Author: Jenn Hall

V-DAY

Trying to define the difference between the “male” and “female” sides of human personality can be mighty difficult. It’s kind of like attempting to pontificate on the divergence of the “in case of rapture this vehicle will be unmanned” bumper sticker fanatics of the world from the “when the rapture comes can I have your car?” set.

In terms of specific adjectives, just like in the language structures that define their expression, the two camps emerge almost too easily. “He” words and “She” words. To some extent these assignments aren’t arbitrary, I guess. But when it comes down to it, most people that I know utilize both of these realms pretty freely nowadays. I know that I do.

So here I am, and it’s National Women’s Month. This weekend, in celebration, I tried to look around me for all the pretty pinks and blues, the little essences that make up the differences between the coexistent worlds of the ladies and the gentleman.

Sunday, at 3 o’clock, the University of Memphis staged a performance of Eve Ansler’s The Vagina Monologues. My plan was to meet up with several of my closest chick friends at Bosco’s for their Sunday Brunch, and then catch the show.

Incidentally, a mouthpiece workshop for clarinet players was going on in town at the same time.

One of the beautiful things about Bosco’s brunch is the $2.50 Bloody Mary. Veggie juice, tobasco, pepper, and vodka delivered in one fell swoop to draw the mind away from any lingering Saturday night aftermath that might be going on in your life. They’re even good without the hangover.

We were three women banded together for the very sake of being women banded, which definitely means that we deserved the indulgence or something.

We talked up a whole plethora of girl stuff. You know, confidential information, beauty tips, the psychology of things we did to our Barbies as young children or adults. My Barbie, a very mouthy little thing, had a green Mohawk and partied like a rock star. The Ken-as-Freud doll that lived in the same trash bag as the rest of my dolls undoubtedly spent many hours ruminating on that trollop’s issues.

Eventually 2:30 rolled around and we made our slogan-chanting way to the University of Memphis campus. It was V-Day! We could shout out things about our nether regions and nobody would look at us funny.

That was sort of fun.

Perhaps I’m reading entirely too much into the symbolism of this, but the sign posted after we walked across Central instructed us to continue past the tower, and enter the Rose Theatre!

OK, OK, so it’s the Michael D. Rose Theater. I’m trying to get in the spirit here.

On principle, I’m all for any production or event designed as a benefit an end to violence against women. In Memphis, as anywhere else, there are dangers and abuses that are disgusting to anyone with a sense of decency. If problems like that are to be solved, people definitely need to work together.

But here’s the thing. After Bosco’s, I just didn’t have the $25 needed to pay for the show.

The first thing that popped into my head was that $25 can easily feed me for a week, and I think that the Bloody Mary in me may have quipped something to that effect.

Alas, our celebration of the vagina was going to have to be enjoyed at home, where it could be enjoyed for free. I think I said that too.

At this point it probably wouldn’t help my case to point out that $25 is the equivalent of seven Bloody Marys, right? Surely, they can be symbolic.

In self-defense, I grew up near the water. There must be some sailors in my lineage.

I fear, however, that this exchange may someday lead me to feminist hell. Many people argue that hell is the here and now, but I have a clear vision of my personal feminist hell. It would be a roomful of Fabio clones doing aerobics to Ricky Martin songs in perfect unison.

My blood curdles at the thought.

So, my girlfriends and I ended up celebrating V-Day afternoon the cheap way. Three women, a baby boy, and (gasp) a man sitting on the porch on a Sunday watching life roll by. We talked some girl stuff, talked some guy stuff, and didn’t have to go into the red to enjoy our pink sides.

Actually, it was good enough for me. Maybe even better.

V-DAY

Trying to define the difference between the “male” and “female” sides of human personality can be mighty difficult. It’s kind of like attempting to pontificate on the divergence of the “in case of rapture this vehicle will be unmanned” bumper sticker fanatics of the world from the “when the rapture comes can I have your car?” set.

In terms of specific adjectives, just like in the language structures that define their expression, the two camps emerge almost too easily. “He” words and “She” words. To some extent these assignments aren’t arbitrary, I guess. But when it comes down to it, most people that I know utilize both of these realms pretty freely nowadays. I know that I do.

So here I am, and it’s National Women’s Month. This weekend, in celebration, I tried to look around me for all the pretty pinks and blues, the little essences that make up the differences between the coexistent worlds of the ladies and the gentleman.

Sunday, at 3 o’clock, the University of Memphis staged a performance of Eve Ansler’s The Vagina Monologues. My plan was to meet up with several of my closest chick friends at Bosco’s for their Sunday Brunch, and then catch the show.

