Its always Day 1, because when I’m with her time stands still. (Pause while all the ladies reading this swoon and glare at their husbands)…

…The road used to be quiet solitude occasionally interupted by edge-of-the-seat,  life-and-death adventures that the hero survived using nothing more than his wits and whatever he had packed in his EM-50 Rambler, driving from place to place as determined by the fates and chance while “Carry On My Wayward Son” played on a continuous loop to serve as a theme song for the travels.

Now I drive from fabric store to fabric store while my wife Trixie talks non-stop about curtains for “the van.”

Ok, it’s not really that bad but she has threatened several time to give the Rambler a good cleaning before she leaves. I don’t understand girls.

On the drive to Graceland yesterday we had a disagreement in discussion form. I posited that the Home of Elvis would be overrun with a throng of sorry-ass, no-good bastards whose only purpose for being there was to get in my way. She countered that we “would be fine”.

I continued to gripe and grumble about the expected teeming mass of humanity who have run out of ideas for entertaining out-of-town guests during this extended holiday.

Graceland is laid out so that you can’t see how crowded it is until after you have paid $10 to park. Shrewd.

It was a very long walk from the parking lot to the ticket booth. My feet were actually starting to ache. Fortunately,  the good people of Graceland had taken that into consideration and provided instant relief… (pic related)

…tour packages priced so high that your whole body instantly goes numb.

As expected,  I was right.  All these assholes were doing some stupid touristy crap, preventing me from doing it.  Unimaginative dicks.

“Told ya” I said to Trixie.

“Shush. We’re fine.” She said without looking at me as she snapped pictures of blue Xmas trees.”

Eventually she agreed that it would be wiser for us to come back after these dorks had left town and a whole new set of dorks emerged to take their place.

We walked over to the Rock & Roll Cafe and had lunch. We agreed to eat lightly so we would be hungry for authentic Memphis BBQ on Beale St. We split the fried peanut butter and banana sammich and a hamburger. She would pretend to take bites and sneak food over to my side of the plate. Whatevs.

We discussed what to do next.

“Beale St!” She fairly shrieked.

I said that Beale would be overrun with a throng of sorry-ass, no-good bastards whose only purpose was to get in my way.

She countered that we “would be fine.”

I grumbled.

She asked, “Ok, well, what would you do if I wasn’t here? Where would be your destination?”

Great question!

I pulled up a few apps on my phone: Roadside America,  Field Trip and (my favorite) AtlasObscura.com.

I flipped through some nearby stuff and finally declared, “About 40 miles northwest, in Arkansas, there is an old Greyhound Bus Terminal that was built in the 30s. It cost a fortune at the time and is done in Art Deco.  I would go there!”

She took my phone and scrolled through it. And finally said, “Ok, let’s compromise. Let’s go to Arkansas to the GREYHOUND track, drink 30 oz of whiskey out on the DECK, served by a bartender named ART. What say?”

And,  so we did.

While there she said,

“I haven’t really been able to drink since you left because you haven’t been there to watch out for me. Can I?”

Having been there before, I replied, “Uh oh.”

We watches the greyhounds race.  Or, as she put it, “The doggies.” And her assessment was, “They all tried sooo hard! I wanted them all to win!”

“I’m not sure how that would work.” I said.

“Oh shush.” Was all I got as a reply.

Eventually, I was able to drag her out of there and back to the room. She kept claiming I was oppressing her. Stifling her fun and vacation. When I nudged her in the direction of the exit she went all “Dog Day Afternoon” on me and started chanting, “TUNICA! TUNICA! (The name of that casino town in Mississippi that we went to yesterday). She demanded I take her there.

I got her back to the room and told her it was “pajama night” at Tunica and that she better get changed. She muttered, “This better not be a trick.”  Even as I snapped this picture…

I love the road, but it is nice to have a bit of normalcy and routine back in my life.