Bourbon is best in New York City

Yes...I made it....

I'm drinking Blanton's Bourbon with Mr. Green Jello Pants and trying to figure out what the fuck I'm doing in New York City.

I miss you all.

PS - I need a shave in the most eager of fashions.

107 miles to go....

Exceptional time in Philly with Mr. Ben Maher.

I arrived on Friday afternoon. Could not for the life of me find a parking space in downtown Philly so I headed over to Geno's Steaks for their world-famous Philly Cheesesteaks. The wind was sharp and my hunger was dangerous. After consumption, I determined that one of Geno's concoctions is similar to its hometown - simple, little flare, and lots of character. My days of tourism were burned to a crisp in DC so I decide to find refuge in my home away from home - a movie theater.

I caught a screening of the Bruce Willis film - 16 Blocks. To my satisfying surprise, the film was an entertaining piece of a gritty genre splice of an early 80s cop dramas with a 50s pulp Western. Willis looks extremely haggard and Mos Def is solid. Afterwards, I headed back to downtown Philly to find a local happy hour and check out Ben's new comedy club - Helium.

Helium Comedy Club is a beautiful addition to the Philadelphia comedy scene. The club boasts two lovely lounges and the showroom is clean with perfect site lines to the stage, a crisp sound system, subtle lighting, and bar that makes a mean Manhattan. I caught Dan Naturman and his performance reminded me why the comedy club business is the best job out there.

Afterwards, we headed back to Ben's place and watch a collection of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog's most amazing feats of lunacy.

Saturday was a low low low key day. Slept in until noon (aahhhaahhhh) and walked around downtown for the better part of the day. Waited in line for thiry minutes for Ben's suggestion - Jim's Steaks. By far, the best cheesesteak I ever had in the world.

One of Saturday's highlights was the drive out to Bryn Mawr Film Institute for a midnight screening of the John Hughes classic - Breakfast Club. On the big screen, the film resonates with such honesty prose of the confusing lives of teenages coupled with subtle acts of innocence and passion in the repressed age of Reagan. The print was clean and solid and beautiful to watch.

I've off to New York in one hour. 107 miles to go and I'm all done.

Wow.

Insert Something Witty About DC - Day 5

DC - Done - You best be ready Philadelphia.

What a lovely day. Slept in until 1130 hours. A complete and interrupted 10 hours of hell in a zero degree bag. No more issues with John the Heir Apparent of the Hilltop Hostel. Decided to stick it out one more day in DC - see the monuments and maybe the capitol.

I grabbed up a damn good Philly Cheesesteak from a local eatery and consumed it in fast fashion with a lovely view of the Washington Monument. I walked up to the Washington Monument and it is HUGE. Massive. Next stop, the WWII Memorial. A sober time. The monument captures all of the passion and conviction of four hard years fought and the sacrifices delivered with compromises. The quotes from Truman, Marshall, MacArthur, and FDR are impressive and moving. Next stop, the Korean War Memorial. An unsettling collection of figures marching up a hill - swathed in the usual garb of ponchos and weary faces from exposure to the unrelentess Korean winter. The Lincoln Memorial is grandous with purpose of prose. Washington may be our most famous president but Lincoln was the country's critical facet for continual unity and prosperity in the face of corruption and condemnation.

The next spot - the Vietnam Memorial - was a difficult time.

I've study the Vietnam Conflict for most of my thirty years. I remember seeing Oliver Stone's celluloid masterpiece "Platoon" in 1986 with a Vietnam veteran. I'll never forget the silence that followed us for hours and Hugo's pained look of rememberance and pain reverberating throughout his face and body. The Memorial reminds me of a black scar seared across the well manicured lawns of the Federal Mall. No heroic fingers trudging up the hill to certain death. No noble quotes from famous leaders. Only a series of black tiles inscribed with the names of the dead from a confusing and harrowing chapter in American history. 20 years of struggle, strife, and sacrifice brought to vivid illustration by a collection of soul-numbing black tiles staggering out of the ground seeking vengenance for lost innocence and youth.

