On conspiracy theories

There are people in America who believe that the Apollo moon landing of 1969 was a hoax, in fact shot in a sound studio somewhere in California.

There is the more recent speculation that the Twin Towers were felled on September 11th not by jetliners, but by explosives planted by the government.

And then there's this asshole:

The guy on the right, geniuses.

Meet Robert Groden. Photo expert, former technical advisor to several Hollywood films, conspiracy theorist. We'll come back to him.

I spent the day yesterday in the 6th Floor Museum, the museum set up in the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository where Lee Harvey Oswald set up his sniper's nest.

The museum is excellent; a veritable treasure trove of information including a dozen or so newscasts from the time surrounding the event, including the murder of Oswald a few days later caught on tape.

After the museum, I walked around Dealey Plaza and took a few pictures of the book depository and the famous grassy knoll.

Walking back to the parking lot, I passed Mr. Groden's table and was naturally sucked in. Mr. Groden, it turns out, is a photo expert who has testified before government inquiries into the assassination. He's written several books on the matter, and when Oliver Stone made JFK, he served as a technical advisor. He later went on to be an expert witness in the OJ Simpson case, as well as technical advisor for the film Ruby.

And now he spends his days sitting beside graphic photos of the assassination and subsequent autopsy, expounding the various facts that discredit the lone gunman theory to anyone who will listen. People like me.

To his credit, the House Select Committee on Assassinations, the very government inquiry for which he testified in the late seventies, went against the findings of the Warren Commission and claimed that it was highly probable that Oswald had not acted alone. But beyond that is anyone's guess.

To his discredit, while all formal inquiries were officially concluded in 1988, Mr. Groden continues to sit by the grassy knoll at Dealey Plaza. Here is a man who has worked on major Hollywood films, sat before grand juries, yet has failed to parlay any of this reasonable success into a more comfortable means of living. Here is a man who sits and peddles his books, unwilling to let go of the past while the rest of us forge on.

After listening politely for a few minutes, I left him to go get lunch.

A brief history of Hot Springs, Arkansas

In 1803, after facilitating the Louisiana Purchase, Thomas Jefferson sat and thought to himself, "Now hold on a minute... just what have I gotten myself into?" The deal had been pulled off to thwart Napolean's North American intentions, not necessarily for what actually lay within the boundaries of the purchase. So Jefferson sent parties of explorers into the unkown.

A party not connected with the famed Lewis and Clark expedition came across the natural thermal springs of what would become western Arkansas, and word quickly spread of the place where water naturally bubbles to the surface at a constant 147 degrees. By 1830 the first inn had been built, and others soon followed.

After a brief history as a rough and tumble frontier town, the place took on a more genteel air around the turn of the century when the formerly wooden bathhouses were replaced by more ornate buildings to attract the upper crust of society. Soon they came in droves. The bathhouses all competed with each other, each trying to outdo the last, and the result is Bathhouse Row, a street of wonderful structures all opposite quaint stores and restaurants. People were sent here by their physicians to cure any number of ailments, including Tuberculosis, Rheumatism and Polio.

Eventually the medical community wised up and realized sitting around in steam rooms and thermal spas wouldn't do much for a bad case of the gout, and the bathhouses hit a decline.

Then Bill Clinton became president, and a small boom hit. Hot Springs decided to cash in as the president's boyhood home, and the quaint shops on Central Ave. soon had company.

A J. Jonah Jameson type executive somewhere in Maryland grabs the phone. "Yeah, it's Duncan here in corporate. Get me Hot Springs on the phone. Yeah that's right, Arkansas. I don't care if it's 3am, I want six Shell gas stations there by the end of this week."

The Shell gas stations were followed by a Harley Davidson bike dealer, an Outback Steakhouse, a lingerie (and more!) shop, dozens of motels with names like "el Ranchero Motel" and the "Settle Inn," an Old Navy, a Starbucks, a carwash that plays oldies music, a Sonic, and so on and so forth, resulting in a terrible commercial sprawl, the likes of which I haven't even seen in Jersey.

Never to be outdone, Walmart stepped in and built a supercenter the size of an international airport. Then they encourage their employees to dole out five plastic bags even if a customer only buys eight small items.

And this is where I saw the most beautiful sunset of the trip so far, here amidst the sprawl in Hot Springs, Arkansas.

Finding America

I'm sitting in a bookstore/cafe in downtown Little Rock. It's raining outside and I just realized I left my car window open a little. I slept in my car last night and will do so again tonight.

I walked around the state capitol building and was amused to note a replica of the Liberty Bell minus its famous crack on the east side of the building, and on the west side, an eternal flame of freedom which had ceased to burn.

