Author: Jenn Hall

SEEING RED

I was at the Czars gift shop in the Pyramid the other day, and I stumbled across some random philosophy.

To share: never, under any circumstances, do certain people sign their names in red.

At least, the man that I spoke with doesn’t.

“Some people believe that it’s bad luck,” he revealed, recreations of one of Russia’s more ostentatious periods sparkling all around him.

“I’m one of those people,” he said, as I watched him sign his name in black.

Good enough. No red signatures for me. No way. Are you superstitiously challenged when you glide across tidbits like these, too?

But then…

Hungry as hell and with no will to remove myself from the beauty of my couch, I had a Papa John’s night soon thereafter. Oh, the cheap food, the quick turnaround, and the delivery policy that embraces the convenience of checks! You probably already know this if you’re anything like me.

Papa John’s is a dear and perfect solution for the unmotivated moments that we all find ourselves in, um, more or less regularly depending upon the individual.

So to cut to the chase here, the only pen in the five-foot radius in which I was willing to search wasÉ you know where this is going.

Red.

A blood red Jenn Hall stared at me from check number 442, opening the door to sustenance and damning me to a life of broken mirrors. Well, maybe.

Will I now live my life cursed, enslaved to the fast food pizza company of America’s impatient dreams?

Alas, I mourn and wait for the moment to come when the universe comes back around to deliver my judgment. And if so, it better come with mushrooms and pepperoni as a parting gift.

There will be an off-key knock on the door.

I will answer, carefree and having forgotten about all that mess with the red signature and all.

And there he will be, that adorable older delivery guy that the Midtown location on Union uses, come to take me away.

He’ll wrestle me to the ground, branding a giant “PJ” into my forehead, and stuff me into the PJ-mobile and deliver me to my sentence—eternal servitude to the company that collected my unguarded soul. The name scrawled in symbolic blood. My grave mistake.

But seeing as how my picture is up here I’m going to ask you a favor.

If you ever see my flailing inside said red and green vehicle, rescue me, OK?

I’m counting on you.

And be careful when you grab for pens in this world. You never know who you might be giving yourself away to.

IN PRAISE OF A FOUR-LETTER WORD: H-O-M-E

There are countless towns between Barnegat, NJ and Memphis, TN if you go this way: 554W to 72W to 70W to 364W to 81S to 40W to the exit for Sam Cooper Blvd. (These are more or less good directions, though I may have forgotten a road or two.)

Most of these places, from the vantage point of my 1991 Chevy Cavalier speeding West and South, were towns without an attached travel memory. Some memories, conversely, can’t be traced to specific towns, blurred in distinction by the never-ending sameness of the road.

A scant few of the things that I saw on this journey, with the confluence of a memory trigger and a sight that was strong enough to adhere to my brain, can be placed in both place and memory.

There are a lot of flat pictures taken in along the way during an 18-hour car ride–or maybe the brain can’t process an overwhelming intake of information and pontificate on each point all at the same time.

At least, I can’t hear it when it’s happening in my head.

At any rate, the shapes and contours of the country as you transport your being from a starting point to a final destination, are one of the things that create the meaning of the place to which you are headed. Memphis.

While coming home on a Saturday there was:

a house on fire on a hillside in the heart of Virginia; 5 bottles of soy-based formula fed to the unfortunately trapped baby traveler (unfortunate in his opinion at least) in the back seat; a horrendous toothache in the mouth of George, my traveling companion; a frightening gas station off of I-81 offering a buffalo burger platter for a mere $4.95, complete with the sight of a mullet savvy man who leered at me as I made a break for the bathroom; a gas station in Maryland where a superhero grinned way too enthusiastically as he dug into a sub sandwich, donning a red cape and spandex on a billboard; a blue car with personalized license plates reading the date of my birthday that almost ran us off of the road during a brilliantly planned double-merge onto the highway after I-440; a cell-phone trucker attempting to kill everyone in sight through sheer inattention; an endless song about the Tallahatchie Bridge; a road-worn woman on a highway ramp trying to find a ride to Abington; a lotto ticket from Virginia (my favorite state) with the number 666 enclosed in a box; reminders that Jesus saves, or that the end is near, or to look busy, or, every now and then, to rejoice; haphazard races with an 18-wheeler named Digby; the roadside attraction Dinosaurland, with its 10-foot rat that fastidiously feeding upon the last “D” in the name; Loretta Lynn’s Dude Ranch; Dollywood; the home of Woodrow Wilson (which I previously mentioned in regard to my nature run-in the week before); salt water taffy, Coke, coffee, turkey and cheese sandwiches, pretzels, Tastycakes, orange sodas, and root beers; oh, and McDonalds, which I am trying to forget; the woman who blew me a kiss as we made our way across the border and into Tennessee; diapers strewn across six states; the radio always the same, and thus never turned on until the final descent into Memphis after Bucksnort, where I insist on stopping every time I drive past; the Motel 6 at exit 66 on I-40; police cars of all sizes, shapes, and colors; SUV motorcades at 90 MPH; junkyards, Flying J’s, rivers, hills, plateaus, rainstorms, sunshine, trees, trees, trees, buildings and shacks and garages; gas prices of all shapes and sizes as well; memories of the road behind us; memories forging anticipation of our approaching reunion with home; the sinking realization that after 17 hours the sign for Collierville does not increase feelings of hopefulness and that Memphis still seems terribly far away, emotionally as well as physically; and my pillow in the backseat awaiting its return to its rightful bed; my driveway; my front door; my apartment!

