M E M P H I S

Memphis is far away from Myrtle Beach. Even if you left the beach at, say, 11 in the AM and drive straight to the Mississippi, you still might not be there until 11 that night, as we did. This time around we are in hotel owned by a group of Indians from Hyderabad, they even have an untouchable who cleans all the rooms and toilets.
But more importantly, Memphis is no where near Myrtle Beach. I enjoyed myself in South Carolina, a lot. I had some good somosas, had a great time with my boys, and it really made me realize that having Amanda gone is not the end of the world. I miss her everyday and I wish I could call her all the time, or drive to her house late at night after it’s time to go home, but I can’t.
However. Having that said, my experience at the Freaky Tiki was just another one of those nights that I’ve had too many of in my life. Another public service to remind me that I’m not rich enough, not cool enough, not buff enough, not homophobic enough.
Enter Beale Street in Memphis.
From the window of a full bar called the flying saucer, I look in. Here I am wearing the same shirt and everything that caused me touble in MB. I stood there on the sidewalk prepared for a repeat. I can already feel the scorn of the drunk guys and imagine the girls saying “oh god, I hope he doesn’t ask me to dance,” as I’m on my way to the bathroom. In the open air bar, they’ve raised the garage door windows so that the counter around the outside opens up onto the street. On stage The Dempseys play a mean show.
Through the crowd the upright bassplayer looks outside onto the street and smiles, wider. He motions to Brad, the guitar player, who skips a beat to send us an ecstatic wave and motion us in.
He already told the guy at the door that his friends from Connecticut would be coming in that night and that they might be underage, but not to charge us the cover.
The ID’s become a problem, which we abate by standing outside for a while, and hopping the bar later.
Did I mention that Myrtle Beach is far from Memphis.