With my heart heavy, I decided to find a happy hour with a decent beer collection for a bit of reflection. In these troubling times of late, the Vietnam Memorial only reminds me of how far off we have steered from the paths laid in assumed concrete by the words and actions of Lincoln and FDR.

And - one last note - poetry has finally been lost in definition of current US military actions. The imposing titles of Operation: Overlord (D-Day) and Operation: Market-Garden (the failed invasion of the Netherlands during WWII) has been replaced by cookie-cutter titles including Operation: Desert Storm and my personal favorite - Operation: Iraqi Freedom. Can't we drum up some solid poets to sex up our current military actions. Maybe our next military fiasco should carry the banner of

Operation: Wolverine! And for our mascot - Patrick Swayze (the "Roadhouse" version, not the "Dirty Dancing version"!)

Make it so...number 1.

Hitting DC's Wall of Exhaustion - Day 4

Wednesday, March 1 - 06

By Day 22, I'm a mean SOB.

DC is 85% done. Recap: Yesterday, I awoke earlier and pushed forward out of the hostel wearing the same clothes from the day before and a quick brush of the teeth. I didn't want to contend with the three showers with fifty occupants issue that has reared its ugly head in the past couple of days. If you can't tell, I'm a bit cracked with the whole hostel thing by now.

I picked up a cup of coffee at a local joint and headed out to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Excellent and breathtaking multi-floored exhbit on the Holocaust. On par with the Holocaust Exhibit I caught in London a couple of years back at the Imperial War Museum. Solid construct of Germany's social and economic pre-war years and Hitler's rise to power in the early 30s. Harrowing images and artifacts from across Eastern Europe employed to segregate the Jewsish populations - including a gate from one of the Polish ghettos and pieces of a stained glass synagogue burned to the ground. The final floor is littered with unsettling elements - prison bunkbeds from Auschwitz, an authentic boxcar that you walk through (tough), and a door from one of Auschwitz's ovens. Creepy.

One thing that really upset me was that I saw a ton of schoolchildren running around with any sense of the the exact nature of the museum. As I stood and looked at the piles and piles of shoes deposited by the Jews upon entrance to the concentration camps, a boy of over around ten asked me. "Why are there so many shoes in this room?" I told him a quick story highlighting key points of the exhibit and his response was - "Well, they stink".

Where are the teachers educating these children on this tour? Do we have no allegiance to the past in these days of American fascism?

I left the museum and headed out to the National Art Gallery. The West Wing is chock full of a Art History major's wet dream. Wonderful time in just wandering around and looking at an impressive amount of masterpieces. The East Wing is more my cup of tea. The Dada exhibit is intense and life-affirming. The lower level is full of works by Mark Rothko. I sat in front of three Rothko panes for close to thirty minutes listening to Frank Sinatra's "Only the Lonely" and just let my...mind...wander...

I left the museum and had a decent dinner at DC's famous Luigi's. I dropped into a second coffee shop and decided it was a perfect time for a movie. The new Russian film "Nightwatch" was playing at the E Street Cinemas and I just made the screening. Awesome on the big screen.

Instead of heading back to the hostel, I wandered over to another coffee shop and cruised the 'net for around two hours. I returned to the hostel and did laundry - a feat I am not proud of since it was in Austin weeks ago that my clothes last felt the cool breeze of an automatic washing machine. Perhaps that was a bit of too much information.

Around 2AM, I discovered a wonderful fact during a late night conversation with one of the cats that runs the hostel.
One of my dorm buddies - a guy named John who looks like he's pushing fifty - has served as the hostel's curmudgeon in the past week. He apparently broke a door off its hinges the other night while Spring Break groupies were in the midst of too bunch vodka and cranberry concoctions at midnight. So, this cat has been staying at the hostel for close to a year straight. Another cat in the building has been there for four years.

