Last night, while standing in my kitchen drinking a glass of pink Chardonney and looking at the bank statement of the joint account I opened with another man, (the one I moved in with nonetheless) I checked to make sure my nuts were still there and figured I better tell the story of how we got out here before the pink figure skates started sprouting from my feet. And it came to pass in the 26th year of Perry, that the dream of avoiding the black hole of Washington DC and heading wherever the hell I feel like was realized. Final destination: Tempe, AZ. Getting here? Now that was an adventure.

Virginia to Tempe, Arizona: 2,100 miles

I love Uhaul just about as much as I love CoolPix cameras and cathoders. When I first moved to college I reserved a Uhaul truck a week in advance, packed up all my stuff, and went over to the Uhaul place to hear "What truck?" upon arrival, the day before classes started. I knew there was going to be a twist on this trip as well.

Our options:

A)

The 14' Uhaul Truck towing Jon's car behind it.
Cost: $1,800 + gas

or......

B)

Jon buys an SUV, we jam everything we own in an 8' trailer, throw two mattresses on top to be sure we look like white trash, and head out for only: $450 + gas. Jon's SUV was purchased less than a week before taking this picture. Some fat lady at the Uhaul place convinces me to buy a mattress guard (large, shitty plastic bag) in case it rains.

We pat ourselves on the back for making such a money-saving choice, and head out. I'll be damned if that plastic bag wasn't the best $10 I've ever spent.

People were actually driving by laughing at us. Rolling along at an astounding 9 miles per gallon, you could literally watch the gas needle drop. We had to stop every 140 miles for gas, adding up to 14 gas stops and $660 in gas. Top speed? 75 miles an hour, unless we were going downhill. We made the obligatory stop in Nashville for the night, and went out with one of Jon's friends from highschool, Emily. We got the opportunity to meet one of her friends, a kid who spent his entire inheritance from his father's death on cocaine. I'm glad to know that when I go to hell, I won't be lonely.

Next stop:

Memphis

The land of the Delta Blues

Beale Street

We arrive to stay with Beach and head out for a night on Beale Street. Beale is awesome. It's Bourbon Street junior, with all the same rules or lack thereof. The street is fenced off, and once you show your ID at an entrance you don't have to show it again. Naturally, I figured this would be a better shot than most at hooking up with underage girls. The statewide last-call for Tennessee is 2:00 AM, but Beale Street serves until 5:00 AM.

If you've ever been to Bourbon Street the above images will look familiar. (Note Jon and I are holding Big Ass Beers) Beale Street also has it's own cheap public entertainers, who I will refer to as "African American Street Athletes." They begin by removing their shirts and stretch out like they're going to play a grueling tennis match, or do Karate. They continue to stretch out by jumping up and down. By this point everyone wonders what the fuck they're doing and a crowd begins to form. Then one of them puts a full cup of liquor on the ground in a precise location, as if they're going to drink it upside down in the middle of a cartwheel or something.

The Street Athlete then paces backwards away from the cup, staring at it intensely. He counts his paces backwards. Or pretends to, because this guy doesn't look like he can count. He then jumps up and down some more, and stretches out some more, as a bigger crowd forms and I yell at him to, "Hurry the fuck up." He's cutting into our 7 more hours of drinking. He literally struts around like a babboon saying "Yo, I need some dollas" and thumping his chest. Some fat white lady eventually gives him two or three dollars. It's now been about 10 minutes and I'm pretty sure this is just a distraction so this guy's friends can pick-pocket everyone. Let's just say that although we were in Tennessee, this was no country music crowd. By now everyone is expecting this guy to do something from the matrix, and I am expecting a drive by. Jon, Beach, and I finally get sick of waiting and as we walk away, he does some weak hand springs and flips. Disappointed by the huge build up of this paragraph without a great ending? That's what his performance felt like: Blue balls.

So we head to Silky O'Sullivan's, a Frat bar on Beale. To the left: Me, Beach, and Woerner. They had these huge paint buckets full of liquor, wine, and champaign (right) for only $17. Naturally we got one, and it tasted like rancid cream soda. But that's ok because Silky O'Sullivan's has.....

Goats that drink! This goat is a member of P.E.T.A. Please Eat this Tasty Alcohol.

Next Stop: Oklahoma City.