Beautiful Memphis, to be tread by foot, and not car. Those luscious first steps across the parking lot, where nothing moved at 70 miles per hour. The messages on my answering machine, and the note from my boyfriend. The exhausting achievement of finally making it home.

That suddenly simple word, home, was one that caused me much confusion, or deliberation at least, when I was back in the place where I was born. But when displayed in the light of all of the things that we saw along the way, all the images and sensations of a long, long road trip, it became the most beautiful four-letter word in the world.

It was subsequently followed by the most wonderful five-letter word, which was sleep. And so I said hello to Memphis, with a smile on my face, and then I said goodnight.

YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN, BUT WHERE’S HOME?

I was sitting in a restaurant called The Chicken or The Egg yesterday, which is a beachside dive on Long Beach Island, NJ and thinking about the concept that we call “home.”

You hear adages about this creature all of the time, such as the age-old “home is where the heart is,” or the divergent “you can’t go home again.” And it’s great having polar perspectives such as these to cater to our vacillating moods, whether we’re carrying a glass half-empty or half-full, isn’t it?

Caught in the belly of the paradox of the chicken versus the egg, my gut reaction to the word home has suddenly grown muddier than my feet were at last weekend’s Beale Street Musicfest. As a transplanted Memphian vacationing in the land of my roots (and no, that’s not JOY-ZEE, it’s JER-ZEE) I find myself wondering where, exactly, my home really is.

To be sure, the line of thought warning that you can’t go home again did it’s best to prove itself ascendant as my sister Becky and I were driving back home from Memphis. Or were we driving from home to New Jersey? Hmm…

On the epic saga that is the Virginian portion of Interstate 81 (and I no longer believe that Virginia is for lovers, regardless of the ubiquitous claim) I smacked into an enormous deer, which appeared out of nowhere as dawn made its way up the asphalt horizon.

We were just outside of Staunton, which is the birthplace of Woodrow Wilson and the site of the first Presbyterian College for women, in case you were wondering.

Oddly enough, I had randomly found myself in Staunton once before, staying a night a few years back, and for no real reason other than collegiate boredom translated into mileage. Another unplanned stay was definitely not a part of my AAA travel plan.

The accident, however, had changed my face to a strange egg-like color, and I was shaking like I had internalized the massage feature from a cheap motel bed. It seemed a wise move to get off of the road.

We commenced to enjoy a lovely and refreshing 6 hours in Armstrong’s motel, beginning at the very cost-effective check-in hour of 6 AM. Provided amenities included a shower with a nozzle positioned at about waist level, a lack of any shampoo whatsoever, a window view of my smashed out headlight and freshly crushed and now inoperable hood, and the appreciated opportunity to close my eyes and sleep so as to cease the mental instant-replay of the bout with nature that we had just survived.

The only possible meaning that I’ve been able to assign to this event, its being part of an inadvertent habit of visiting Staunton, is that I’m actually a distant relative of Woodrow Wilson, and his spirit is trying to draw me back to explore the family roots.

But, more realistically, I think that Virginia just hates me. It is not, regardless of the status of my hypothetical glass, a place that I call home.

Anyhow, we eventually made it to Jersey, and without further incident.

Overall, the state is just how I remember it. There’s the same beautiful cadence of the Jersey Shore accent, which is a bit divergent from New York’s Nanny-style inflection that those not local to the state assume is the only manner of speaking available in the area.

A Wawa convenience store, bless it’s heart, can be found on every other corner, which is similar to a Tiger-Mart, only much better in that it offers the most fabulous and inexpensive Hoagies that you could ever eat. Incidentally, while we eat hoagies in South Jersey, you’d eat a sub in North Jersey. In case you don’t know, there’s a bit of a North versus South debate that goes on even in the confines of the Garden State, ranging from topics like who has the better accent to overall lifestyle comparisons. This regional duplicity might be what enabled me to make the transition into Memphis culture with reasonable ease.

Let’s see, what else is there? Well, there are Dunkin’ Donuts instead of Krispy Kreams. Sauerkraut is offered with ALL convenience store hot dogs, the lack of which is one of the major points of contention that I have with the South.

And then there’s the beach, of course, on which my friend’s son Kyle enjoyed his first baby mouthful of sand this afternoon. There’s salt-water taffy…and PIZZA, as in real pizza, and I’m very sorry to come off like an uppity Yankee in this regard. It’s just different, and so damn good.

Then there’s the beauty of the Pine Barrens, a natural preserve abundant with a very colorful element of local lore, and where friends and I used to do much off-roading as teenagers. The most infamous part of the Pine Barrens’ story involves the numerous tales that surround the mythical Jersey Devil, namesake of the state’s NHL team.

The most surprising re-discovery that I’ve made, though, and one that might forge the middle ground in my inner conflict over “home” as a concept, is a little restaurant named JR’s that offers Memphis-style ribs! Imagine that! It says so right on the sign.

Unfortunately, JR’s is a summer restaurant, meaning that it won’t be open until Memorial Day weekend, when an influx of “summer people” from the tri-state area (meaning New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania) take over much of the shore area, and especially the island.

Thus, I will not be able to provide a summation of Jersey-style Memphis barbecue at this time. If I could, though, those of you from Memphis would probably be provided with an ample comeback to the snide pizza comments made previously. Um, sorry about that.

