The birthplace of the blues is closed on Mondays

So here we are in Clarksdale, Mississippi, birthplace of the blues. Legend has it that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the cross roads of Routes 49 and 61, and hence, well, the blues. Unfortunately, none of the museums or, say, blues clubs, are open on Mondays, so we went to the packie, and all they had were Parrot's bay wine cooler things (which give me heart burn, in case you were wondering, but I'm a trooper) which you could purchase individually, so we did that and came back to our shack (more on that in a moment) and toasted with our picture of Robert Johnson, above.

Shack! So Lizzie found the Shackin' up inn on the interwebs, and we thought it would be fun, and sort of kitschy to stay here. Joke's on us. It's a fucking shack. Our shower (drip, drip, drip) has a wrench where one would normally find a knob to control water flow, and it smells like a mildewy basement. There are rags for "curtains" held up by broken tiki torches, and there are mouse traps in every corner. Also, the particular treatment on the window we're staring at right now is a ratty t-shirt with the American flag on it. Someone left a jar of butter pickles in our microfridge, so that's coming back as a souvenier for one of you lucky readers.

Before we could process the shacktitude, we wanted to get some food, because I was cranky, and unable to laugh at the irony of our self-imposed situation. We asked the "desk clerk" where we could eat, and he and another customer told us that everything thing was closed, because, well, it was Monday. What? (Also, Lisa P will be happy to know that there was a dachshund sitting outside on the gravel in front of the "lobby"). In any case, there was one bbq joint open, Abe's, which originally opened in 1924. The fact that I was absolutely starving did not detract from the absolute delciousness of our pile of pork and beans. (Good thing Lizzie and I get separate rooms in our shack, for safety's sake. There was cabbage, too). After we scarfed down dinner (it took all of 10 minutes) we did the Clarksdale 500, and saw all of the places which we could've gone to had it been Tuesday, or Wednesday or even Sunday, for fuck's sake. Then we hit the packie for the aforementioned wine coolers (MMMM). I have to say that it's a real confidence booster to be the most interesting thing to walk into this particular packie in quite some time, I'm sure. Perhaps it was the bbq stuck in my braces, or the reddened tops of my legs, or the new tear in Lizzie's dress. Perhaps it was a combination of these things. Who can decode the feminine mystery? But all conversation ended when we entered, and I'm sure our choice of beverage wowed the clerks, who carded me, probably so he could see from whence these exotic creatures came. They guessed that we were staying at the Shackin' up inn, and we dodged the question, and dodged the packie and came back home with our spoils, which also included, I forgot to mention, a hershey's bar. Hells yeah.

We wandered around a bit more post packie (but pre beverage consumption) and I have to admit that I got the shit scared out of me by a dead snake. I was taking pictures over this awesome bridge, and noticed a big honkin' snake by my feet. I jumped back and slapped my toasted legs in fright, and then yelped because it hurt. Oh it burns. Poor Lizzie couldn't identify the source of my terror until I said "oh, nevermind, it's dead." I also took a picture. It felt necessary.

We returned to our shack, took our photo with Bob, and were pleasantly surprised that Lizzie's fancy interweb connector thing worked out here in West no-where Mississippi. We're hoping to see some actual stars tonight but will probably be frightened by the lack of light pollution.

Tomorrow, Graceland. I hope that shit is not closed on Tuesdays.