Incidentally, a mouthpiece workshop for clarinet players was going on in town at the same time.

One of the beautiful things about Bosco’s brunch is the $2.50 Bloody Mary. Veggie juice, Tabasco, pepper, and vodka delivered in one fell swoop to draw the mind away from any lingering Saturday night aftermath that might be going on in your life. They’re even good without the hangover.

We were three women banded together for the very sake of being women banded, which definitely means that we deserved the indulgence or something.

We talked up a whole plethora of girl stuff. You know, confidential information, beauty tips, the psychology of things we did to our Barbies as young children or adults. My Barbie, a very mouthy little thing, had a green Mohawk and partied like a rock star. The Ken-as-Freud doll that lived in the same trash bag as the rest of my dolls undoubtedly spent many hours ruminating on that trollop’s issues.

Eventually 2:30 rolled around and we made our slogan-chanting way to the University of Memphis campus. It was V-Day! We could shout out things about our nether regions and nobody would look at us funny.

That was sort of fun.

Perhaps I’m reading entirely too much into the symbolism of this, but the sign posted after we walked across Central instructed us to continue past the tower, and enter the Rose Theatre!

OK, OK, so it’s the Michael D. Rose Theater. I’m trying to get in the spirit here.

On principle, I’m all for any production or event designed as a benefit an end to violence against women. In Memphis, as anywhere else, there are dangers and abuses that are disgusting to anyone with a sense of decency. If problems like that are to be solved, people definitely need to work together.

But here’s the thing. After Bosco’s, I just didn’t have the $25 needed to pay for the show.

The first thing that popped into my head was that $25 can easily feed me for a week, and I think that the Bloody Mary in me may have quipped something to that effect.

Alas, our celebration of the vagina was going to have to be enjoyed at home, where it could be enjoyed for free. I think I said that too.

At this point it probably wouldn’t help my case to point out that $25 is the equivalent of seven Bloody Marys, right? Surely, they can be symbolic.

In self-defense, I grew up near the water. There must be some sailors in my lineage.

I fear, however, that this exchange may someday lead me to feminist hell. Many people argue that hell is the here and now, but I have a clear vision of my personal feminist hell. It would be a roomful of Fabio clones doing aerobics to Ricky Martin songs in perfect unison.

My blood curdles at the thought.

So, my girlfriends and I ended up celebrating V-Day afternoon the cheap way. Three women, a baby boy, and (gasp) a man sitting on the porch on a Sunday watching life roll by. We talked some girl stuff, talked some guy stuff, and didn’t have to go into the red to enjoy our pink sides.

Actually, it was good enough for me. Maybe even better.

Sometimes, on a quiet weekday night, I get the urge to do something. Oh sure, Ally McBeal might be on. The 9 o’clock news might be doing an expose on televangelist exorcisms, the effectiveness of Nads hair removal lotion, or the supposed evil plot of vicious Yankee ducks with an insidious desire to lure dogs into the water and drown them (I saw that one time, I’m serious.)

But, in spite of such possibilities for TV enlightenment, which are fun in their own special way, I occasionally want more. The real stuff. Life lessons.

Hmmm…but where to find such things? On one such night, recently, I found myself mysteriously led by my friend George to Peabody Place, downtown’s multiplex of fun and happiness. What was it, I wondered? What could be drawing us there?

And then I saw it. It’s the newest piece of evidence in support of the argument that Memphis is a sports town, and the only extreme sport with the high-octane adage of “please hit the ball gently.” Glow-in-the-dark putt-putt! Of course!

Say what you want to, but I contend that some of life’s basic lessons can me learned from a good round of miniature golf. It’s hokey, I know, and you can make fun of me all that you want to. But I’ve emerged from the enchanted holes of fluorescence a more enlightened person.

How, you ask? Well, amongst philosophical gems far too numerous to list in their entirety, there was one that shone like a Day-Glo snail crawling on a prop mushroom. I think it would help everyone immensely to adopt the revered “six stroke maximum per hole” rule. Stop giggling.

The timeless proverb revealed above is an important improvement upon the well-loved adage of “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” You see, in the tenets of the glowing mini-golf philosophy, which are helpfully painted on the wall of the course for your perusal, you get three bonus tries! Who couldn’t use that? In the physical golfing world, sadly, this has the unfortunate effect of changing my game from putt-putt to putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt. I’m sorry, I know that was bad. Moving on…

The one downfall of my experience at the mini-golf course came about two-thirds of the way though the 18 delightfully fluorescent holes. Against my will, I found myself stuck on a neon lily-pad, beneath a lighthouse, unable to get the ball in the hole and with Matthew Sweet crooning passionately in the background all the while.

