Nina's Blue Light Cabaret

Room 306 at the Lorraine Motel. Dr. King and Coretta's room has been recreated to detail, glassed off and made available for public viewing. Where you can see the glass there, behind the flowers marking the exact spot Dr. King fell, is where visitors can view the room. It is extremely moving, as you can imagine.

Also, Mahalia Jackson singing at Dr. King's funeral is playing as you walk through. I can barely listen to a Mahalia Jackson song without choking up so, in this context, there wasn't m uch I could do about it. A few quiet tears fell out. There was a woman sitting on the ground and openly weeping. I got the feeling she lives and here and goes there often.




I have a lot I could say about my experience at the museum, but I'm afraid I'll type for hours. I have a date with The King, so I don't have the time.

I visited the Holocaust Museum in DC a few years back, and this experience was very similar, but different. This hits closer to home, I get that, but there was something else palpable for me, and lingering still...my best guess is that it is guilt. Okay, it's not a guess at all - it's just guilt. I understand that I am not to blame for lynchings, church bombings, segregated schools, burned buses, slavery... but white people have a lot of explaining to do.

I looked at those few white faces helping to protest, arms locked with their black friends, taking clubs to the head and pepper spray to the eyes, and wondered - - would I be there? Would I have jumped on a bus bound for Montgomery or Selma and risked my life or my day in order to try and make a difference?

I like to think that I would, but I don't know. I don't hop on buses bound for anywhere now. I wanted take the bus to DC and march for reproductive rights, but I didn't do it. I said I would be late to work to go the capitol to protest the Minnesota marriage amendment, but I wasn't. I l looked up how to volunteer in New Orleans, but I decided to leave it to Anderson Cooper. I probably bought shoes online instead.

Guilt it is.


Shorty on the trolley after the Civil Rights museum. We didn't say much on that ride.

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Beale Street



I still believe that Memphis has a lot of soul - but, I tell ya what, kids - on Beale Street, it is not. Beale is what you might think; a mini-Vegas strip, hawking blues and ribs instead of hookers and blow.

We walked the whole thing in about 7 minutes (it's way smaller than I expected) and then settled in at Silky O'Sullivan's, on recommendation from our nice bartender at the Marriott) for a famous "Big Ass Beer." Silky's was apparently out of all but Harp and Guinness on tap, neither suited for the giant orange bucket in which would come your big ass of otherwise mediocre beer.

There was live music from a lot of the bars on Beale, mostly blues and not sounding any more impressive than what you would find at Famous Dave's in Calhoun Square. There was music at Silky's, but it wasn't that good. It was just one sorry dude playing the piano (he was wearing khaki shorts, a t-shirt and a ball cap) and singing covers. It sounded like someone was imitating Marc Cohn imitating Billy Joel.



What kind of self-respecting Irish pub sells hurricanes, anyway?

However, we were entertained/horrified by a bigNorwegian Norweigan dude who was dressed like a cowboy (Wranglers, cowboy boots and hat) and was trying desperately to chat up Shorty. He failed miserably. It was funny, though, because we were momentarily interested in maybe hanging out with him when we found out he was Norweigan and basically wearing a Memphis-white guy costume. But then he started grunting and rubbing Shorty'sNorwegian

Norweigan Cowboy: "Do you think I'm shaking you up? Am I shaking you up?"

Shorty: "No."

Here he is hassling hasseling the piano man.



I can't get those two pics to come apart, sorry, but the second one is ribs, baby! We gave up on the bar scene on Beale (all of them we looked in had that same blues band playing to a half-packed house full of white tourists wearing fanny packs and socks and sneakers), and got some food at Blues City Cafe.

It was perfect - exactly the rib joint I was imaging to be all over Memphis. The ribs were awesome. I added some hot sauce and it was game on!


I also felt guilty eating this plate of goodness. It was a really different kind of guilt.



See, now this is the ticket. Yum.

We are off now to Sun Studio, where it all began, as they like to say and I like to think about. I LOVE the idea of Elvis, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis (and many others, I know - timagery my imagry, back off) hanging out together... bouncing ideas about songs off of each other, getting drunk together, talking about chicks, and eating ribs and hot sauce.

And then off to Graceland (be still, momma), The Peabody Hotel to see the famous ducks that waddle around on a red carpet to Sousa music, to the river to have a Jeff Buckley moment, and then not to Beale Street.

Ciao, buddies.
-Nina

P.S. We missed the last trolley last night and were escorted part way home by a friendly homeless guy named Tony, to whom we gave our trolley fare and a cigarette. Tony then handed us off to a nice midwestern fellow who walked us the rest of the way home and talked about dumb stuff.

P.S.S. I'm not sure why I felt compelled to share that with you.... maybe just to scare my mom. Hi, mom.