tiny filler rant for some slot when there’s nothing to post and we just want to immediately go OT and argue about pizza toppings, so, by all means, immediately go OT and argue about pizza toppings…and bike lanes

reading music definitely not recorded at Ardent

In the Street, definitely recorded at Ardent

generic crime music performed by a commie

Now it all started two Fridays ago, was on – two weeks ago on Friday, when NewWife and I went up to listen to Fleetwood Mac tunes at Lafayette’s, but Fleetwood et al doesn’t perform at the restaurant, so we had to listen to a cover band but at least there was jambalaya and their alto was incredibly young and skinny and comely.  Two sets would run four hours, so the plan was to share a table with friends and bail after four Guinness.

We jumped into the ever-so-easy-to-park 4Runner and rolled eastward, eventually down a formerly useful avenue:  Madison.  Memphis streets are numbered up until our founders (Andrew Jackson et al) ran out of fingers (seven?).  Memphis avenues, except for Poplar (the state tree) and Auction North Parkway, are named for presidents slave holders so that as one rolls south you come forward through the administrations (including innocent Adams the Elder, Esq.) until Monroe, then Union, Beale, and then a listing of states.  Madison was once four lanes all the way and carried considerable weight to and fro, but apparatchiki have reduced it for most of its run to two lanes, a turn lane, and, of course, bike lanes, but it was early evening, and we were in no hurry, so the tortuous path did not much offend.

On the right we passed Huey’s, home of the best burger in the former Confederacy.  The ‘free spankings” sign still hangs behind the bar, there’s a lithograph of Bear Bryant here, some Christian Brothers jersey there, and it’s all very much unchanged since 1986 except that Thomas is dead.  Mr Boggs bought the place shortly after it’s inception and his retirement from percussion.  Everyone in Memphis was in some band once-upon-a-time, and Boggs rode kit for the Box Tops (motto:  did you know Alex Chilton was in our band once?):  his capable but uninspiring thrashings can be heard on a minor hit if you’re really bored.  However, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in the band for the money.  Anyway, he made a good burger and died and the burger’s still pretty good 15 years on.

Almost to Overton Square (motto:  the second Friday’s restaurant was here!), Ardent Studios came up on the left; too much greatness to list was recorded in there.  Traffic was slowing suitably for the various comings and stumblings of eaters, drinkers, and listeners drifting from bar to bar.  The new parking deck (motto:  you were taxed to build it but it’s not free to use it) is a block south, so I looked to turn right out of the mosh and ease my way over there

when the constabulary pulls in and throws on the bubblegum machines.  Where’d he come from and, goshwillikers, I had better get out of the way of Official Police Business, but then he pulled in behind me.  NewWife was trying not to tense up as I pulled out my license because she knew I was going to get incredibly insolent with Roscoe; she shared a few de-escalating thoughts that banged around in my head for a second or two before bouncing out the other ear.

Illegal turn back there; didn’t use the turning lane.  Wut?  Really?  The street’s so janked up how would you even know there’s a turning lane!?  There’s fucking pots in the road where cars should be and I don’t know how any reasonable person could traverse that bull mess other than to hack one’s way through like you were blazing the trail where the Panama Canal might someday go.  It’s more Target parking lot than street; the job is simply not get hit by a wayward shopping cart or run over a bum while you creep around at 17MPH.  In that gentle milieu, somehow, I had committed the crime of the century.

 

Do THIS, not THAT, because lives are at stake! [note to Glibs who can’t differentiate colors well:  click here to hear a retelling of this entire affair.)

I was arrogant and indifferent, which $28.47/hour officer T Holmes 14177 didn’t know how to interpret.  He muttered something about my eyes being glazed over, I retaliated by characterizing his assessment as standard lame cop crap, and he decided to just go back to his cruiser and write me up instead of subjecting me to The Process for the weekend.

The entire episode set me back a full $57.75.  I have learned my lesson, repent of my transgression, and feel real bad about the entire thing and will be more careful from now on.  I don’t want to be no hard case, boss.