Months after their high-profile condemnation of athlete Michael Phelps for leaked pictures of him ripping a bong hit, the International Olympic Committee has released the design of the 2010 Winter Olympic torch.  Thousands of athletes will carry this giant, majestic, long-burning joint across the world, looking like a scene from Cheech and Chong IX, to its final destination in Vancouver, Canada.  Oh wait, now it makes sense.  Vancouver, known for their lax attitude toward the enforcement of marijuana laws, is an enclave for freedom-seeking potheads everywhere.

It really makes me happy that a community who persecuted the most decorated Olympic athlete in history for smoking weed is about to face the cold reality that every single major news outlet in the world who covers the carrying of this torch are going to publish photos and videos of this spliff in the hands of athletes and notables from around the world.  HA!

Phelps smoked some weed.  Big fucking deal.  It’s not like it could have “enhanced” his performance in any way that would have resulted in an unfair advantage.  If anything, the sheer freedom of swimming while high would have been a distraction.  Here is a kid who spent every free moment of his teen years in a pool, training.  Get off his back!

So suck it, IOC.  I can’t wait to watch some 18 year old gymnast running into the stadium brandishing that flaming doobie to light the Olympic flame.  I doubt there will be as many protesters lining the path of the torch as in Beijing.  Especially once the torch gets to Vancouver.  LIGHT EM UP!

One of the best things about living in New York City is one’s occasional oppurtunity for escape while within the city limits.  After Tuesday’s trip, I can highly recommend Brooklyn Botanical as one of these oases and once a week you can enjoy them gratis!

The endless cheesy photo ops for you and your friends…

…the bonsai…

…the dead things…

The park is just beautifully well-kept, and can transport you out of the city surroundings.  If it’s your first time, you can feel like an explorer, uncovering places you never thought possible to exist in downtown Brooklyn; if you’ve been there before bring a book and curl up in a familiar, green corner to relax.  Bottom line, it’s free!  Enjoy the summer!

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!!

What happens when good girls get no coffee...

More to come on my most recent adventure as soon as I feel inspired.

Check out this article… I think this should spark a national movement toward similar legislation. Punishing people for being annoying is the patriotic thing to do. Who would you narc out for being annoying? I want to formally nominate people who aggressively sing along with their iPod on public transportation. Citizen’s arrest!

http://www.clickondetroit.com/news/18318880/detail.html#SLANTLY_commentformheight::291/