So my dad and I flew into Memphis, picked up my cousin Cara in Tupelo, MS, and headed on down Highway 61, aka the Blues Highway. We made plans to stay at the Ground Zero Blues Club — an old, rundown juke joint co-owned by Morgan Freeman, and little less than a mile from the exact spot where famed blues musician Robert Johnson supposedly sold his soul to the devil in exchange for a gift of guitar. Prior to flying out of Kansas City, a small convo between TOM and I:
Dad: Tina, if I don’t come home one night, do you want me to call you?
Me: I mean, I guess. Just so I don’t worry.
Dad: OK, because that very well may happen. I brought two Viagra.
Me: …
Dad: I’m serious. I’m 62 years old.
Me: OK. I don’t care. I just don’t want to hear about it.
Dad: You don’t want to hear about your ol’ man and his Viagra prescription?
Me: No.
TOM felt so proud of his little blue pills that he felt the need to declare it in capital letters on the plastic tablecloth of the Blues Club (above).
After 8 peaceful years on my own, I left my tiny New York City apartment for my hometown of Independence, Missouri, a mere five days before my 30th birthday. Why? I missed my dad. Biannual visits weren't enough; I longed for Sunday dinners with The Ol' Man. But I forgot that before I can enjoy those occasional dinners, only to go back to my own Kansas City apartment, I would need to take up temporary residence. In my childhood home. After losing my mother to cancer in 1998, my outspoken, liberal, Vietnam veteran hippie father has grown accustomed to living alone. And when my cat and I move in, my 60-year-old pop's bachelor pad (and world) is turned upside down. -
Oh lawsy lawsy lawsy