It just wasn’t fair. Matthew Sweet? There should be laws about such things. The only similar musical low-point I can remember so vividly was when Bryan Adams was at Memphis in May last year, and started belting out “Cuts like A Knife” just as I stepped into a porta-potty. Actually, that was probably one of the funniest things that ever happened to me. I thank Memphis most humbly for that gorgeous absurdity.

All in all, the course is worth the $7 it costs to get in. At least once, anyway. The game is especially worth it if you’re a mediocre player like myself, who can nevertheless get it together in the finals and hit the pivotal hole-in-one that awards you a free game. Surely, I didn’t deserve the prize based on my score, but I’m cashing that sucker in. Free mini-golf makes for even better mini-golf than usual.

I credit my auspicious stroke to years of study in New Jersey’s boardwalk arcades, where ski-ball wasn’t only a way to get prize tickets, but a way of life.

Tears came to my eyes as I watched the ball fly in beautiful precision toward its goal at the mouth of an alien spacecraft, though maybe the tears were more the result of the moon and planets that glittered in course paint glory. Thinking about it objectively, however, I think I was probably still crying over the Matthew Sweet. Such depressing music for a night at the holes, but nothing can be perfect.

Now go, have fun. And always remember, in times of strife, to place your “ball six inches from all obstacles.” It works. I swear.

Want to respond? Write mailonthefly@aol.com.)

Sometimes, on a quiet weekday night, I get the urge to do something. Oh sure, Ally McBeal might be on. The 9 o’clock news might be doing an expose on televangelist exorcisms, the effectiveness of Nads hair removal lotion, or the supposed evil plot of vicious Yankee ducks with an insidious desire to lure dogs into the water and drown them (I saw that one time, I’m serious.)

But, in spite of such possibilities for TV enlightenment, which are fun in their own special way, I occasionally want more. The real stuff. Life lessons.

Hmmm…but where to find such things? On one such night, recently, I found myself mysteriously led by my friend George to Peabody Place, downtown’s multiplex of fun and happiness. What was it, I wondered? What could be drawing us there?

And then I saw it. It’s the newest piece of evidence in support of the argument that Memphis is a sports town, and the only extreme sport with the high-octane adage of “please hit the ball gently.” Glow-in-the-dark putt-putt! Of course!

Say what you want to, but I contend that some of life’s basic lessons can me learned from a good round of miniature golf. It’s hokey, I know, and you can make fun of me all that you want to. But I’ve emerged from the enchanted holes of fluorescence a more enlightened person.

How, you ask? Well, amongst philosophical gems far too numerous to list in their entirety, there was one that shone like a Day-Glo snail crawling on a prop mushroom. I think it would help everyone immensely to adopt the revered “six stroke maximum per hole” rule. Stop giggling.

The timeless proverb revealed above is an important improvement upon the well-loved adage of “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” You see, in the tenets of the glowing mini-golf philosophy, which are helpfully painted on the wall of the course for your perusal, you get three bonus tries! Who couldn’t use that? In the physical golfing world, sadly, this has the unfortunate effect of changing my game from putt-putt to putt-putt-putt-putt-putt-putt. I’m sorry, I know that was bad. Moving on…

The one downfall of my experience at the mini-golf course came about two-thirds of the way though the 18 delightfully fluorescent holes. Against my will, I found myself stuck on a neon lily-pad, beneath a lighthouse, unable to get the ball in the hole and with Matthew Sweet crooning passionately in the background all the while.

It just wasn’t fair. Matthew Sweet? There should be laws about such things. The only similar musical low-point I can remember so vividly was when Bryan Adams was at Memphis in May last year, and started belting out “Cuts like A Knife” just as I stepped into a porta-potty. Actually, that was probably one of the funniest things that ever happened to me. I thank Memphis most humbly for that gorgeous absurdity.

All in all, the course is worth the $7 it costs to get in. At least once, anyway. The game is especially worth it if you’re a mediocre player like myself, who can nevertheless get it together in the finals and hit the pivotal hole-in-one that awards you a free game. Surely, I didn’t deserve the prize based on my score, but I’m cashing that sucker in. Free mini-golf makes for even better mini-golf than usual.