The mere existence of a Memphis-style restaurant in my hometown, however, provides me with something that I think I’ve been looking for ever since I began this little trip…

Maybe home is where the heart is, but is also a thing that can include more than one place at a time, and even some things from different places that might overlap and create personal meaning. (Except for things from Staunton, against which I currently hold a major grudge.)

But who’s to say that I have to choose between one home and another?

I guess I’ve just become a Jersey-Memphis half-breed, for lack of a better term, and can now call both places home with a smile on my face!

Memphis will be my proverbial chicken, Jersey my native egg, and my glass will be completely full, this conflict being resolved.

So I guess I will now return to vacation mode. See you when I get back.

YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN, BUT WHERE’S HOME?

I was sitting in a restaurant called The Chicken or The Egg yesterday, which is a beachside dive on Long Beach Island, NJ and thinking about the concept that we call “home.”

You hear adages about this creature all of the time, such as the age-old “home is where the heart is,” or the divergent “you can’t go home again.” And it’s great having polar perspectives such as these to cater to our vacillating moods, whether we’re carrying a glass half-empty or half-full, isn’t it?

Caught in the belly of the paradox of the chicken versus the egg, my gut reaction to the word home has suddenly grown muddier than my feet were at last weekend’s Beale Street Musicfest. As a transplanted Memphian vacationing in the land of my roots (and no, that’s not JOY-ZEE, it’s JER-ZEE) I find myself wondering where, exactly, my home really is.

To be sure, the line of thought warning that you can’t go home again did it’s best to prove itself ascendant as my sister Becky and I were driving back home from Memphis. Or were we driving from home to New Jersey? Hmm…

On the epic saga that is the Virginian portion of Interstate 81 (and I no longer believe that Virginia is for lovers, regardless of the ubiquitous claim) I smacked into an enormous deer, which appeared out of nowhere as dawn made its way up the asphalt horizon.

We were just outside of Staunton, which is the birthplace of Woodrow Wilson and the site of the first Presbyterian College for women, in case you were wondering.

Oddly enough, I had randomly found myself in Staunton once before, staying a night a few years back, and for no real reason other than collegiate boredom translated into mileage. Another unplanned stay was definitely not a part of my AAA travel plan.

The accident, however, had changed my face to a strange egg-like color, and I was shaking like I had internalized the massage feature from a cheap motel bed. It seemed a wise move to get off of the road.

We commenced to enjoy a lovely and refreshing 6 hours in Armstrong’s motel, beginning at the very cost-effective check-in hour of 6 AM. Provided amenities included a shower with a nozzle positioned at about waist level, a lack of any shampoo whatsoever, a window view of my smashed out headlight and freshly crushed and now inoperable hood, and the appreciated opportunity to close my eyes and sleep so as to cease the mental instant-replay of the bout with nature that we had just survived.

The only possible meaning that I’ve been able to assign to this event, its being part of an inadvertent habit of visiting Staunton, is that I’m actually a distant relative of Woodrow Wilson, and his spirit is trying to draw me back to explore the family roots.

But, more realistically, I think that Virginia just hates me. It is not, regardless of the status of my hypothetical glass, a place that I call home.

Anyhow, we eventually made it to Jersey, and without further incident.

Overall, the state is just how I remember it. There’s the same beautiful cadence of the Jersey Shore accent, which is a bit divergent from New York’s Nanny-style inflection that those not local to the state assume is the only manner of speaking available in the area.

A Wawa convenience store, bless it’s heart, can be found on every other corner, which is similar to a Tiger-Mart, only much better in that it offers the most fabulous and inexpensive Hoagies that you could ever eat. Incidentally, while we eat hoagies in South Jersey, you’d eat a sub in North Jersey. In case you don’t know, there’s a bit of a North versus South debate that goes on even in the confines of the Garden State, ranging from topics like who has the better accent to overall lifestyle comparisons. This regional duplicity might be what enabled me to make the transition into Memphis culture with reasonable ease.

Let’s see, what else is there? Well, there are Dunkin’ Donuts instead of Krispy Kreams. Sauerkraut is offered with ALL convenience store hot dogs, the lack of which is one of the major points of contention that I have with the South.

And then there’s the beach, of course, on which my friend’s son Kyle enjoyed his first baby mouthful of sand this afternoon. There’s salt-water taffy…and PIZZA, as in real pizza, and I’m very sorry to come off like an uppity Yankee in this regard. It’s just different, and so damn good.

Then there’s the beauty of the Pine Barrens, a natural preserve abundant with a very colorful element of local lore, and where friends and I used to do much off-roading as teenagers. The most infamous part of the Pine Barrens’ story involves the numerous tales that surround the mythical Jersey Devil, namesake of the state’s NHL team.

The most surprising re-discovery that I’ve made, though, and one that might forge the middle ground in my inner conflict over “home” as a concept, is a little restaurant named JR’s that offers Memphis-style ribs! Imagine that! It says so right on the sign.

Unfortunately, JR’s is a summer restaurant, meaning that it won’t be open until Memorial Day weekend, when an influx of “summer people” from the tri-state area (meaning New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania) take over much of the shore area, and especially the island.

Thus, I will not be able to provide a summation of Jersey-style Memphis barbecue at this time. If I could, though, those of you from Memphis would probably be provided with an ample comeback to the snide pizza comments made previously. Um, sorry about that.

