Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 4

Much to Dustin's chagrin, today was the first day we did not have to drive anywhere. That is, today we stayed in Memphis, with no destination in mind. All we had to do was explore the city and all it had to offer. Tomorrow we would drive on to New Orleans. Today, we chilled.

Kind of. First we had to find breakfast. We were looking for an authentic Southern breakfast and got more than we bargained for. Promptly, we became lost and wandered into West Memphis, in the wonderful state of Arkansas. It was much like you would imagine. A text to my good friend Mike, who hails from Memphis, confirmed it. When I asked him what to do in West Memphis, he texted back: "Do not make eye contact. Ever." Noted.

Still, we were hungry, and fear of death never stops a hungry man. We drove past a gas station which offered "fried chicken." We slowed down and decided not to stop, but not before a local saw us and muttered, "what the f-ck?" We kept driving, and finding nothing, drive back to the gas station. Again, the local greeted us with yet another, "what the f-ck?" After looking at the fried chicken and realizing it consisted mostly of fried gizzards, we decided to bite the bullet and eat at a Perkins. The food was bad. Really awful. The three Jews took sick, while the Mexican was fine. Milk was a bad choice, I suppose.

Across the highway from the Perkin's we saw an establishment called Southland Park Gaming and Racing, advertising its world famous dog track. With opportunities for betting on greyhounds in the great state of Arkansas being few and far between, we decided to capitalize on this and went in. We have chronicled this more comprehensively elsewhere. Shout out to Dennis Scott of Coldwater, Mississippi.

Suffice it to say, our two dollar bet on a mangy dog named "DrinkininPhoenix" netted us a cool $24.80. We collected from our 300 lb. bookie, a truly terrifying man six-and-a-half feet in height who had somehow convinced himself we were minor league baseball players in town to play the Redbirds come here to rob him. Flush with success, we headed back to Memphis.

The next stop was Graceland. Given the surprisingly expensive $30 admission tickets -- it is, after all, just a house -- our blogging for the newspaper story served us well. The PR guy was a little dubious, but became distracted when Moldman, still suffering the Perkins food, spent 20 minutes in his office bathroom. Concerned about our friend, he stopped questioning us and gave us our press passes and in we went.

Graceland is a very weird home, apropos, I guess, of its very weird owner. It's not as weird as I imagine Neverland is, but still. Every room has a different them, from the underground TV room that looks like an underwater lair/60s submarine to the jungle room and its three-inch tall green shag carpet. If you asked a kid -- and a really weird one, at that -- to design a house, this would be what it looked like.



After quick visits to Sun Records and the Civil Rights Museum, we went back downtown for dinner. The restaurant was the Rendezvous, and its dry-rub ribs remain, to this day, the best damn ribs ever eaten by man. Seriously, they were spectacular, like what God must have when he's eating ribs with Harry Caray.

While we waited for a table, we went to the bar, and witnessed the most confounding sight ever seen at a bar. Instead of a melee where people fought each other to get the bartender's attention, everyone had formed a nice, orderly line and were served one-by-one. Sounds nice, but we were all confused and frightened, and it still seemed to take more time than by the time-tested elbow-your-neighbors strategy.

We wandered around downtown for the rest of the evening, and decided ultimately to go for a swim. Our hotel didn't have a pool, however, so we found another one and just walked in like we knew what we were doing, just like we do with most things. We took a quick dip. Moldman somehow managed to get pushed in the pool three times.

After Alan injured himself swimming, we though that was enough and went out drinking. At the historic Peabody Hotel, Moldman somehow managed to get himself stuck on the roof. We have no idea how he got himself in that position, but after letting him sweat it out for about ten minutes, we finally let him back in.

We finished the night at a piano bar, where dueling piano players drunkenly traded the verses off Johnny Cash songs, "The Devil Went Down to Georgia, and "Don't Stop Believin'," a song sure to follow every Cornellian for eternity, no matter how far away from home they actually are.