I credit my auspicious stroke to years of study in New Jersey’s boardwalk arcades, where ski-ball wasn’t only a way to get prize tickets, but a way of life.

Tears came to my eyes as I watched the ball fly in beautiful precision toward its goal at the mouth of an alien spacecraft, though maybe the tears were more the result of the moon and planets that glittered in course paint glory. Thinking about it objectively, however, I think I was probably still crying over the Matthew Sweet. Such depressing music for a night at the holes, but nothing can be perfect.

Now go, have fun. And always remember, in times of strife, to place your “ball six inches from all obstacles.” It works. I swear.

Want to respond? Write mailonthefly@aol.com.)

When I was about fourteen or so, sequestered away in the confines of the Pine Barrens at the Jersey Shore, I had one of the most vivid dreams that I can remember. In the dream, I was on a houseboat floating through a super thick night on what I knew in dream language was the Mississippi.

Just barely, I could make out thick swampy trees overhead. The sky was perfect black. Around me, there was a group of people, and all of us were silently lighting tiny white votive candles and setting them afloat in the water. The light just barely illuminated the water around the boat, and there was an aura to the dream that I definitely didn’t know from my hometown.

Years later, in a bout of fiscal irresponsibility, I decided to take a trip cross-country. It was just before my last year of college, and thinking it a good idea to spend every penny I had before the year started, I swung a big loop around the good ole’ U. S. of A. Eventually, this led me to New Orleans. Ahhh, New Orleans. If you think about places in terms of vibes, the city, as you probably know, is crawling with them. Rolling into town, they washed over me in a way that only happened again when I first landed in Memphis.

While in New Orleans, I pretty much just wandered around aimlessly. My shoestring budget was painfully frayed at this point, as in well below the zero mark, but I still wanted to check out the shadows of the city, and wasn’t that what credit cards were for? Eventually, this fiscal misjudgment led me to Mary Leveau’s House of Voodoo, a smallish museum dedicated to the practice and history of the faith. For a small price, you can tour the museum, which is essentially two rooms, a space to watch films, and a library. So I went in, paid the $5, or whatever it was, and readied myself to learn something about the mystique of voodoo.

The second I walked into the museum, I got a mild shock. Literally, the first thing in the entire place, just past the entrance and to the right, was a painting of a body of water at night, filled to the brim with white candles. Spooky, eh? The caption beneath the picture explained that the lighting of white votives is a voodoo ritual used to ward off evil spirits and bad energies. Well, well, well, I thought, thrown back to the dream I had remembered from my teenage years. Synchronicity at work.

After that, I meandered through the room’s cases of voodoo dolls and various totems, and then settled in to watch the film that the museum showed as part of the tour. The theme was, of course, the origins of voodoo, and the role of Mary Leveau in spreading and defining the faith. During the course of the movie, my esoteric juices flowing, I started indulging in all sorts of pan-ultimate thoughts and conjectures.

Places like that will do that to you, and I figure why not let them? It’s much more fun that way. So, I thought, getting all excited, that I had figured it all out! Will things to be through focused energy, and you will make it happen.

When the film was through, I stepped into the small library in the back of the museum. Behind this room, was an even smaller office space, in which a very old woman sat and stared at me. I mean stared. Perhaps it’s just a ploy to make the museum seem more authentic, I thought, and tried to ignore her, even as her eyes were burning holes into my back.

To break the tension, I grabbed a random book off of the shelf and opened it to a middle page. And of course, to completely seal my already growing sense of discomfort and intrigue, my “realization” about willful energy was repeated in the first paragraph of the page at hand. AHH! Freaky.

So I guess you can say that I have a fascination with the offbeat. As I said before, Memphis is the only place other than New Orleans where I’ve sensed the energy that I remember from my childhood dream. Funny that I ended up here. There have been several strange days and nights since I’ve set up camp as a Memphian. Last October, on Friday the Thirteenth, my friends and I were drinking Chartreuse and stumbled upon the evidence of an attempted suicide (luckily unsuccessful) in their back house. It was still there in the morning, in case you were wondering.

I’ve also found myself surrounded with some of the most creative people that I have ever known, which makes me wonder if my pre-pubescent dream was some sort of sign. Things will happen in Memphis, if you let them. Pondering all of this creepy stuff, I stopped into Ebbo’s Spiritual Supply House on Madison this week. If you’re curious about alternative religion in Memphis, this would be a good place to start your inquiry. The place is filled to its smallish brim with candles, incense, and just about every herb you could possibly imagine. Filling out the store are several altars dedicated to several of the orishas, or spirits, of Santeria.

