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I know that 300 is so two years ago but I just love this Robot Chicken parody.
more about "Outdated, but hilarious….", posted with vodpod
Ooooh, a moderately sized average house in crap Memphis...
Jamey fell asleep soon after plugging the address for Graceland into the GPS. After taking the sunrise shift, she was rightly tired; we had left NYC at four the previous afternoon and after driving straight through the night, were on pace to pass through Memphis around 10 AM. We devised a seemingly straightforward plan to stop by Graceland, grab some BBQ, and screw. I settled into the rhythm that overtakes you on long road hauls and let the GPS guide me toward that promised land where the King once lived.
It’s funny how Graceland has ended up among the iconic places to pilgrimage in the US, the places that come to mind when you think of classic cross-country road trips. Mt. Rushmore, the Eternal Flame, Old Faithful, the Alamo, the western hemisphere’s biggest cross:
The largest cross in the Western Hemisphere
Now I had heard rumors from friends on the general disappointment that accompanies a trip to Graceland, but I was curious and decided to keep my vocal misgivings to a minimum. The first warning bells went off in my head as the dashboard genii started to veer us in a direction that my gut told me was away from downtown Memphis. I became sure of this when we flew past the exit for downtown Memphis. I finally woke up Jamey for assistance after about ten minutes of driving in the wrong direction, but after a quick map check, we confirmed we were indeed heading toward Graceland.
Now Jamey, my groggy and bedheaded compatriot, joined me in conciousness to take in the lovely surroundings of Elvis’ former home. As we got off the highway, I pointed out the first hooker, trolling underneath the overpass. Giggling, we got honked at by a john whose access to the hooker we were blocking so rudely with our car. Turning onto Elvis Presley Blvd., I was reminded of that neighborhood in every small city where the discount movie theater is… You know, the one that isn’t renovated and shows movies that came out six months ago at a discount price AND they still have matinees?? Where it’s easy to find a dollar store or an abandoned Caldor department store or a Taco Bell, if you are so inclined? It’s a part of the city that at some point in the 60s or 70s was nice and new, but has fell victim to disrepair and now emotes that bleak feeling of a boardwalk in the winter. We rolled past a KFC, a couple of pawn shops, and an Auto Zone before suddenly flying by Graceland and the themed Econo-Lodge that is directly across the street.
There were only a few other people lurking outside the gates as we pulled into the queue that flanks the stonewall surrounding Graceland. As we rolled our road-weary souls out of the car to get a peek, we noticed that the stone wall was absolutely covered with Elvis-related fan graffiti:
Who doesn't?
Now, of course we had to add our own two cents.
I don’t know if it’s fair for me to really “review” Graceland; after being nearly killed by one of the tour buses shuttling Econo-Lodge guests across the street and up the winding driveway, we decided not to go in. Instead we allowed ourselves a few wistful glances up the winding drive. I thought about fat Elvis sitting on the toilet reading the National Enquirer. I don’t know what Jamey thought about, probably coffee. After a few brief photo ops (check!), we hit the old dusty, hard.
So, although I do enjoy the occasional Elvis, I can’t claim to really “get” what that whole thing was about. How powerful was this man that sixty years after he became a star people would stay in a crappy neighborhood on the outskirts of Memphis to visit his home? I guess it’s our old friend nostalgia, constantly tugging at our shirttails and inviting us to look back; inspiring a yearning for the way things were and a romantic appreciation of history.
I’m looking forward to the future, to a time when the rundown burg that surrounds Graceland fades in my memory and my travels by chance take me by there again. By then it’ll have become a part of my personal mythology and history and talk story. I’ll be able to stand in front of that house and remember what it felt like to be young and free and flying across the country in a car with Jamey, on a quest for new life (and coffee).
The only coffee shop in Oklahoma, closed on Sunday. Because, you know, no one wants a fucking coffee on Sundays. (Yes, that's our sad sad reflection in the window.)
This is the Part I blog Jamey wrote about our experiences driving across the US last week. I’ll continue to sort through a multitude of hilarious photos and work on writing a follow-up. Enjoy!!
Kate and I have been on this constant quest for a good cup of coffee. So much of this trip is about looking for something and just not knowing how. We searched truck stops and exit ramp locales, we experimented with gas station dispensers. Through highways and byways there was a puzzling lack of supply for our demand. Apart from the deficiency of recognizable chain store coffee shops, the rest stop java (our only choice at this point) was appallingly bad. Now I truly believe that coffee is the gift of gods and worthy of episodic focus and introspection. It’s a cherished hot beverage that provides the fuel that it takes to be me. So you can understand that at hour 12 of straight driving the lack of brew had me at slightly anxious and in the throes of classic addiction,
“Dude isn’t weird how there are no D&D’s?” Not even a Crispy Crème and this is Crispy Crème country. Hour by hour and the situation was becoming dire. By hour 20 I was irrationally emotional.
“Does no one in middle America drink coffee??? “
The pinnacle of my breakdown was when somewhere in Kentucky we passed a billboard boasting of the best brew in the world. In the world? Really? Score!! But I suspiciously eyed the dark liquid as Kate pulled a knob marked creamer and watched horrified as a dusty powder fell out. The remaining coffee had turned to an unnatural gray concoction with a stinging smell and tar-like taste. She endured it with a little flinching but I was crestfallen. I don’t know what these people in the Midwest call it, but back home in CT we refer to this affliction as “ass coffee” for the similarity in taste and texture of liquid diarrhea. The contrast between the misguided arrogant highway sign and the reality could not be harsher. I surrender!
But the truth is sometimes you just can’t circumvent shittiness. Even with the best laid intentions, plans fall short, you fall prey to traps, and you just have to roll with it. The car is already in motion and not going to stop for the faint of heart. Wait. Are we talking about my life or a god damn cup of coffee? Does it matter? I look through the windshield at the awe inspiring scenery and my issues seem so … small. Failed love, failed career, its as important as a failed drip and ill prepared grind. Add in the taste of escape to my stimulus addiction and you have a girl searching for fulfillment in all the wrong places. There is no caffeinated paradise, but maybe the hunt for utopia alone is enough. Its hope at least.
We just blew out of Oklahoma City and the sky is so blue, its huge against the unending open road, energizing enough to keep pushing forward, and wait, hey dude slow down, is that a Starbucks I see twinkling on the horizon…
What happens when good girls get no coffee...
More to come on my most recent adventure as soon as I feel inspired.
