There is one minor problem with this motel: the internet connection is sluggish. It's not as sluggish as the connection I had at the McDonald's in St. Genevieve, MO at lunch yesterday—that one was completely worthless—but it's pretty slow. Oh well. That only means that I'll have time between uploading photos to dance around the room or mosey about the terrace.
This is my writing station for the night. Apart from some minor adjustments I made to make my room look more awesome than it does—although we've already established that this room is totally awesome—this is what it looks like from my point of view. Pretty fabulous, right? Can I get a pretty fabulous? Thanks. I don't want any Debbie Downers in this room. Do you want to dance? I feel like dancing. I feel like jumping on the bed. I did jump on the bed in my Memphis Super 8 room this morning. I'd finally caught up on the sleep I'd been needing, and after eating one of the miniature pecan danishes provided for free in the lobby, I had so much energy I couldn't control myself. It was 8 A.M. in the morning and I had to get pumped up for the day. I was about to head south from Memphis into the Mississippi river delta. I was about to spend a fuck-load of time looking at ripe cotton. I was about to pass the warehouse HQ of Dollar General and Monsanto's enormous cotton plant research facility. I would need all the enthusiasm I could muster.
Writing on the road takes a certain amount of enthusiasm, a certain amount of energy, and an uncertain amount of who-the-hell-knows-what. At a gas station about ten miles from the Yazoo river today, some dude tapped on my car window. I was rolling a smoke. He wanted to bum one. Rolling a cigarette, he said through the glass, You must have just gotten out of the pen. I rolled my window down part way. I offered him the smoke I'd just rolled, but he told me I didn't know how to roll like they do in the penitentiary. I gave him a paper and some tobacco. He told to watch him roll. This is how you roll, he said. He rolled a terrible cigarette. It was a prison cigarette, all bent and crumpled. It looked like it had been stamped upon in the exercise yard, but he was really proud of it. He squeezed the middle of it, told me to notice how firm it was. My window was rolled down about half-way down at this point. I said, Yeah, that's nice. A total lie. His smoke sucked. I'll never see that ex-con again. Did I mention that this motel has a laundry room?
It does. But I'm not gonna wash my clothes. But maybe I'll take a dip in the pool after I get some dinner. There's an Applebees nearby. But then again, there's always the old expression: One bad Applebees spoils the barrel. Indeed it does, indeed it does.
Ok...that's enough clowning around for one night. I have a bunch more work to do. I have loads of pictures of the Mississippi delta and tons of road video that I need to sift through and edit. I took a phone call from president Obama while driving through central Illinois, and I absolutely must get to that. Bye!