Billie Goats on Beale Street

Last night I hung out with some goats at a bar on Beale Street. Yes, goats. Eventually, they got too trashed and climbed up the rickety wooden tower - guarded by some polar bear statues - and passed out atop bails of hay. I sat mesmerized by a flaming fountain until a slew of beautiful men caused me to make an ass of myself, flirting desperately and getting shot down relentlessly. Tragic.
I diverge my attention from my lack of action over to the table hosting Uncle Kracker, his band, and the security guy in the salmon shirt. Shortly, the U.S. Olympic Gymnastics Team joins us.
The musicians, the medalists and the Levi's Ladies bar hop 'til just passed 5am. (The average age of the gymnasts is probably 18, but their body guards bullied the bouncers and the kids got to hang.)
To recap: Olymic Gymnasts, Uncle Kracker, Salmon Security, Billy Goats on Beale Street - and me.
I like Memphis.
Additionally, it is home to the best picture I ever missed. A "Pork the other white meat" sign caused a wave of humurous nausea (whatever that is), and then I looked across the street and almost slammed my bicycle into a brick wall. There was a large neon pig floating over an outdoor patio. Beneath it flashed the words "pork with attitude." Beneath that, sat seven very pale, very fat, scantily clad white women.
I found the irony quite beautiful. (And by scantily clad, I mean large cotton Target shorts and t-shirts which still exposed more rolls than I'd care to see.) Ya, I know - I'm a bitch. It was fucking funny.
As far as stereo-typical over generalizations go (a-tyical for me to make, by the way): no other "class" of individuals have as harmonious, soothing and beautiful an energy as old black folk getting lost in the Blues.

In other news: I'm nurturing a newfound fondness for photo shoots of headless mannequins running amock in mid-west cornfields.