The mere existence of a Memphis-style restaurant in my hometown, however, provides me with something that I think I’ve been looking for ever since I began this little trip…

Maybe home is where the heart is, but is also a thing that can include more than one place at a time, and even some things from different places that might overlap and create personal meaning. (Except for things from Staunton, against which I currently hold a major grudge.)

But who’s to say that I have to choose between one home and another?

I guess I’ve just become a Jersey-Memphis half-breed, for lack of a better term, and can now call both places home with a smile on my face!

Memphis will be my proverbial chicken, Jersey my native egg, and my glass will be completely full, this conflict being resolved.

So I guess I will now return to vacation mode. See you when I get back.

SPARE CHANGE or THE ART OF THE SCROUNGE

Once upon a time there was a cash-strapped girl transplanted in MemphisÑoh wait, that was me!

Anyhow, here in the city and freshly juxtaposed from Floridian couch-surfer to Tennessean change-in-the-couch hunter, I spent an evening in my now former apartment perfecting the art of the “scrounge.”

The “scrounge” would be the process wherein said penniless individual with little inclination towards housework proceeds to clean like a beast spawned from Mr. Clean himself, but with a distinct goal. The quest is for any and all forgotten dimes or dollars holed up amidst the crevices of a less than Martha Stewart-esqe organizational system.

On this particular humidity drenched evening things were going pretty well. There were quarters in the couch, a dollar swept under the rug, and even a plethora of pennies on what my roommates and I affectionately referred to as our “pretty stuff shelf.” This was a recycled wicker contraption, ugly as sin itself, that we scored during a Memphis moving weekend.

A moving weekend is really just the last weekend in every month, during which people at the larger apartment buildings downtown throw all sorts of great things out to the curb. Along with the shelf, we had also amassed a keyboard, an orange wheelchair eventually used in the courting of my former roommate’s now wife, some end tables, and all sorts of other miscellaneous nonsense.

But getting back to the point, I was digging and searching my home like the daughter of a South African archaeologist, determined to mine the food-purchasing potential of whatever cash might be found in the neglected canyon of my home.

I remember as a kid, my Mom would perform these same rituals, and she would almost always have a musical accompaniment. Oftentimes it was that song by the Doobie Brothers, the one that goes Jesus is just all right with me… Mom would vacuum like a bat out of heaven, dancing the machine to and fro like an angel. (I know, I know, I sort of just threw that in. But Mother’s Day is coming, I had to work it in somehow.)

I think I had on Faith No More, which was on the cranked side of quiet.

Covered in sweat and copper-fingered from the sticky pennies rescued from the void, I suddenly heard a knock at the door.

The very fact that there was a knock was in and of itself an anomaly. Our friends don’t knock. We prefer, I suppose, to keep things more like a sitcom, where the knocking and subsequent opening of doors takes too much time away from the plot at hand, which is in turn struggling against the lack of time it has to develop fully due to the commercials. But anyway…

Cranking down the stereo, and sweating like the aforementioned beast of housework that I was, I cracked the door and laid eyes on a man who certainly wasn’t part of our normal cast of characters. Nor was he a member of the rave nation upstairs, who occasionally sent their trip-hop friends to our door to impart some random shard of wisdom upon us.

He was an older man, weather-worn and with kind eyes that I only see in retrospect.

“You like it loud, huh,” he quipped, eyes darting toward my tempered stereo and the piles of miscellaneous booty amassed during my hunt.

I didn’t initially notice the man’s eyes because my own eyes were magnetic toward the bucket of change and dollar bills that he clutched to his side. Here we go, I thought, though I wish that I didn’t feel that way.

Amidst a plethora of panhandlers, men and women who followed me through my daily routine regularly, I admit that I may have become somewhat hardened. It’s kind of hard not to be, unless you’re the genetic hybrid of a human and an ATM.

It’s difficult sometimes to be a person that tries to have a conscience, especially when said conscience is picked at and tugged upon continually. The chorus of got a dollar, got a cigarette, got some change can get amazingly overwhelming. When I have something to give, I’m happy to do my part, but that’s just not always the case.

“What we’re doing,” the man began, “is collecting money for our church youth program.”

I sort of nodded, with my money-scrounging face of questionable wealth, and my brain fully doubting the story.

“We’re trying to help the kids off the streets,” he continued, “to give them a positive alternative.”

Enter Jenn’s mental conflict. It fits neatly into the encapsulating equation of conscience plus hard times equals moral confusion.

I explained to him that I was actually digging for change myself, and asked him what church he was with. He looked at me strangely, or so I imagined, and said the name of some congregation on South Parkway.

Then, mind over matter, I dipped into my own bucket, grabbed a few dollars, and tossed it into his hand. I’m a sucker for things that benefit kids, I can’t help it. It almost makes me cry to tell the Shriners that I can’t send any children to the circus, I swear.

The man thanked me, handed me a religious pamphlet, and went on his merry way.

After he left, I turned the stereo back up, flopped down on the couch and began to perfect the art of sulking. I was convinced that I had just allowed myself to be ganked, as it were, and angry since on that particular day, the few dollars was worth way more than usual.

It looked like it would be another week of ghetto gourmet. For those of you unfamiliar with this style of cuisine, which includes such marvels as the exalted potato and carrot burrito, keep your eyes on the Food network. A friend of mine may be on-air to explain it soon.

It was then that the little pamphlet fell from the back of the couch and on to the seat next to me.

Lo and behold, as they say, marked on the bottom was the address of the very congregation the man had claimed as his own.

Which made me feel a whole lot better about the world, and about Memphis as well.

