with the obligations of school or work.

An annual snow day is just good for the soul.

Needless to say, I was overjoyed this week when winter actually broke down and came into town for a visit, covering my yard with a staggering two inches of powder.

So what if the grass was poking through and the lawn looked more like an unshaven leg than a wonderland? It was enough to slow the city down to what felt like a halt, and that is all I ask, just once per year.

Where I grew up a dusting like that which occurred Tuesday would most definitely not have broken me from the shackles of the school bus. It wasn’t until the 5-inch mark that we even had hope as the youngsters of NJ.

In a way that makes me feel like a wuss for even considering Tuesday an impromptu holiday, but I’ll take what I can get. And the day was wonderful.

It started around 4 AM, when I awoke with a flutter to peer through the window, praying quietly for that eerie-shade of pink/purple that marks a true snowfall from a couple of flurries.

By 8 AM I was on my porch with a ridiculous grin on my face, in a T-shirt, terrifying my elderly neighbors, in all likelihood. Like sane people, they stayed indoors for most of the day.

But not I.

The perfect thing to do on a snow day is, of course, to get out and enjoy it. That being said, I accepted an invite from a friend to walk to Cooper-Young and try out the One Love Juice Bar inside the Midtown Food Co-op, which I had yet to visit.

Yum.

I’m not anything remotely resembling a vegan, but the offerings in this little cafŽ are extremely tasty. I had a plate of curried rice, spicy and accented with celery, pumpkin seeds, curry, onion, and something else that I can’t recall, as well as a piece of cornbread with vegan soy butter. For under $3, it’s a great, healthy, warm-you-up meal.

I also had a drink called the Sea Moss, accented by its namesake ingredient and kind of like a creamier alternative to chai. But I regret it, even though it was good.

My friend grabbed a hot juice called the Jamaican Brew, and if there is a drink in town that can warm you up from the cold, this is it. Think spicy, with pineapple, ginger and cayenne. Very therapeutic.

After our midtown meal, we hit the gift shop at Otherlands, where I learned that there is, in fact, a market for dirt scented perfume. I guess I also fail as a naturalist, although there was something about it that made me smile. Maybe the idea of inviting some people over and displaying it in my bathroom just to confuse them.

In defense of the makers of this odd scent, the grass scented selection, as well as the garden tomato smelled much better, and the martini scent was enough to turn my stomach. Nice and realistic.

You can sell anything these days, can’t you?

After that I walked back home, secretly happy that I had gotten so cold that my thighs were chapped. How often does that happen?

Fulfilled that I had spent my requisite time outside, I then read, relaxed, took a hot shower. Simply perfect.

To cap off the evening, I attended the final performance of The Masked Ball, a performance of Opera Memphis at the Orpheum.

I’m not sure I entirely understood the allure, not cultured in the world of musical theater, but I enjoyed the strangeness of the English translations that were above and to the left and right of the stage. It was like reading poetry with a musical backdrop. A fine musical backdrop at that.

And the Orpheum just glitters, even with the words death, Satan, and murder dangling beside its gorgeous chandeliers.

All in all, an ideal, abnormal and refreshing day. Thank you, snow gods!

According to Uncle John’s Great Big Bathroom Reader, circa 1998, the US city with the highest per capita number of psychiatrists is Washington DC.

Go figure.

The book also makes the claim that “medically speaking, the correct order of intelligence,””of three given choices, is “moron, imbecile, idiot.”

Not that I would suggest that there is any correlation between these tasty little nuggets of fact. I just marvel at the things you can learn in the bathroom.

So, uh, do you think that maybe all of the psychiatrists have abandoned their DC populace since ’98, leaving in their wake a barrage of morons, imbeciles and idiots?

Hmm.

I guess what I’m getting at here is that this whole impending “war” is really bothering me. It’s confusing. Distracting.

It’s leaving something of a residue on my daily routines — even down to my meditative time in the restroom.

Even though I try to relegate the issue to the back of my mind, it refuses to go anywhere for very long. Perhaps it’s because I reside in the mythical generation referred to as “X.”

For the longest time I remember taking exception to the claims that our supposed listlessness, our tendency to “slack,” could be tied to the fact that we were a generation that has aged without the shadows of a large-scale war. As if that would be something about which we should be remorseful.

And then there was September 11th.

The shock of it — the sense of confusion, fear, and defensiveness. The plethora of American flags casting the light of red, white and blue everywhere one might look. And the Bush family politic, round two.