After browsing about for a bit, I selected several books about Santeria, which I remember as interesting from a history class I took in college, and a bottle of “road-opener” oil. For two dollars, I figured I’d give the oil, which is just a sweet-scented substance with two fluorescent orange things in the bottom, a shot. Besides, my allergies prevent me from wearing perfume, so natural oils are the only scents I can wear.

When I was paying for all of this, the guy behind the counter was pretty knowledgeable, and happy to talk to me about what he knew about Santeria. He explained the alters in the store, and their associated deities. He also warned that if one decides to set up such altars at home, they must be careful not to select opposing deities, as that creates bad luck and energy.

While I take all of this somewhat in stride, I do find it fascinating to explore. Surely, many of the formative identities of Memphis, explored this as well, as evidenced by the information on hoodoo and the blues. My philosophy is that if it’s there, why not learn about it. So maybe tonight I’ll sit home, light a candle, listen to the Exuma tracks I downloaded off the Internet, and focus on opening my roads. I’ll let you know where it takes me.

What possessed me to try to wait tables in Memphis, IÕm not really sure. I had never been a waitress before, mostly due to a vow I had made to myself to avoid that kind of employment treachery at all cost.

When I moved here, though, the cost would have been starving to death for lack of a paycheck, so the sacred promise to self sort of went out the window. It was spring. I was hungry. I ended up slinging ribs on Beale through all of Memphis in May. It was quite an introduction to both the field and the city.

I sort of thought that the job would be easy. Take order, carry food, get fat tip, go home and roll around in a pile of money. This, of course, wasnÕt the case at all. Through a friend, I ended up working at the Blues City CafŽ. Blues City is ÒfamousÓ for its ribs and steaks, prepared by Chef Bonnie Mack and an entourage of cooks who make shocking amounts of food each day, all in an open kitchen in full view of the restaurantÕs patrons. This all works out fine and well if you are capable of taking orders and giving them to the kitchen in a way that doesnÕt unleash the fury of the chefs. I, of course, wasnÕt capable of achieving this feat, and managed to start culinary world wars in full view of all of my tables on a weekly basis. Why the kitchen would get upset at my delivering 5 tables worth of tickets at once I didnÕt understand at the time.

From the vantage point of a job on Beale Street, you really get a feel for the amazing number and variety of people that visit Memphis every year. Though I despised, no, abhorred working a restaurant job, I loved watching all of the visitors come and go. Happy drunkards, euphoric blues aficionados. I also got the chance to observe some quirks and nuances about the city that I otherwise would have never known. Take the ÒgypsyÓ population, for instance. Until I got an opportunity to watch the teen-aged gypsy girls saunter into the restaurant, I didnÕt even know that they were here. These girls were something to look at. Bright, bright make-up, brighter clothes, and the ability to tear apart a restaurant bathroom and then disappear in about 5 minutes flat.

I also got to meet my least favorite psychic of all time. This marvel of the mysterious, who gave palm readings in front of Tater RedÕs at the time, would come into the restaurant just about daily, making a dramatic show of his supposed abilities. When I had a reading done, he told me that I was too selfish to enjoy children unless they belonged to somebody else. You know, he might have been right, in actuality, but that doesnÕt seem like good business sense to me. If you want my $10, tell me that there are good things coming and that IÕll spend the rest of eternity with my true love on a bed of roses spread across the back of a horse that is forever riding off into the sunset. DonÕt tell me that your brother is a vampire in New Orleans and that IÕm a horrible person. I guess heÕs moved on to spread his knowledge elsewhere, though, as I havenÕt seen him around town in a while.

While working at the restaurant, I also got to know some interesting things about the people that live and work in the city. One of my managers, for example, was a former body guard for none other than JerseyÕs finest son, Jon Bon Jovi. The irony of this disturbing connection to my childhood was not lost on me. Another manager was a former road manager for Jerry Lee Lewis. It seems that everybody here, in one way or another, has had a hand in the music business. This creates an aura, of sorts, that is extremely distinct and entirely alluring.

Although Beale Street is, at best, a thin recreation of a time whose extant shadows might be better observed in less neon parts of the city, I think it is a good starting point if you want to get a picture of the city. If nothing else, sit and watch the pedestrian traffic, which is complete entertainment, in and of itself. Sure, Beale is essentially a living post-card that has little to do with the authentic experience of Memphis. As an inexperienced and, letÕs be honest, terrible waitress, it was akin to hell on earth. Nevertheless, if you believe that history can be felt via residual energies from the past, which I most certainly do, then you definitely need to feel out Beale when you come to the city.

