Tupelo Honey

It's hard to believe just yesterday we were cruising around Henry County, GA in a 1958 Thunderbird having the times of our lives and tonight we're sleeping in what surely must be the shittiest of shitholes in Tupelo, Mississippi. (Broken light fixtures. Mismatched furniture. Punched-out wicker on the backs of the dingy chairs. Carpet stains I can't even begin to contemplate...) But that's what happens when you sleep in late, go out for a slow breakfast, don't get on the road till noon and wind up in Rome when you were trying to get to Palestine.

Win drove across Alabama in one long day, hating almost every stinking minute of it. We tried to find the love, but it was buried in kudzu. Poor Alabama became the scapegoat for all our forgotten troubles and strife. It had no reason for being on this excellent adventure, lacking loved ones to visit or a Paris on the map. But there was no way around it, so we had to cut through.

I have seen a lot of kudzu on this journey, but never the likes of Alabama's. It's choking the very life out of everything on Route 278. Kudzu engulfed trailer homes and automobiles, parking lots and ravines. As the sun sank so low in the west not even the convertible's visors could shade our eyes from it, we considered camping. But the thought of kudzu strangling us in our sleep kept the pedal to the floor.

In Henderson, AL we were faced with a decision - the last room in the Econolodge for a ridiculous $75 or a king bed at their Seediest Inn for 40? The bouffant-headed lady with the prim lips at the Econolodge said there was a Christian Convention in town and that's why rooms were at a premium. When Win tried to appeal to the woman's humanity, referring to our tiny budget and our big dreams, the woman took a rather un-Christian hardline and said If You Don't Like It, You Can Go To Tupelo ...

It was already dark and we were already exhausted but you don't get all up in the Ya-ya's faces and expect us to patronize your establishment, even if you do have the last room in Hamilton. Or Henderson. Or whatever the hell your inhospitable little Alabama town is called. We filled up the tank, bought some Diet Cokes with vitamins in 'em, and hit Route 78. Win said, "Let's play a game. I'm going to Tupelo with an armadillo ..."

Here's what we played to keep ourselves lucid, pausing just long enough to let out a cheer when we crossed the state line:

I'm going to Tupelo with an Armadillo, a Bee sting kit, a Cigar, a Dinosaur, an Elvis presley impersonator, Frogmore stew, Griddlecakes, Honey, Iodine, a Jumprope, Kampground Karl's Karaoke machine, a License to kill, Moneybags, a Neutron bomb, an Omelette, a Pistol, de Queen, Rascally Rabbits, Swisher Sweets, a Torpedo, a University sweater, a Victrola, a Washing machine, X-ray vision goggles, You, and Zinedine Zidane.

So now we're in the birthplace of the King, listening to drag racers on the strip. Crickets are doing everything in their power to invade our shabby room. We're sleeping fully clothed with the lights on and promising ourselves pedicures, a first-run movie and at least a $60 motel room tomorrow night somewhere south of Paris. Mississippi's bound to treat us better than Alabama ever did.