Besides being the state capitol, Little Rock may now be best known for the site of the William Jefferson Clinton Library, erected in 2004, which I visited this morning, and was remarkable in its ability to stir emotion in me.

I came of age during the man's presidency. From the sixth grade to my sophomore year in college, I led my life growing ever more conscious of politics and world events, and always with President Clinton in the background. It's funny how we look at world events in comparison to our own lives. As I dutifully browsed through the multimedia displays, I would come to a display of Clinton signing this or that treaty and think, "Hey, that was the day I won the state cup, " or, "that was the day I found out I got into Bates."

It was all well done, but let's just say I wasn't walking around thinking, "Oh man, I can't wait to blog about this." It's only now, still stuck in Arkansas on a rainy day with ample time to reflect, that I feel the emotion.

What struck me this morning was the man's seeming, unconditional love for this country. It's an admirable trait in a president, one I think we can see no matter who the president is. Despite a president's power tripping, poor decisions, a legacy of infamy or obscurity, it's his love of the country that gets him (or her) to the position in the first place. Among other things, of course.

I gripe for comedic purposes, but it should be known I hold a similar love for this country, and it feels like a privilege to wander my homeland for so long and let this love be reinforced by the the good, the bad, and the ugly all put together in one unforgettable summer.

American Tune by Paul Simon

Many's the time I've been mistaken

And many times confused

Yes, and I've often felt forsaken

And certainly misused

Oh, but I'm alright, I'm alright

I'm just weary to my bones

Still, you don't expect to be

Bright and bon vivant

So far a-way from home,

so far away from home

And I don't know a soul who's not been battered

I don't have a friend who feels at ease

I don't know a dream that's not been shattered

or driven to its knees

but it's alright, it's alright

for we lived so well so long

Still, when I think of theroad we're traveling on

I wonder what's gone wrong

I can't help it, I wonder what has gone wrong

And I dreamed I was dying

I dreamed that my soul ROSE unexpectedly

And looking back down at me

Smiled reassuringly

And I dreamed I was flying

And high up above my eyes could clearly see

The Statue of Liberty

Sailing away to sea

And I dreamed I was flying

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower

We come on the ship that sailed the moon

We come in the a-ge's most uncertain hours

and sing an American tune

Oh, and it's alright, it's alright, it's alright

You can't be forever blessed

Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day

And I'm trying to get some rest

That's all I'm trying to get some rest.

Arkansas

In 1836, the state of Arkansas was admitted to the union on the one condition that it refrain from complicating things by creating any worthwhile diversions. 171 years later, the good people of Arkansas have held up their end of the deal.

Refusing to spend another minute weaving my way around massive tractor trailers, I spent all day taking back roads to Little Rock. I saw nothing but old, decrepit buildings, abandoned gas stations, beat up houses and cars, all sprinkled about the thousands of acres of farmland which somehow also failed to be picturesque.

I stopped for lunch in De Witt, a town of 3,000 which has seen better days. The center of town was a square situated around the town courthouse, which brought to mind a lazy Sunday in the fifties, that heyday of Main Street, America. Couples might have spent a Sunday afternoon strolling amongst the trees outside the courthouse while kids hung out at the local drug store drinking chocolate malts. Maybe De Witt never had such a history. All I know is it's gone considerably downhill since then.

This afternoon, out of the storefronts not boarded up, the only one open was a Chinese buffet. After stuffing myself with rather questionable food, I sat out by my car to look at my map. As I did so, a car sped into the square and circled around it. Soon another one followed. And another. Within a few minutes there were six or seven of them, all driving slowly around and around.

I was more confused than the time I saw "Eyes Wide Shut."

It finally occured to me to flag one down. A red Ford Mustang pulled up to me, and its passenger side window rolled down to reveal three teenagers. When asked why they were doing laps around the courthouse, the most stoned-looking of them replied, "ain't shit else to do, man." He looked at me another second, concentrating real hard, then asked, "you got any smoke on you?"

Having nothing else to do, I joined them for a few rousing laps, and I daresay it was the highlight of my day, which says a lot about Arkansas.

But then I came across Scott, Arkansas, and suddenly the place seemed a bit nicer, afterall.

Photography

During my time in Memphis, I stayed with Kellen, a native Alaskan who moved here two and half years ago on a whim. His day job is a waiter at an upscale restaurant, but spends his free time being one hell of a photographer.

Seriously, he makes me ashamed to hold a camera, but at the same time inspires me to take my own photography a step further. Do yourself a favor and check out his website: www.kellenkjera.com.