Wow...it's not a hostel...it's a flophouse. I wonder if my new monkey buddy could put me up for a night.

American History Lessons - Day 3

After a full day of museum-hunting, I'm now sitting at The Big Hunt in Dupont Circle enjoying the house brew entitled "Bad Ass Amber". For only $2.50, it's a wise choice after hitting two Smithsonian museums and the National Archives during my daily romp through the nation's history.

I slept in this morning after deciding that a couple more hours of attempted slumber would do me some good. By 1000 hours, I was the lone occupant on the dorm room and decided the greet the world and get my learn on! I showered, wolfed down a bowl of breakfast, and hit the streets. First stop, The National Museum of American History.

A decent and bizarre collection of American history and culture. Highlights - the Presidential collection of odds and ends and the Information Age exhibit with the stand-alone PacMan game and the highlight of the mysterious PDA nobody talks about in general public - Apple's Newton. I trudged over to The National Museum of Natural History and spent about thirty minutes wandering around. I stopped for a cup of java and then it dawned on me - I'm not that into the science fair around me. The dinosaur remains were impressive, the Hope Diamond was big, and I was bored in about 15 minutes into the whole deal. The "Mammal" room held a collection of stuffed animals - the same type I had seen alive about 24 hours ago. Ok..and where is the thrill?

After the NMNH, I skipped (not literally) over the National Archives to check the founding father's paperwork. The building of the National Archives is large and in charge. Imagine Patrick Ewing playing b-ball with the munchkins of OZ, I felt that small in its grand entrance.

I dropped around the side of the building and went through the obligatory security checkpoints. Question, why are all security guards in the DC area black? I couldn't shake the feeling as I passed through every checkpoint of each museum I've visited so far in the district. To admit, I did see one white guy at the Rayburn House yesterday. A scary guy...to say the least.

During my tour of the National Archives, one thing kept popping into my head - the first five minutes of Linklater's classic film "Dazed and Confused" --

Ms. Ginny Stroud said it best, "Okay guys, one more thing, this summer when you're being inundated with all this American bicentennial Fourth Of July brouhaha, don't forget what you're celebrating, and that's the fact that a bunch of slave-owning, aristocratic, white males didn't want to pay their taxes."

Perfect. God Bless America.

Long day in the trenches of DC - Day 2

It's official...sleep is not possible in a DC hostel.

I took extra steps last night. I gathered up my zero degree sleeping bag from the car. I stayed up until midnight watching James Cameron's cinematic accident called "Titanic". I felt a general sense of exhaustion and retired to my hovel of a sleeping quarter. Sleep should have served as my mistress of the evening. I stripped down to my skivvies before bed. By 01:30 hours, I was in the midst of a toss and turn session with my bunk and trying in vain to avoid the snoring patterns of a fellow traveller at the end of the room.

Fuck.

My alarm was set for 0700 hours. I awoke before the bell. Damn sunlight. I showered, dresssed, and decided to swing a trip to the car with flip-flops on the feet in twenty degree weather. And yet another bad decision in a long list.

Here's a lesson for all - kiddies - keep yer knife at home during a tour of DC.

I was ambling up Independence Avenue. Keeping my self to my own thoughts. Minding the freezing weather and keeping the scarf close to my neck. A lighting bolt hit me. I still have my knife on me. For the past two weeks, I'm been carrying a knife in my trusty right pocket. A simple Gerber number. How the hell was I too slip by the obligatory secure measures with a friggin' knife in my pocket??? A block before entering the Rayburn House Office Building, I ducked the knife in my bag before entering the complex...with the slight notion of pawning off a discovery of weaponry as an incident of waywardness coupled with an unexpected act of ignorace. As I entered the building, I felt like Feris Brueller attempting to convince principal Jefferey Jones of his classic sick-day illiness. I placed my bag on the x-ray machine. Threw all my current metal items into the plastic cup next to the metal detector. I walked through with nothing beeped, I picked up my bag from the conveyor belt, and the best part of the story...NOTHING HAPPENED!