If there’s one thing I’ve noticed in the time that I have been here, it’s that there are a lot of kids who could use some assistance in making good choices and avoiding the vices that go along with a city whose bars stay open 24 hours a day.

Helping in that endeavor is certainly worth an extra day eating Ramen noodles and beans.

I think I’m still a bit fuzzy on the real meaning of that phrase “the Bible Belt.” Initially, I thought it might be another way of referring to Getwell Road, which seems as close to fitting that description as anything else around the city.

But maybe it’s actually people like that kind-eyed old man, spending time going door-to-door in both the heat and the dark to try to give the kids around here a shot.

That’s what I prefer to think it means, anyway.

If there were, in fact, any truth to the mythology of specters, of shadowy guys and gals that whoop it up in the night, then surely there would have to be a few representatives lingering around in Shelby County.

You know, astral projections. Energy taking shape in matter to create a mirage, a vision of some sordid past.

These are the infamous things that go bump in the night, that open and close doors or flick the lights on and off just for fun.

A fair number of people around here seem to be convinced that such non-corporeal residents are afoot around the city.

For example, each year a throng of curious onlookers descends upon Snowden Circle, where multiple residents who claim that they have been “visited” host tours of their haunted homes.

They tell stories of iridescent children rearranging furniture in the night, of chandeliers that begin to glow a sickish green every once and again. One couple even had photos on display from their wedding, in which a smoky figure (not a misplaced finger in front of the lens, of course) made himself visible in several pictures from the couple’s reception in the backyard.

Of course, beloved local eccentric Prince Mongo was also captured in the pictures, so who really knows?

At Blues City on Beale Street, some claim they have seen a spirit of some kind hiding out in the basement. Beneath the Band Box, there is a downstairs area with a secret room, perhaps a remnant of the Speakeasy days, and several people swear they have spotted a billowy figure crouched amongst the shadows.

You hear such stories all of the time. But once, and once only, did I hear a tale that truly caught my attention. That made me wonder, shudder, could it be true?

Is Memphis a haunted city?

The particular occurrence that I am about to describe took place at The Young Avenue Deli, Midtown’s watering hole/ pool hall/ music venue. It involved (insert creepy organ lick) the ghost of the Camel girl.

A certain friend of mine, who shall remain nameless lest she fall prey to the supernatural paparazzi, would from time to time to stop by The Deli when she got off work. A common habit for a Midtowner in search of a nicely priced happy hour, a decent jukebox, and a basket of fried pickles.

(By the way, I thank the South wholeheartedly for introducing to me the wonder of the fried pickle. You can’t get those up in Jersey!)

Now, for the smokers of Memphis, there is always the hope that a Camel girl will appear at whatever venue you happen to be patronizing. Camel’s cigarette girls are a fixture on the local bar scene. And for many bar patrons, these cigarette-toting maidens are a very welcome fixture, at that. This is especially so for the smoker low on cash, and left with the terribly perplexing choice between a few drinks or a few cigarettes.

Life can be so terribly hard.

Needless to say, my friend was in luck on this enchanted evening. The Camel girl was working The Deli! Or was she?

Many of you are probably familiar with the routine a smoker should follow when a Camel girl has been spotted in the building. It goes like this. Put down drink. Grab driver’s license. Make beeline to said Camel girl before anyone else has spotted her. Sign short, sweet release form. Return to drink with a handful of free cigarettes.

On this night, my friend did just that, and then went on with her evening.

When I saw her the next morning, however, she was in a panic. Apparently she had completely forgotten to get her ID back during the above process, and had little idea how to go about tracking it down.

First, she called the bar to see if perhaps it had been turned in to the bartender at some point. Negative.

The guy that she spoke with suggested that she place a call to the marketing company responsible for Camel’s Memphis promotions. Over the course of several days she attempted just that.

After about three solid afternoons spent trying to get in touch with them, she finally connected with a human being, and set an appointment to go through what is apparently an extremely large forgotten ID pile.

Over the course of the several days it took between this conversation with Camel and her actual appointment, I personally helped my stricken friend tear apart her apartment in case the license had somehow been lost after she had returned home. It was nowhere to be found. Not on the nightstand, nor in her wallet, nor shoved beneath the seat of her car. It had simply vanished.

Now, I wasn’t there to witness this next part, so it will be up to you to decide whether you believe it.

The first thing asked of my friend when she arrived in Camelville, was that she provide a description of the cigarette girl in question. My friend stammered a bit, trying to remember her face. She was short, she said, short with spiky blonde hair.

At this point the marketing maven stopped and looked at her quizzically. There was no Camel girl who fit that description, and apparently no one had even been scheduled for The Deli on the night that my friend had been there.

That being said, the woman waved disinterestedly toward to the thick, lonely pile of ID’s and left my confused friend to rifle through them in peace. It wasn’t there.

But here is where the story gets strange. On her way home, my friend decided to stop at Mapco, or maybe it was Tiger Mart. Whatever the case, as she opened her wallet to pay the cashier for her bottled water or what have you, she stared in shock. The ID was right there, plain as day, in front of her ATM card.

But how did it get there?

I know for a fact that it hadn’t been in there before, as I had personally rummaged through the various cards and receipts the wallet contained about fifteen times.

Could that possibly mean, though, that she never really saw a Camel girl at all, but rather (insert another creepy organ lick) the ghost of a Camel girl?