I have a theory, a joke to myself really, that George W is actually a clone of Bush senior that has been nurtured in some secret chamber of the shadow government’s headquarters for use at a moment when the war machine had enough popular support to launch world War III. Kind of like Dolly the sheep, only much, much scarier. And much more dangerous.

I know, I know, that’s probably a bit drastic. Nevertheless, here we stand with a government prepared to incite the wrath of extremists everywhere.

But are we prepared to handle the consequences? And do the powers that be really care?

These are the things I have trouble understanding, the things that invade my thoughts at the most inopportune times.

In light of the protests staged this weekend, including one right here in Memphis, there are lots of people that share my feeling of unease. And how kind of President Bush to intone that he would not base any of his decisions on voiced opinions, both domestic and international, but rather upon what he considers “right for history.”

And here I sit, in Memphis TN, relegated to the group numbering in the millions that isn’t sure a war is what we want, or need for that matter. Here I sit unable to really form an opinion since I know that there is a major dividing line between information classified and declassified. And unable to obtain any of that information, I find it terribly hard to be lured onto the pro-war bandwagon.

All I can really hope is that I don’t end up having to tell my children about the horrors of “World War X.”

According to Uncle John’s Great Big Bathroom Reader, circa 1998, the US city with the highest per capita number of psychiatrists is Washington DC.

Go figure.

The book also makes the claim that “medically speaking, the correct order of intelligence,””of three given choices, is “moron, imbecile, idiot.”

Not that I would suggest that there is any correlation between these tasty little nuggets of fact. I just marvel at the things you can learn in the bathroom.

So, uh, do you think that maybe all of the psychiatrists have abandoned their DC populace since ’98, leaving in their wake a barrage of morons, imbeciles and idiots?

Hmm.

I guess what I’m getting at here is that this whole impending “war” is really bothering me. It’s confusing. Distracting.

It’s leaving something of a residue on my daily routines — even down to my meditative time in the restroom.

Even though I try to relegate the issue to the back of my mind, it refuses to go anywhere for very long. Perhaps it’s because I reside in the mythical generation referred to as “X.”

For the longest time I remember taking exception to the claims that our supposed listlessness, our tendency to “slack,” could be tied to the fact that we were a generation that has aged without the shadows of a large-scale war. As if that would be something about which we should be remorseful.

And then there was September 11th.

The shock of it — the sense of confusion, fear, and defensiveness. The plethora of American flags casting the light of red, white and blue everywhere one might look. And the Bush family politic, round two.

I have a theory, a joke to myself really, that George W is actually a clone of Bush senior that has been nurtured in some secret chamber of the shadow government’s headquarters for use at a moment when the war machine had enough popular support to launch world War III. Kind of like Dolly the sheep, only much, much scarier. And much more dangerous.

I know, I know, that’s probably a bit drastic. Nevertheless, here we stand with a government prepared to incite the wrath of extremists everywhere.

But are we prepared to handle the consequences? And do the powers that be really care?

These are the things I have trouble understanding, the things that invade my thoughts at the most inopportune times.

In light of the protests staged this weekend, including one right here in Memphis, there are lots of people that share my feeling of unease. And how kind of President Bush to intone that he would not base any of his decisions on voiced opinions, both domestic and international, but rather upon what he considers “right for history.”

And here I sit, in Memphis TN, relegated to the group numbering in the millions that isn’t sure a war is what we want, or need for that matter. Here I sit unable to really form an opinion since I know that there is a major dividing line between information classified and declassified. And unable to obtain any of that information, I find it terribly hard to be lured onto the pro-war bandwagon.

All I can really hope is that I don’t end up having to tell my children about the horrors of “World War X.”

I guess I’m going to have to blame this one on John Cusack.

Remember that scene from the long-lost land of the eighties movie? The one in Say Anything where John blares Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” from his boom box up to the window of his love?

Well it happened to me–sort of.

Early, early Monday morning before the sun did its westerly jaunt over my house, my eyes fluttered open to a completely alien sound. At first I thought that maybe the television in the other room had gone wild, chastising me for my lack of attention. But no, Good Morning Memphis just couldn’t make a sound like that.

Finally getting my bearings at an hour to which I am completely unaccustomed (well, unless the hour is the tail end of a night before) I realized that the noise wasn’t coming from my house at all. It was outside my window, in the street.

It was a man singing! But for me?!

To lend backdrop to my mild insanity, it’s been a rough couple of weeks. Boo hiss. Ahem.

So I peeked through the blinds half expecting some Fox TV stud of a knight in shining armor, half fearing a psychopathic killer was en route to my door in my groggy state of half-delusion. What I didn’t expect was the sight that would greet me.