I strolled up to San Francisco's Congressional Rep Nancy Pelosi's office with a 3" BLADE IN MY BAG! How the hell has the US government spent 11 billion dollars since 2001 and I can still stroll through security with a pre-determined weapon of mass destruction in my bag.

I love this country.

Afterwards - to avoid any further issues that may arrise - I decide to stash the weapon in a pre-determined flower bed to avoid detection. I visited the National Air and Space Museum in the Smithsonian. Amazing stuff. Mark it down on your calendar as a concrete item of DC holiday. Afterwards, I traveled up to the Hirshhorn Museum for a tad of modern art. I threw the newest release from Boards of Canada on the headset and had a marvelous time. The Hiroshi Sigimoto exhibit is breathtaking. A prime example of Japanese artists not even attempting to give a fuck about art and creating masterpieces. Look no further than Takashi Miike for a prime example of Japanese art brilliance.

After the Hishhorn, I decided the only place for a man in DC with a 3" blade belonged was at...The National Zoo! Amazing time. Captain Noto and His New Monkey Buddies

I'm currently hanging tough (please...for the love of God...let's not mention the NKOTB reference) at Madam's Organ enjoying some fine blues and Sierra Nevade on tap. Life..is..just..fine...

Stay tuned....

No beer available at 2200 hours

Sunday - 02/26

I’m amazed. This country amazes me. It’s only 10:31 in the evening and I can’t buy beer. WTF. In the capital of the country I call home, my heart is surely breaking into a million pieces. Patriotism is a difficult thing to muster during this cold as Joan Crawford’s heart weather that swims and stirs outside the hostel’s door. I’m stuck in the “Living” Room of the Hilltop Hostel surrounded by eight women and one guy and they are all attentively watching “Grey’s Anatomy”.

If I am mistaken, wasn’t it originally a film starring Matthew Modine made about a million years ago?

Correction...the film was called Gross Anatomy".

Again, I’m a bit clueless with the whole television thing these days. Bring on some “24”, “Lost”, or “The Shield” and I’ll shoot for the cross bar and knock the goalie’s water bottle into the stands (or at least the protective netting). Everything else….nothing…

All I know that about a year ago – Patrick Dempsey’s career was on par with a Flavor Flav VH1 show. Now, he’s the next George Clooney. From what I’ve seen – Dempsey’s the Rick Springfield of a predictable hybrid of “General Hospital” crossed with “ER”.

To echo all of those cute gay boys on MTV – “Next!”

Today’s victory falls in my camp. I walked at least six miles in the torrid weather of DC and survived. Solid. I checked out out Wonderland Ballroom in Columbia Heights during my foot travels of the DC streets during the evening. I caught an excellent projected screening of Terry Gilliam's classic anti-government opus "Brazil". The Hoegaarden on draft was amazing.

I'm off to bed - catch you kids in the morning

Captain Noto v. DC - The First Day

Fuck...it's cold.

An eventful day in DC. I awoke from a restless slumber to the sounds of many men around me shuffling into clothes and attempting in vain to keep the sun from disturbing their bleary slumber. It's official - I can 't sleep in hostels - I'm too tall and clumsy. Every hostel I've chosen on the trip has included the ever-present twin bunkbed of death. 74" inches of a man will always find his feet dangling off the edge and struggle in vain throughout the night to find a comfortable spot within the width of a large surfboard that passes for a twin bed these days.

I'm the first to admit I don't the first thing about living and existing in cold weather. I'm from California and I can count the number of times I've been in snow on one hand in the past thirty years. Though, I did strive in earnest this morning to layer and pack enough items to keep me warm - the leather gloves, the wool scarf, the wool NY Rangers cap, the wool British WWII jacket. And, kind reader, I forgot the most important thing. Shoes. Currently, I'm wearing British football shoes with thin as Joe Eszterhas script socks. Knucklehead.

