I’ll catch up the two of you that don’t care read this blog in a post later in the week, but for now, something that makes me cranky. Well. . . crankier than normal. . .
One, they closed Platinum Plus. Why in the hell does a city spend 23 months investigating a strip club when they have one of the worst crime rates of any city, any size? Fucking laziness, that’s why. Let’s combat the easy crime to pad our crime statistics and make news. And it always makes news if there is sex involved. Third murder in a week gets multiple coverage for A day. Busting a strip club gets anchor’s non-hair moving heads to wagging and weeks of headlines. Sure there was probably prostitution and drug activity going on. You can say that about all the clubs, the stripping kind and the not. How about you spend 23 months investigating the gangs, the street dealers, and the murders that populate the Birthplace of Rock and Roll every day. The murder rate in Memphis is almost weekly broadcast across the nation on A&E’s The First 48 Hours, often showing more unsolved murders than not. The biggest tourist attraction is Graceland and you can play Count the Hookers all the way down Elvis’ eponymously named street. Plus the city blows $38,000 on the hiring of a consultant firm to discover that there are strippers in the strip clubs and that there is random naughtiness in the porn shops. Hell, they could’ve given me a couple of Franklins to go in there and say “Yep, them ladies is naked.” The city already has regulated the porn shops. They are no longer allowed to be open past midnight and have to be closed on Sundays and all Federal holidays. Better get your porn at a decent hour in Memphis and if you want some whack material on Columbus Day, you’re fucked, and not in the fun way.
A weird thing about Memphis is that it seems impossible to buy anything from 24-hour convenience stores between 12-12:30 am. They lock the doors and even disable the pumps just in case I have the audacity to try to use my debit card. At first I thought it was just an Exxon Tiger Mart thing but after going to three separate stores, each of a different brand, and still had to suffer the taunting of the “low gas” light from the dash of my car, I realized it must be city wide. I wonder if the city council hired a consulting firm to study the negative impact of the sale of gasoline and munchies during the witching hour?
And the final straw came when, while trying to feed the need for some chicken wings and cleavage, I discovered that the first Hooter’s I ever attended, as well as the first one in Memphis, was now closed. First you close the Purple Church and then the Hooter’s down the road. The sign said “Thanks for the memories.” Fuck the memories, I wanted 10 wings, hot, all drummies, and some damn fries. Now I have absolutely no reason to ever again darken the lanes of Mt. Moriah. Got to be a fucking conspiracy. Call the Warren Commission.
On somewhat of a good note, the food at the Beale Street Hooter’s was actually good and the waitress was cute as a button. It seems that calling me “baby” and “honeybun” goes a long way towards a good tip. The short shorts and cleavage had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Roctavious McGhee 