Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 3

On the third day, Three Jews and a Mexican went to their first Waffle House -- a chain of eating establishments so revered by southerners, that to skip it would have been the yankee version of firing cannons at Fort Sumter.

The breakfast was tremendous, and the differences between the North and South were perfectly represented in the following conversation:

Moldman: Would it be possible to get an egg-white omelet?
Waitress: Honey, I don't even know what that is.

Nashville is a lovely town. We visited the Country Music Hall of Fame, where we gawked in fascination at a Playboy in braille in the Ray Charles collection. No joke.

Dustin completed his aborted phone interview and bombed it, thanks in part to the country music blaring from each and every store as we walked along the Nashville roads. A bar called Tootsie's, which we generously called "Nashville's Dunbar's," was full at 1:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. And, of course, who can ever forget the guy with the bandanna tan.

That afternoon, we arrived in Memphis, and parlayed our press credentials into press passes for the Memphis Redbirds game, and delighted, once again in a free dinner buffet. Moldman and Alan successfully lobbied the organist to play, in the manner common to Northerners, "Sweet Caroline." Nobody recognized the song. Then they got the organist to play "Hava Nagila," which even less people recognized.

After getting our fill of the press box, we decided to go down into the stands right behind the home dugout for the last few innings of the game, to chronicle "the authentic fan experience." It was there that we met Melissa, a very drunk 45-year old woman whose husband unwisely abandoned her for a good hour.

Melissa spent the better part of an hour threatening to flash us and propositioning Alan in particular, who she called "the kinky one in the green shirt." We believe that at one point she did flash us, although we all missed it, probably on purpose. She did, however, show us a picture of her sister, who was "holding some very big fish." The picture did indeed show a smiling and buxom young woman holding a pair of enormous trout. She was also very topless.

Her husband finally came back to get her and take her back home, and she complied, but not without giving us a parting flash. We turned our attention back to the game, where we learned, as has been chronicled, that you can't say "sucks" in the south, even if that guy really effing sucks.

After the game, we went up to a stage where the Redbirds cheerleaders were performing. The crowd was composed entirely of children, and, although some will argue there's no difference, us. After taking a picture with them, we asked them where they were going that night. They told us about this really fun bar called The Flying Saucer, and that they would probably stop by. Awesome.


Of course, they never stopped by. Although the bar was nice enough, we quickly left and headed for Beale Street, which was unfortunately dead on a Tuesday night. We got some beers and -- you have to love the lack of open container laws -- walked down the street, looking at the street magicians. To cap off the night, we went to BB King's bar, where a blues band was playing some truly kick-ass music.

At that point, we went back to the hotel. The next day would include Graceland, a dog track, the best ribs ever, and Moldman getting stuck on the roof. We would need some sleep.