While you may not believe me, I was there, and see no sufficient explanation to the contrary. I mean, I suppose insanity would be a cause, but there were entirely too many of us helping out in her search for that theory to hold, and I refuse to concede that we could all be insane…

Whatever the case, here is an amended series of steps for you to take next time you are out and about and spot a cigarette goddess. Put down drink. Grab driver’s license. Make beeline to said Camel girl before anyone else has spotted her. Sign short, sweet release form. Grab your ID, and then you can return to your drink with a handful of free cigarettes.

You never know what may happen otherwise.

You might just find (insert final creepy organ line followed by crack of thunder) the ghost of the Camel girl!

WEATHERTALK

Since we are pretty much strangers, and I’m not really in the political frame of mind at present (lest I go on for about 500 paragraphs) I figured it’s a great time to comment on the weather. Isn’t it absolutely gorgeous?

I sometimes wonder about weather talk. At any given moment across Memphis, or the US, or pan-ultimately, the world, how many people are having polite, largely innocuous little chats about the state of the weather? Thousands at the very minimum. Probably a whole lot more. (Not including the overabundance of eager weathercasters, who I bet know what temperatures they enjoy to the degree and aren’t satisfied unless the air is in that perfect, overly defined state.)

Talking about the weather, or course, is perfectly reasonable.

How many wars are fought over it?

Unless, of course, you start to analyze it further, and place politics and religion into the realm of being cultural applications of environmental factors (your forest is more fertile than mine, etc.) Then maybe all wars, at heart, are really about the weather.

But anyway, back to the innocuous reflection on the grand state of Spring.

Spring is a monster in Memphis. It’s like a living creature. I swear that I went to sleep one night watching the moon through a sparse tangle of branches out my window, slept about six hours, and awakened to a yard of fully blossomed trees outside my apartment. It’s as if there was an overnight marathon, in which the moon shouted “one, two, three, goÉ” and handed out prizes to the plants quickest to sprout by the break of sunlight.

That pretty much rocks, in my book.

And the best part of the whole thing is that the people start coming back out. The warm weather here is like a season-long version of a full moon, and everyone starts running around in circles.

Which leads me to a brief public service announcement. If you are one of those people who begins to run unbridled through the city as the temperature rises, please look in both directions when crossing the street. I’ve recently read that Memphis is one of the more dangerous cities for pedestrians, and this has to be correlative to the number of individuals that seem to enjoy walking right along the yellow lines in the middle of the road.

So what to do, amidst all of this temperate splendor?

Well first off, keep your eye open for the ongoing plethora of special events. From April through October, Memphis holds the honor of being the festival capital of the world. Crawfish festivals. Africa in April. The South Main Arts festival. The Great Wine Race. Memphis in May. Sudsfest. Parties in the Pinch. Artist markets. The fair. Elvis’ death week. The Jerry Lee Lewis birthday convention. The Cooper Young festival.

The list goes on and on, and frankly, is entirely too long to fully detail without my arms falling off.

It’s also a great time of year to walk around and watch people. For the third straight season, I have seen certain people emerge right around this time, wander about while the weather is right, and then disappear into the winter.

Go to the park. Drive up and down the street. You’ll find more characters than you could imagine.

Just a few weeks ago I was approached by a self-described “Redneck Irishman” with a bloody right eye and a yellow balloon who told me that he loved me.

There’s another man with whom I’m mildly obsessed that can be seen walking up and down Vance almost daily. He’s tall, and carries an air with him as if there’s some sort of ancient secret that he’s sworn to protect. I know that probably sounds ridiculous, but if you saw him, you’d know what I mean.

And if you’re searching for Memphis mementos, check out some yard sales. Sure, there are enough gift shops about to fill an entire mall, but why not seek out something that’s truly indicative of the city’s people. I enjoy nothing more than wandering from yard to yard, trying to imagine what secrets might live inside a home, based solely upon the “garbage” tossed out on the lawn.

This past weekend, for a grand total of thirteen dollars, and over the course of about a square mile of Midtown, I found a huge ornamental tapestry, a voodoo doll, a metallic Egyptian print on a fiber paper, two dresses, a pair of brown velour pants, a tee-shirt, paperback versions of The Serpent and the Rainbow, Watership Down, and The Tenth Man, as well as some really cool cloth napkins that I’m going to use to mat some frames.

So what are you doing inside, anyway?

Go out and play. Did I mention that the weather is splendid?

(Care to respond? Write mailonthefly@aol.com.)

LOCAL PARADOXES

A couple of weeks ago I was heading west on Southern towards Highland, past the infamous church that created a bit of a media frenzy several weeks ago with a sign proclaiming “Jesus said eat me.”

When I got to the convergence of the two roads, I saw the most beautifully paradoxical juxtaposition of images. Facing Southern, there are two billboards.

On the left side, Mother Teresa smiled down, framed by the words “Reaching out to others—Compassion–Give it a try.”

Then I looked to the right, which advertised an upcoming gun show in bold black and yellow. I want to say it was for the same gun show that took place on Easter Sunday.

To further this paradox, if one were to interpret this sign placement from the vantage point of Christian mythology, Mother Teresa should have been on the right, and the guns on the left.

Paradox makes the world go ‘round, since otherwise there would be no gravity. I think that it might make Memphis go ‘round with an even stronger pattern of rotation.

But maybe this interpretation of the city stems from a more personal contradiction.