I started out the day with a visit to Arlington National Cemetery. Moving and emotional experience. The expanse rows of white tombstone at times draws up your breath in amazement of man's sacrifice for one's country. I walked up to the JFK Memorial and was taken back by the beautiful view of the city. McNamara - Kennedy's Secretary of Defense - remarked that when Jack visited Arlington, he said that he could stay at the sight for eternity. His interment at Arlington signifies both his original vision and his wish to be buried among his fellow countrymen. The "Eternal Flame" that burns at the head of the Kennedy family's plot is tragic and beautiful.

I headed up to the original house of Robert E. Lee - commander of the Confederate Army during the Civil War. Lee - a Virginian native - resigned his commission with the Union Army and declined Lincoln's request to command Union forces after S. Carolina fired on Ft. Sumter in 1861. Upon Lee's departure from Arlington, Union forces assumed control of the house and converted it into a military command post. Union dead were buried on the property and the vast woods that surrounded the house was cut down for military purposes. Lee never returned to Arlington. The house was restored and 30% to 40% percent of the furniture in the house was original property of Lee and his family. The one piece in the house that moved me was the sight of the original desk used by Lee to pen his resignation from his 32 years as a Union officer to join the Confederacy.

The "Tomb of the Unknown Soldier" was my last stop on the Arlington Tour. I watched the changing of the guard and then...the weather and my stomach told me to head back to warmer environmentts and find a cup of java.

With my scarf up high and my gloves on tight, I stopped off and check out Lafayette Park and took pictures of The White House. So far...I think I'm winning this battle with the weather and the urban jungle of DC.

Let's just see how I manage throughout the night. Stay tuned....

Pissing Off Republicans in Durham, NC

Saturday - 02/25 - 23:20

Currently, I’m sitting next to the wall on the bar at Brickskeller’s – A DC bar that holds the world’s largest selection of beer IN THE WORLD! I can’t even keep track of all of the variations pieced together in its extensive menu of beers.

Beer - 1072 selections available to all in attendance. Heaven.

I had the most amazing meal tonight. Finally, I found Asian food after a dearth of around two weeks. Burmese food. Ahhhhh…The pad is Burma Restaurant on 6th NW. Seek it out. The Green Tea Leaf Salad is heavenly. The Shrimp Curry reminds you why people fall in love.

Last night was a complete and total drunken cluster-fuck. You rock Michael Goodman. We started out by hitting up a local Durham eatery (the name slips my mind) and I had a monster of sub sandwich entitled “The Crash Davis”. Costner would have been proud of their concoction. It was literally a “MEAT” sandwich and damn good with a bit of toasty crust.

We headed over to Tim’s house for a joint-birthday party. Upon entry, the sight of ten huge mamajama bottles of pre-mixed “Hurricane Mix” with Bacardi 151 was a sign from God.

Run now and don’t look back.

Damn. I should have listen to The Big Man. I forced my way into a Smirnoff Vodka and Tonic and then…let the party begin. Let’s see, I started off with a constructive conversation regarding the Occupation: Iraq fiasco and inadvertently, I was deep in the trenches with a die-hard Republican from RHODE ISLAND! In the end, I snapped when she said – “The US did nothing in ’33 when Hitler took over Germany…”. My retort was “you have to be fucking kidding me!” I turned the jets on and continued –“Don’t even pull out that fucking card and attempt to draw correlations between Nazi Germany and Saddam Hussein”. Her response was to turn and walk away in fury.

Damn, I’m smooth with the ladies.


The rest of the night is a bit…of…a…blur. Check out my random collection of Captain Noto with a Collection of Drunk People from Durham, NC. I’m in DC for five days so expect A TON OF PICTURES.

And, yes - kind readers, never forget – Vodka and international relation discussions never mix.

80's night in Asheville, NC

A hour after I sat in my car still reeling from the Graceland (pronounced Grace-lin), I decided to blow off Nashville and head straight to Asheville. As mention in my previous post, the drive was oh so eventful.