My first night in Memphis, Kellen and his friends took me out to a local club where we stayed till 1am. I normally hate clubs like I hate Illinois Nazis, but his friends were a wacky bunch and I actually enjoyed myself. They decided to take me out to Wild Bill's last night, a seedy blues joint where they serve nothing but beer and fried chicken. Sadly, though, they bailed on me in the end due to being too tired. Dammit people disappoint me sometimes.

1,000 bonus points to the person who can identify the movie reference above.

Memphis

Interstate 40 ambles across Tennessee a solid 200 miles from Nashville to Memphis, and yesterday I spent the whole ride with Paul Simon's "Graceland" stuck in my head. "Graceland, Graceland, Memphis Tennessee I'm goin' to Graceland..." and so on and so forth. It was a long drive.

I'd like to think that Americans can be forgiven the mistake of picturing Memphis as populated solely by Elvis impersonators and the legions of adoring fans who treat Graceland like Mecca, kind of like how most Americans think of my home state of New Jersey as nothing more than a wasteland of freeways and factories. Thankfully, neither is the case.

If Nashville is famous for the home of country, Memphis is famous for the birthplace of blues and rock and roll. Starting in the 1930's, farmers displaced by industrialization moved to the cities. In Memphis, blacks took refuge on Beale Street, a place where live music in the form of jug bands and other types became a tradition. The street became a hodge podge of styles and ideas, eventually taking shape into a new genre.

Nowadays the street continues to offer live music, but it mainly caters to tourists. Vendors hawk "big ass beers" while the mostly white crowd shuffles by in a happy stupor, much like what I suspect Bourbon Street In New Orleans is like. By night the neon signs provide a garish glow as scores of police officers show up to keep order.

It might be kind of sad if it wasn't so much damn fun. I spent hours yesterday listening to a live show in a park, clapping and laughing with the other tourists. When it got dark, I wandered up and down the street, ducking in and out of dark bars and taking in the music everywhere I stood.

This morning I went to Graceland. Graceland stands ten or so miles outside of Memphis, past used car lots, pawn shops, old motels and generally unsavory characters. Come upon Graceland, however, and the street becomes Disneyland: massive parking lots, lines for tickets, shuttle buses, and the wonderful opportunity to part with your money approximately every three feet. Parking costs $6, and with a student ID and a AAA card I was able to get the basic mansion tour for $21.25. I could barely afford to eat today.

According to Frommer's USA, Graceland is the 2nd most visited home in the United States. 1,000 bonus points to the person who can name number one on the list.

Elvis bought his mansion in 1957 at the age of 22, but remodeled in the seventies, and the result is unintential comedy. The place is hysterical and a testament to the poor tastes of the era. Or possibly just Elvis.

The "jungle room" with the green shag carpet was even better, but the lighting wasn't good enough in there.

Having been born four years after his death, I missed the hysteria over Elvis, and don't quite understand the hype today. But there's no question the man lived like - dare I say it? - a king, however garish and outlandish it all might seem to us now.

Nashville

I rocked up to Nashville yesterday feeling a bit crazed from the previous four hours. A tractor trailer had blown up on I65, leaving miles of cars stuck behind it. The crafty ones cut across the median to return to the last exit and use 31W instead, which then caused severe swelling on that road as well. For the next hour or so I drove around rural Tennesse trying to tell myself to enjoy the scenery but instead growing more irate with every minute wasted, every centimeter the mercury rose. By the time the temperature hit 100 degrees I had finally made it to Nashville, just in time for rush hour traffic. On six lanes of highway. Who knew Nashville highways resembled those of L.A.?

I'm living the dream all right.

I'm spending my time in Nashville in the home of Sheri, a single mother raising a 15 year old son who is spending the summer with his father. I received his room for my stay, and I fell alseep last night under posters of Led Zeppelin and the Sex Pistols which belong to a boy I've never met.

Sheri also has two cats which she rescued from an animal shelter, one of which had been shot with buckshot and was a little mistrusting of humans. Naturally this is the one I accidentally stepped on.

Part of the joy of couchsurfing is the randomness it introduces. The quirks of another being are plentiful when subjected to them all at once, i.e. when thrust into someone's living space. But it's what makes traveling so much more interesting.

I came to Nashville with no real excitement or anticipation, and maybe as a result got little in return. It was just hot and full of country music. God I hate country music. But when expectations are low or nonexistent, I find the greatest rewards. Sheri, her friend and I went on a hike tonight in a forest outside of Nashville.

It was a simple four mile hike, more of a hearty evening constitutional than anything else, but provided some excellent scenery and wildlife spotting. It was quiet and pleasant and cool. It was everything Nashville was not. Which is not to say I disliked Nashville. It's just that, in this case, it's easy to see the things that outshone it.