Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas: November 15th

Memphis, Tennessee is the home of the Blues, but the main attraction is the home of an equestrian, a karate black belt, a voracious reader, noted collector and humanitarian benefactor. This guy also sang a few songs, but Graceland is more a monument to distasteful interior decorating than to the revolution in music he inspired. Elvis may have left the building, but he could have left it a little less gawdy.

While researching this trip, Arkansas was the only state whose website asks, "How did you hear of us?". Duh. So, I bypassed Little Rock and headed for Hot Springs, a spa resort town where the old bathhouses have been refurbished to their 1920's splendor. Architecture to behold! This town has little cafes, shops and hotels, which have been in continuous operation for decades, and no Starbucks. Bravo. It took a while to find the boyhood home of Bill Clinton. It seems they took down all the signs directing tourists to its location. Another bravo?

Texarkana is a unique town. It straddles the border between Arkansas and Texas, therefore requiring two of everything: two mayors, two police and fire departments, two zoning departments, etc. I talked to a few residents and they admitted it sometimes drives them nuts. I guessing schizophrenic.

In the Guinness Book of Records, there is a holy man who, in a show of devotion, lay sideways and rolled himself clear across India, a distance of 2,500 miles. I know the feeling. Today, I drove seven hours across Texas, in a rainstorm. West Texas is flat with farmland, oil fields and refineries. The smell of oil is unavoidable. After passing Stink Creek, the town of Andrews proclaims in very large letters: "Andrews loves God, Country, and supports free enterprise." I hadn't planned on staying in Texas long. Besides, someone once said, "Don't mess with Texas". It's already messed up enough.

But first, I had to visit Dealy Plaza in Texas. The sixth floor of the book depository is now a museum depicting the life and Administration of John Kennedy. The brick walls are as they were in 1963 and the corner from where Oswald fired the shots has been set up exactly as it was that day; the book cartons stacked, as are the cartons he used for propping up the rifle, and the window is open. Although this corner has been glassed-off, you can stand at the adjoining window and experience the same view he had when he assassinated the President. Those visitors who remembered stand there in silence for a few minutes at a time, thinking back and staring out the window, at times looking to their left where Oswald had been. I did the same.

Outside, at the infamous grassy knoll, a few conspiracists hawk their pamphlets to the tourists. Most are a rehash of theories, which have been disproved, but one stood out as quite plausible. I questioned this fellow for twenty minutes (the shots were fired from a different building) and his explanations were well documented and thorough. In fact, this theory is presently taught as a credit course at the University of Texas.

That evening, I went to the Improve in Toney Addison to see Rita Rudner, the comedienne. Quite good. She explained that men don't listen, and when they do, they ever remember. That's why there's instant replay. And when her husband asks her why she needs so many pairs of shoes, she asks him why he needs so many TV channels. Badaboom. You've been a great audience, on to New Mexico.

Ciao