Upon arrive in Asheville, I hit up BonPaul & Sharky's Hostel for a two-night stay. Solid place. Highly recommended! The staff is friendly - the dorm I had all to myself - and their DVD collection is off the wall. Before retiring to my bunk, the proper drink after a 10-hour drive is two fingers of Maker's Mark and a perhaps...if the gods prevail...a concrete example of a local brewery's hidden treasures. I found both items at the Westville Pub. The pub's owner Drew is a major advocator of fine beers and his list of local and international brews. Beautiful. After a series of days confronted with simple items on draft and the non-existence of a local brewery - my socks were rocked. I had an excellent local Porter to join with my Maker's and life...was...just...fine....

I left after the first round (surprised!) and retired to BonPaul and Sharkey's. I watched a bit of the "The Shield" 5th Season (go go Vic Makey) and then..drifted off to Neverland...

I awoke around 11AM feeling as rough as the floor of a New York taxi cab after New Year's Eve. I shuffled down to the kitchen and made a mean breakfast of prosciutto and eggs. I decided to check out downtown Asheville and to my foolhardy ways - decided to walk the four miles to downtown.

Dumbass.

Downtown Asheville is excellent. It holds the sense of a liberal-minded town dropped into the South. Take a low-grade Berkeley and plop it into somewhere between Jackson, MS and Memphis, TN. Though - a bit more mountains mixed into the fold. I caught a flyer on a electrical pole proclaiming "80s Night at the Joli Rouge". Ahhh...yes....finally...something to do this fair Thursday night. I hiked back to the hostel and stopped off at the Westville Pub for a pint of French Broad Wee Heavy. At the pub, I learned a valuable lessson about the South.

At the bar, a guy to my right asked me what I was drinking. I told him the type and brand. He chuckled and threw back a swallow of his bottled beer. I asked him - "With all of these tasty beers on tap, why do you choose Budweiser?". He looked at me and said, "Well, I'm a Southern boy and if I use beer to get drunk. If I wanted flavor, I'd eat a sandwich."

A complete hypothesis of the South. A simple life steeped in tradition of set values and a unwaivering honor for the men of the Confederacy. Don't even try to argue to a guy from Virginia about the merits of Nathan Bedford Forrest.

I left the pub and took a nap at the hostel. Afterwards, I took a shower and headed out to see Asheville at night. Two things I must inform you regarding Asheville's liquor laws.

Happy hour is not allowed. Nope...forget about it.

To spend dollars in a liquor only club of North Carolina - the Westville Pub lies under the 70-30 law where 30% of the pub's income is derived from food - you need to be a member of the club. If not, you need to apply for membership with a three-day waiting period. But, you can find a current member of the club to sign you in as a "Guest", then all is right in the world for one night and drinks can flow freely. Ok...sure...I understand. WTF?

So, I found a current member and was signed in as "Guest" under North Carolina's complete ass-backwards law. And then...everything turned a bit strange.

As everyone knows, I'm a 80s freak. Love the New Romantic stuff. Joy Division and Skinny Puppy....bring it on. Ultravox....heaven on the turntables.

During my sign-in process, I talked to Raymond - our DJ of the evening - and requested a bit of Visage, a tad of Skinny Puppy, and if possible - Sisters of Mercy. He said - "Sure"

I didn't know at the time that Raymond didn't have any of those things. I found out later that he popped onto Asheville County's free wi-fi and downloaded a ton of solid 80s hits from my suggestions. I danced with a extremely small crowd (me and two girls) close to two hours and the best part - one of the girls mentioned of how strong the music selection was for the evening.

Nothing says perfection like Bronski Beat's "Smalltown Boy".

Graceland

Wednesday Night - -2/22/06

I made it! -

After ten hours of driving through horrendous rain and fog and el senior assmunchos in 16-wheel tanker trucks driving like Tara Reid coked up in Acapulco throughout the entire state of Tennessee, I arrived at Asheville, NC at 11:45PM (Eastern). I left Memphis at 1:30PM (Central) after a wonderful and moving time at Graceland – the home of the one…the only…King of Rock and Roll.