Where I grew up, I was in a geographic locale that hosted a view of the sunrise over the ocean. I can remember delivering papers at dawn, the sky a big purple monster crawling over the Atlantic’s waves and sand. Now my sun sets over the Mississippi river, and I travel home from work with a big bowl full of oranges sinking into the cityscape behind me.

Whatever the deep-rooted psychological explanation, I see the concurrence of opposing forces everywhere.

If you wanted to get into art theory, and spin the matter on the color wheel, we are both the home of the Blues and the Redbirds. These, of course, are polar on Itten’s color scale.

Yes, I know, that’s kind of pushing it.

Thinking in terms of American history, this is probably the only place in the country where the phrase “The King is Dead” can have such wildly divergent meanings. Sometimes I wonder if the significance of Martin Luther King Jr’s place in Memphis history doesn’t get a bit lost in the layer of glitter showering down from Elvis’ jumpsuit, however. It’s sad that there needed to be a media campaign in place to urge people to commemorate the day of his passing.

It’s interesting, anyhow, that two of the premier (and very different) figures of 20th century American culture are part of the backbone of this single city.

But there’s more. Like the paradox of the Peabody hotel, which plays host to a group of ducks in lush surroundings that cost upwards of my monthly rent for a single evening’s stay.

Now that’s just not fair.

I saw another instance of this pattern of opposites last week at the New Daisy, as well. Lined up outside of the venue was a mass of local metal aficionados, waiting on line for the GWAR and Soilent Green show. Set up on the sidewalk alongside this brood was a guy (who I think is the owner of Xanadu) playing a cigar box guitar, a drum kit and a harmonica in a one-man delta blues extravaganza. If you don’t know anything about GWAR, this was most certainly a paradox.

The strongest contradiction I see here, though, is actually in the layout of the city itself.

Firstly, there are the rival slogans of “Midtown is Memphis,” versus “Downtown is the heart of Memphis.” Wouldn’t that place the city’s heart in its feet, the body being centered in Midtown?

More importantly, though, there is a checkerboard of neighborhoods here like I have witnessed nowhere else. Unlike the model of the “right” and “wrong” sides of the track that seems to reign as the norm of urban planning, Memphis neighborhoods are some of the most diverse that I have seen in the country.

Right alongside multi-million dollar homes are apartment complexes with signs boasting “drug dealers evicted here.” You can drive about a mile in most directions, and find yourself in a completely different place than that from which you started.

There’s a taxidermy shop right down Cooper Avenue from the House of Mews, which rescues the lost kittens of the world. There are as many strip clubs and bars as churches.

I don’t know about you, but I love all of it. The paradoxes that make Memphis interesting and the very same that have made it my new home.

Incidentally, there is another Mother Teresa billboard now, over the intersection of Cooper and Young. It sort of serves to remedy the contradiction on Highland. This time, the sign for “Compassion” is juxtaposed with a sign from Altoids proclaiming, “We Dare You!” The revered Saint, however

(Care to respond? Write mailonthefly@aol.com.)

LOCAL PARADOXES

A couple of weeks ago I was heading west on Southern towards Highland, past the infamous church that created a bit of a media frenzy several weeks ago with a sign proclaiming “Jesus said eat me.”

When I got to the convergence of the two roads, I saw the most beautifully paradoxical juxtaposition of images. Facing Southern, there are two billboards.

On the left side, Mother Teresa smiled down, framed by the words “Reaching out to others—Compassion–Give it a try.”

Then I looked to the right, which advertised an upcoming gun show in bold black and yellow. I want to say it was for the same gun show that took place on Easter Sunday.

To further this paradox, if one were to interpret this sign placement from the vantage point of Christian mythology, Mother Teresa should have been on the right, and the guns on the left.

Paradox makes the world go ‘round, since otherwise there would be no gravity. I think that it might make Memphis go ‘round with an even stronger pattern of rotation.

But maybe this interpretation of the city stems from a more personal contradiction.

Where I grew up, I was in a geographic locale that hosted a view of the sunrise over the ocean. I can remember delivering papers at dawn, the sky a big purple monster crawling over the Atlantic’s waves and sand. Now my sun sets over the Mississippi river, and I travel home from work with a big bowl full of oranges sinking into the cityscape behind me.

Whatever the deep-rooted psychological explanation, I see the concurrence of opposing forces everywhere.

If you wanted to get into art theory, and spin the matter on the color wheel, we are both the home of the Blues and the Redbirds. These, of course, are polar on Itten’s color scale.

Yes, I know, that’s kind of pushing it.

Thinking in terms of American history, this is probably the only place in the country where the phrase “The King is Dead” can have such wildly divergent meanings. Sometimes I wonder if the significance of Martin Luther King Jr’s place in Memphis history doesn’t get a bit lost in the layer of glitter showering down from Elvis’ jumpsuit, however. It’s sad that there needed to be a media campaign in place to urge people to commemorate the day of his passing.

It’s interesting, anyhow, that two of the premier (and very different) figures of 20th century American culture are part of the backbone of this single city.

But there’s more. Like the paradox of the Peabody hotel, which plays host to a group of ducks in lush surroundings that cost upwards of my monthly rent for a single evening’s stay.

Now that’s just not fair.

I saw another instance of this pattern of opposites last week at the New Daisy, as well. Lined up outside of the venue was a mass of local metal aficionados, waiting on line for the GWAR and Soilent Green show. Set up on the sidewalk alongside this brood was a guy (who I think is the owner of Xanadu) playing a cigar box guitar, a drum kit and a harmonica in a one-man delta blues extravaganza. If you don’t know anything about GWAR, this was most certainly a paradox.