Spinning above his head a towel that had been scavenged from my trash, this man, this bluebird of the early morning, was belting out a song of love at a volume that possibly exceeded a Spinal Tap “11.” At this point, the vague hope that my knight had come to claim me subsided.

No, it was not John Cusack. Not even close.

Realizing that fact, and OK, mildly disappointed, I proceeded to run across the house half dressed to make sure that my doors were locked. Then I got back in bed and listened.

“I’ve got LOVE, LOVE, LOVE,” he belted, followed by a few minutes of something unintelligible and then some more “LOVE, LOVE, LOVE.” Truly, this was a Memphis moment.

On the one hand an encounter such as this is somewhat saddening. There’s a great chance that my early morning crooner suffers from some sort of delusion or dementia.

But there’s also the possibility that maybe he’s just inexplicably happy, even if rooting through the trash on a Monday morning. I prefer to see it this way.

I’d rather think that this crazy city of ours dropped this man outside my window to tell me something. Maybe it’s the lesson that even when things are rough, as surely they would be when you’re using props from a dumpster to enhance your stage performance, or curb performance rather, there is still reason to sing.

Nevertheless, I now blame John Cusack exclusively for the brief moment where I thought my life might have become a movie.

That bastard!

Since my column last week focused on Memphis from up high–or from overhead–I think it would be fair this week to consider our city from down low.

Way down low.

I want to talk about the Memphis “dive,” the bars that your Momma would warn you against given the chance, but that offer their own little gems in terms of, well, experience.

It seems that if you throw a rock in our city, you’re bound to hit either a church or a bar.

These two cultural institutions can quite literally be found everywhere, seemingly in almost equal numbers, and there’s even some cross-pollination, what with the gospel brunches offered at some of the more soulful pubs.

But I happen to be a night person, so…

I suppose that every drinker has their own definition of exactly what constitutes a dive, and depending upon your level of grit this can include places higher or lower on the scale.

For instance, one who relishes the art of the fine martini might consider a place like the Young Ave. Deli to be a dive, while one who regularly consumes 24 OZ. Cans of Schlitz would have a different take entirely.

As for me, I go by feel alone.

A good dive, in my opinion, should be in walking distance (ideally,) should have cheap, domestic beer, and should peddle said beer at low prices. Additional factors that enhance a locale’s “divability” include a lack of natural light (as in sunlight, not the beer,) a regular clientele of neighborhood folk that spend a minimal amount of time preparing for their visit, pinball or some other form of arcade entertainment, and a decent jukebox or stereo system.

According to the website shtick.org a dive should also meet the following conditions: no velvet rope, no line for entrance, no high cuisine that isn’t fried, and nobody complaining that the bathroom stalls are without doors, mirrors, or any other convenience of the like.

I think our friends at Webster’s Dictionary have one up on all of us though, with the portion of their definition stating “to thrust the body under, or deeply into, water or other fluid.” Aha–beer.

It would take about a million years to visit all of the dives in our area, but in accordance to the aforementioned requirements, I suppose my dive would be the World Famous Poplar Lounge. Oh yeah!

When I first moved into the vicinity of the Poplar Lounge, I’ll admit I was a bit scared of it. One deciding factor swayed me, thoughÑthey actually sell Rolling Rock beer at non-import prices.

Now some of you may be saying “who cares,” at this point. It’s light, watery soda beer, right? But here’s the thing, a thing that countless barkeeps in Memphis have failed to answer with any level of logicÑPennsylvania is just not a foreign country, not even in the lands held by the Amish.

I grew up in its neighboring state, I know.

My only assumption is that the beauty of the green bottle temporarily overwhelms the managers of our area drinking establishments, making them think that nothing so beautiful could possibly have been produced here in the states.

To be sure, I’ve tired many an overworked bartender demanding a logical explanation for this anomaly.

But not at the Poplar Lounge. A mere $2.25 last time I checked.

The inherent logic of their pricing made for instant love. In fact, they looked at me a bit strangely when I burst into song and danced back to my table, clutching that green bottle close to my heart.

The Poplar Lounge is not by any means a pretty place, unless you factor in their courtyard, pretty because it’s outside. That doesn’t count though.

There is also a contingent of regulars who may seem intimidating at first, what with their familiarity with one another. After a few drinks, though, that all disappears.

Now my dive might not be your dive, as it were, and so be it. But every once in a while, it’s refreshing to find a watering hole lacking in pretense, a place where you can throw a few back and let off some steam without having to worry about whether your hair is in place.

Ironically, it’s rather refreshing.