October 30

Went to a different part of Memphis today - the Cooper Young district. Allegedly it's the up and coming, hip neighbourhood but it still has a bit of a way to go. I ended up talking to a group of hairy young refuseniks, a couple of whom worked at the local hostel which operated a bit like a commune. They were pretty down on America as a whole and asked me if London had many vegetarians. At one point a crack head sauntered up, mooching for money and cigarettes.

"You know the election?" he mumbled in his crack head voice. "You voting for that guy?"

"I'm voting for Ralph Nader," said one of the guys whose name was Adam.

"Man," said the crack head. "You are crazy."

Adam told me that Memphis had been the location for America's first African American model neighbourhood in the early 70s: Orange Mound. It was for a short time a perfect example of empowerment, cooperation and all that other good stuff until the 80s when it was ripped apart by crack cocaine. Today it's slowly on the way up but Memphis' mayoral and gubernatorial offices are so corrupt that urban areas like Orange Mound are pretty much left to fester.

Young Avenue Deli. Great place but it was worrying that by 5 o' clock everyone that worked there was drunk. They were so drunk that at one point the entire staff left the bar to race each other, on foot, up and down the middle of the road. Still, it had great music. Could I be any happier drinking local beer while lining up Frank Zappa, Judas Priest and Neil Young on the jukebox? No. No, I couldn't. By the way here are some of the great local beers that I and my friends, both old and new, have drunk in the last two weeks across the South: Yuengling, Dreamweaver, Yazoo Pale, Carolina Blonde, Endless Summer, Pischa Pale, Ghost River, Warsteiner Pilsner.

I like being British here because people open up to you with almost no cajoling or wheedling. Maggie Louise told us about her conservative father being surprisingly accepting of her being gay. She was from Millington. "But there ain't much to do up in Millington," she said.

That evening we went to an open mic night at the local artsy cafe. I was particularly impressed by the performance of Z-Bob, the local hobo.

"Now," said Z-Bob to the audience. "I am nobody. I done nothing. I done wrote a book called The King of Nothing. But the Man stood there and said the poetry for me."

The locals are not so impressed by Z-Bob. I think they've been overexposed to him. One guy, Warren, had been hit by a car three weeks ago and was lying in the road when Z-Bob had wandered over to talk to him about "how people be".

"Jesus Christ Z-Bob," screamed Warren. "Just get me an ambulance!"

Z-Bob played a startlingly dramatic classical piano piece for us that night. I think he'd be a big hit in London. Does anyone want to put out for Z-Bob's air fare?