The strongest contradiction I see here, though, is actually in the layout of the city itself.

Firstly, there are the rival slogans of “Midtown is Memphis,” versus “Downtown is the heart of Memphis.” Wouldn’t that place the city’s heart in its feet, the body being centered in Midtown?

More importantly, though, there is a checkerboard of neighborhoods here like I have witnessed nowhere else. Unlike the model of the “right” and “wrong” sides of the track that seems to reign as the norm of urban planning, Memphis neighborhoods are some of the most diverse that I have seen in the country.

Right alongside multi-million dollar homes are apartment complexes with signs boasting “drug dealers evicted here.” You can drive about a mile in most directions, and find yourself in a completely different place than that from which you started.

There’s a taxidermy shop right down Cooper Avenue from the House of Mews, which rescues the lost kittens of the world. There are as many strip clubs and bars as churches.

I don’t know about you, but I love all of it. The paradoxes that make Memphis interesting and the very same that have made it my new home.

Incidentally, there is another Mother Teresa billboard now, over the intersection of Cooper and Young. It sort of serves to remedy the contradiction on Highland. This time, the sign for “Compassion” is juxtaposed with a sign from Altoids proclaiming, “We Dare You!” The revered Saint, however

(Care to respond? Write mailonthefly@aol.com.)

I’ve heard a lot of talk, as I’ve gotten closer and closer to becoming a true transplanted Memphian, about how the city as a whole doesn’t have enough respect for its past.

The club on Union where the Sex Pistols played during their short-lived American tour is now a Taco Bell. Beale Street, at least as an architectural concept, is perhaps a bit more Disney than authentic Blues. Homes along Vance and Peabody, which once gave residence to the city’s eminences re in varying states of disrepair.

Nevertheless, I don’t think I completely buy the argument. Surely there is some truth to the assertion that preservation could take higher precedence over other civic concerns. Compared to the many subdivisions of my Jersey Shore childhood, however, this city has history oozing from its proverbial pores.

I’m sure that there are probably tons of leveling that occurred before I ever considered coming to Memphis. But there is energy here, if a rather complicated and sometimes double-edged energy, that must in many ways come from a past full of innovators whose significance projects beyond whatever physical buildings that might serve as a visual commemoration.

The oral histories, the memories that people are willing to share and celebrate in grandiose style, these are the things that give Memphis a unique charm I haven’t found elsewhere.

To me, this is what historical memory should be.

Take, for example, last week’s Premier Player Awards, which celebrated the 50-year anniversary of Sun Records. Crammed into the Orpheum Theater downtown, were representatives from an aspect of music history that has reverberated throughout the entire world.

In one room, circa 2002, you had Sam Phillips, Jim Dickinson, Billy Lee Riley, Sonny Burgess and a host of others who altered the course of popular music forever. The beauty of this city is that there are so many things going on at all times that locals are afforded the luxury of being tired of hearing about it.

As for me, I was happy to be the lame Yankee fan of my new home in the South.

Not much of a black tie aficionado, I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect out of the evening. I’d actually never been in the Orpheum before, though my first job in town was about a block away on Beale.

To be honest, if there hadn’t been an event going on, I would have been perfectly happy to sit and stare at the ornate ceiling of that venue and drool for an hour or so.

As it turned out, the awards were a bit less structured than I had envisioned. People were drinking and shouting and socializing like it was going out of style. Glasses from the cash bar were rolling down the aisles. And everybody seemed to be having a damn good time.

If the “real” Grammy’s could take a hint from Memphis and make it a bit more of a party, they might be slightly less akin to the sleeping pill-esque broadcast that crashes me out on the couch with every year’s ceremony.

I, for one, could listen to Sam Phillips preaching for quite some time. I can’t remember him ever coming to the Barnegat, New Jersy, community center, that’s for sure.

Of course, I was really hoping that Jerry Lee would actually show up for the event, which, as seems to have been commonly expected, he didn’t.

Mr. Killer has been torturing me in this way ever since I came to town.

You see, my boyfriend is a huge Jerry Lee fan. Being ignorant of the, well, mixed feelings about him from those who remember him as a rowdy terror, I thought it would be easy to come across some cool authentic Jerry Lee memorabilia for his last birthday.

I guess you could say I was wrong.

After circling the town for hours trying to find someone who could give me a clue as to where this treasure might be, and eliciting a few “F*** Jerry Lee Lewis” outbursts from some people who weren’t into it, I ended up at Kinko’s. Every single picture I tried to posterize came out horribly, and by the end of the day, frustrated, I had my last cigarette literally stolen out of my hand from a random homeless passerby.

Oh well. I’ll find the key to Jerry Lee eventually, and I enjoyed the Premier Player Awards in spite of his conspicuous absence.

Right now, I’m reading the muckraking Fast Food Nation, by Eric Schlosser, in an attempt to rid myself of an occasional infatuation with grease and convenience. In one segment of the book, Schlosser depicts the “loopiness” of a Colorado Springs that is becoming “Californicated” in having a “strange, creative energy where the future’s constantly being made, where people walk the line separating a visionary from a total nutcase.”

This type of unbridled energy has been circulating in Memphis for years, and even if buildings fall prey to “urban progress” daily, I don’t see anything that could erase such a vivid historical memory of creativity and innovation from its soul.

(Care to respond? Write mailonthefly@aol.com.)