I’m guessing that by now many of you have heard about the bad news brewing for the Prince of Darkness. It seems that the next time old Beelzebub visits his travel agent to book a trip for a little R & R, he’ll have to avoid Florida’s gulf coast–at least for now. Satan has been officially banned from the fishing village of Inglis, a speck on the map almost directly across Florida’s pan from Daytona Beach.

Thrown into a fervor after seeing one to many of those pesky Goth kids milling about in white make-up, mayor Carolyn Risher decided to take action and drew up a proclamation on city stationary warning The Evil One to back off. The warnings were then posted at the four corners of town, which is pretty logical since we all know that Sir Darkness travels only on major highways. Ahem…

But it gets better. Aside from being a zealot and a bigwig in town politics, it turns out that Risher and her righteous villagers are also mighty big Elvis fans. As an aside, don’t you think Risher and her Righteous Villagers has the potential to be a great name for a gospel group? No, maybe it’s just me.

Anyhow, in 1996, the town approved the renaming of Inglis’ portion of Levy County Road 40 to the “Follow That Dream” parkway, commemorating the like-named film Elvis shot there in the Sixties. Risher claims that the film changed her life, and stood by the road’s name change even when nearby Yankeetown refused to follow suit.

Recently, the heavenly mayor went ahead and hung her anti-devil proclamation on the mayoral office wall, right near three adorable little heart-shaped frames full of Elvis. So the woman stands by her, um, beliefs, as we can see. (You know, if I were making this up I’d be awfully proud of myself.) Of course, any true fan of the devil will handily point out that

he re-arrangement of the letters in Elvis’ name spell out “E-V-I-L S.,” which is, obviously, the name on the back of the unholy one’s baseball jersey in the seven-levels-of-hell softball tournament. But you know what they say about ignorance.

So here’s a quote from Risher’s ode to all that is not evil, which I know you were dying to read:

“As blood-bought children of God, we exercise our authority over the devil in Jesus’ name. By that authority, and through His Blessed Name, we command all satanic and demonic forces to cease their activities and depart the town of Inglis.” That’s enough for me, so I’ll stop there. But I think something should be said about this before we move on toward other things.

When “Operation Enduring Freedom” started getting under way, I found myself wary about one particular aspect of the social dialogue regarding September 11th and all that has followed. While elected officials have been sturdy in their insistence that we are not fighting a religious war, the word “evil” has been kicked about from day one like a flaming potato.

I don’t know what your interpretation may be, but when I hear the word “evil,” I find some strong religious connotations. A response like Risher’s, particularly significant in that it concerns a public office, highlights the danger of that rhetoric. Thankfully, the ACLU seems to agree, planning to “go to bat for Satan” in this wild aberration from the separation of church and state. Ok, Ok, sermon complete.

Maybe it was with all of this in mind that I ended up at the gospel brunch at Elvis Presley’s Memphis on Beale this past Sunday. I’m not really sure what possessed me to go to this particular affair, although it was kind of interesting in a couple of ways.

The main aspect of the gospel brunch that I found to be intriguing is the very fact that in this room, full of Elvis memorabilia, people sit at a fully stocked bar and listen to songs about Jesus for about 3 hours of every week. Cigarettes lit and smoke-ring halos ascending, a small crowd digs the gospel vibe that is rocked out Sunday morning style on stage.

The gospel brunch isn’t a bad bet if you have any Sunday AM guilt complex symptoms. You see, when you go to the gospel brunch, you don’t have to choose between that Bloody Mary and the expression of your faith. You’ve got vodka, V8, gospel, and cigarettes all in one place. Plus, they have banana pudding

here. Yum. I like to eat banana pudding for

breakfast. Banana pudding is a whole lot of fun.

Oh sure, the place is full of tourists, tired people, and the pantsuits of Elvis. Not to mention the illuminated bar that was somehow left out of view in the traditional rendering of the Last Supper. But if I can go back to the RisheAdd Color and Graphics r proclamation for a second, I think you’ll find

something significant at this Beale Street venue. People who are willing to let differences co-exist. If you’ve got a hangover, and somehow (gasp) you still want to worship, then go for it.

If you want a cigarette, and want to sing, too, then feel free. Silly little notes posted up on the walls aren’t what Faith is about. Faith is about letting yourself enjoy the world around you, and through that enjoyment, sought for its own sake, you get to make the world a more positive place.