A Million Years Ago

I went to Elmwood. Actually, I have a history there. That history now involves a statue giving me the finger:

This statue is right inside the front gate, mind you. In Memphis, even the gravestones are gangsta. I also saw a lot of really pretty, obviously very old graves with strange juxtaposition to large trees:

Clearly somebody was there first, tree. You're all up in his Kool-Aid. I saw the grave of a super-crazy guy who would have been my BFF. He had a feud going on with somebody else and their family, and when he died, he dedicated his belongings with the caveat that his progeny must carry on the feud after him. That is tenacity, folks. Here is Mr. Bolton, memorialized in stone:

I also saw the graves of a hooker with a heart of gold, and a murderous lesbian. I didn't get pictures of those sites, though, because it was HOT outside and the air conditioning in the car felt great. I did however, capture true love:

Les and Pam forever, y'all. In addition to finding true love in a cemetery, I also found the final resting place of my favorite character from O Brother Where Art Thou? and his name is spelled exactly as it is pronounced in the movie:

(J/K about the favorite character part. I don't have a favorite character from that movie. I love them all! I think it's Antonia that has a more special affinity for this character, so she's the one to talk to.)

My One-Sided Love Affair

I'm probably the only person you know that has Elvis 8-tracks.

I mean, I'm not a crazy Elvis fan, but I admit to having a certain admiration for the man.  It's possible that I have an Elvis doll.  Or two.  And I definitely have several records.  Oh, and books.  And postcards.  And a purse.   And a clock where Elvis' body is the top part and his legs are the swinging pendulum.  Wait, I have a cd box set; I'd forgotten about that.

FINE, and I also have this huge rug-thing with his picture on it, that may actually be a wall hanging, or something,  but I sure don't know what the hell to do with it.

Uhh ... these were all gifts, I swear. 

Anyway.  That is the introduction for our next stop on the tour, which was the shrine of the First Church of the Elvis Impersonator, currently residing at Goner Records in Midtown. 

Apparently the "church" used to be a real thing, back when the shrine was housed in Java Cabana, the coffeehouse down the street.  Its owner got licensed on the internet and conducted weddings for diehard Elvis fans.  I am writing this down for future reference if my current job doesn't work out.



I completely expected to see something unbelievably cheesetastic and, you guys, my expectations were much too low.  Check it:

Welcome to the Freak Show

I've spent more time in cemeteries during the past year than I've spent in my previous 34 years. And even though I've become less anxious (no doubt because I insist that we go during the day), that doesn't mean I'm entirely comfortable with it. In fact, sometimes I get downright jumpy.

It's not all the fault of my precarious mental state, though; sometimes there really are creepy things in a cemetery, and sometimes even the sunlight can't chase away the jitters.

Witness:

1.  I will never, no never, be able to go to a cemetery without expecting a Carrie-like resurrection right where I'm standing.  Which is why cracked tombstones give me the willies, on account of one or more of this grave's residents have obviously broken through.

Triumvirate Travelogue-Elmwood

I think, often, about my legacy. How will I be remembered? The truth is that I'm likely to be one of the billions of forgotten histories, and my only lasting memorial will be a small stone in an out-of-the way corner of the local cemetery.

That's one reason I like to visit cemeteries, because they celebrate the importance of individual history. An ordinary person who died over 100 years ago probably doesn't come up in a lot of conversations; when I look at her grave marker and wonder who she was, my thoughts bring her to life for one more minute.

So it's with respect and reverence that I post the following video of last week's trip to Elmwood Cemetery. It was an amazing stop on the Triumvirate Tour for many reasons. I learned a lot about Memphis' history, but I also (re)learned that people--no matter when they lived--are always, always fascinating.

Bolivar, Tennessee: Where Crazy People Go

Here's what I know about insane asylums:
1.  Shock treatments
2.  Lobotomies
3.  Escapees with hooks instead of hands

I admit that my "knowledge" is based on urban legends and the absolutely terrifying children's(!) film, Return to Oz.  Seriously, kids should not watch this.