I arrived in Memphis around 2:30 in the afternoon. I hopped over to the Rock and Soul Museum in downtown Memphis – next to Beale St. Memphis has a long long history of solid soul and rock music – not to mention Sun Studios, Stax Records, and Hi Records. The museum was basically a retrospect incorporating the birth of blues and country museum and its infusion on the streets on Memphis in the 40s and 50s. The museum has a ultra cool audio tour included with the price of admission and hits all the major points of Memphis’ music catalog. Afterwards, I hit up Rendezvous Ribs for a HUGE SLAB of charcoal-smoked ribs. Ahhhh..heaven…

I asked the bartender which beers were on tap – “Michelob” and “Michelob Lite”. Damn.

I walked over to Beale Street and bought a five-dollar cheap seat for the NBA game – Memphis Grizzlies v. Toronto Raptors. To kill time, I walked up and down the revamped two blocks of the infamous strip of “Beale Street”. Ironically, with decades of its role of as a cultural epicenter for black soul and jazz music – this revered section of Memphis has been gender-fided into a place where tourist spend hard-earning monies and get silly on cheap liquor. Wonderful.

Not to mention the large neon sign for “B.B. King’s Blues Club and Restaurant” that lights up the entire block.

I caught two quarters of the NBA game (it was the team’s ‘1st Annual Spain Night’ in honor of their All-Star forward Pau Gasol) and decided to hit the road and find the Memphis-Graceland RV Park – my home away from home for the evening. The rain was pouring in steady buckets and all thoughts of a nice cup of tea before bed went out the window in fast fashion.

Nothing is more humbling than crashing in your car two days in a row. While I’m laying in the car, I thought to myself – “What the fuck were you thinking about car-camping in a fuckin’ Eclipse?” I know how cool and romantic it sounded when I spoke to my buddies before leaving SF about self-sustaining myself with only a propane stove, a collection of spices, a cooler full of bacon and eggs, a sleeping bag, a piece of six-foot foam, a coffee percolator and a bag’s of Peet’s coffee, and the road in front of me. But for Buddha’s sake – as my pop said – “You crazy!”

I awoke late and find myself with only an hour before my tour of Graceland was to begin. I took a shower – which is close to orgasmic after three of days of “roughing it” – and packed up the car. I walked over the Graceland and the tour blew me away. I’ve been a fan of the Elvis ever since my pop would play his seventies concert albums over and over and over and watch the collection of docs made about EP during his last days. The sequin jumpsuits, the crazy karate moves during the encores, the hair, the sideburns, the multi-colored scarves – the most awesome things when you are five years old.

The tour took me through the main rooms of the lower level of the house. The upper level of bedrooms in curtained off in respect for The King. The Television Room is solid – with three televisions fashioned after LBJ’s Oval Office – and the Jungle Room is off the hook with shag carpet on the walls and ceiling and the working fountain in the far end of the room. During the tour, I kept seeing The King sitting the various couches and chairs throughout the room – heavy stuff.

We hit The Trophy Room and all of the gold records that lined the hallway lends no doubt of how Elvis was The King of Rock and Roll (with a little help from his manager and evil twin Colonel Tom Parker). The sight of the Black Leather Outfit worn during his ’68 Comeback Special was extremely cool.

The tour brought us to the back of the house and we hit the BIG BIG room – a collection of all of the King’s jumpsuits worn during his Vegas days. I started to get a bit choked up seeing in the flesh all of those outfits I worshipped as a child and watching The King on the big-screen TV in the corner that played clips from his Vegas shows over and over and over again.

The walk to the Meditating Gardens (one of Elvis’ favorite places in Graceland) was – I must admit – tough. When I laid my eyes upon his grave – the wetworks started up. Wonderful – I’m losing it among tourists from Germany and Idaho.

I know this WILL go down on my permanent record.