This is what I was thinking of as we drove to Bolivar, Tennessee, to look at the Western Mental Health Institute. Also, ghosts, because I think it's fair to assume that all Victorian-era mental hospitals are haunted.

This is the time to say that THIS WAS NOT MY IDEA.

When I said I wanted to take Weirdo Vacations, I didn't mean that I wanted to die at the hands of an angry lobotomized ghost.  And yet, here I was, basically offering myself as a sacrifice to mentally unbalanced spirits. 

Where Aemilia has not been

OK. Out of the three that comprise this trimuvirate, I probably have traveled the least distance. I have never been overseas. I have flown a total of 4 (that's right, FOUR) times, so I have earned approximately 27 frequent flier miles.

Rarely have traveled out of the south. But I have been to NYC twice, and DC numerous times. Meh....you can keep the big cities. I like the quiet out of way places.

And my favorite mode of travel? Car. Now while I am not an expert airline traveler, I am well versed in the fine art of automobile travel. It started as a child. We would load up in the car and drive around looking at either antebellum homes, cemetaries, or civil war battlefields. Toss in an occasional farming museum or two and you have the recipe for cruel & unusual punishment for any budding preteen. But not ME. Yeah, I'm odd like that.

I like the smell of cars. Enjoy driving with the windows rolled down. Crave the excitement when leaving the driveway for a trip. And maps? LOVE them.

So when Antonia suggested the idea of exploration (by CAR no less), you know I was some kind of excited. I think I am the unofficial secretary of our outings, so I will attempt to keep notes. Fair warning though - some may be edited. Especially our conversations about men, relationships (or distinct lack of for some of us), and bodily functions. But I look forward to planning and recording our misadventures.

Hey? I can post pics on this thing, right???? Uh oh. I smell trouble brewing.....

Where I've Not Been

I've never almost been run over by a train by crossing the tracks without looking. However, it is a fear of mine that my little sister exploits needlessly. Whenever we are in the car together and we cross some tracks, she will throw up her arms and scream like we are about to be all up in some train grill. The first time she did this, I peed a little.

I've never been in a blatantly dangerous situation, but having spent the better portion of my developmental years in a rather dangerous city, I've been in some shady places. There was the time a drifter stopped to discuss politics with a group of my friends outside a coffee shop-- questionable safety. There was the time while walking along The River on a date, a homeless man screamed racial slurs at us that didn't even apply-- questionable safety. And then there was the time my dad took the whole family inside a store bedecked by rainbow banners called "Inz & Outz" before realizing that it was a gay novelty retailer-- probably safe, but certainly uncomfortable.

Most of my adventures range from the absurd to the slightly iffy. They've been conducted with a string of rather unwilling participants-- my parents, my siblings, friends who thought they wanted directions from me (but really probably didn't because I could get lost in a three-bedroom house). Now, alongside two faithful pals who share my taste for oddities, I embark upon what I will christen The Summer of Thunder (because that sounds very dramatic and cool).

These are our stories.

It Was My Idea

This is a fear I have not admitted:  What if I sit in one place for so long that I stick to my seating area?  Like that lady who sat on her toilet for two years and then it turned out she was attached to it--BY HER SKIN.

In an effort to make sure that my own ass doesn't 1). spread to the size of my couch, and 2). doesn't start growing TO said couch*, I have decided to become An Adventuress.  

I'm lucky enough to have two good friends who are adventuresses in their own right.  And fortunately, both of them are as interested in weird stuff as I am, because this is no ordinary travel blog, oh no.  We intend to seek out the oddest, most insane attractions we can find, for no other reason than to entertain ourselves**.

This is an exploration of Crazypants Phenomena™.  And it will be AWESOME.

*oh my god this is a thing that could actually happen

** well, yes, and to keep my ass at a manageable size