mind of mencius

After a long day driving alone, blending in sounded great and ordering a beer and whiskey in a Tennessee bar seemed the quickest way to lose myself among the locals. The Tremont Tavern serves only beer and all attempts to fit in fly immediately out the window. Kate failed to mention the absence of hard alcohol when I arrived, so I channeled a majority of my sore thumb angst into mild resentment toward my perception of her thoughtlessness.

But Chattanooga is not for alienation or pretention. No one in the bar took a second whiff of the powerade, body odor, urinal cakes and fried chicken emanating from my road-weary pores. Things in the Tremont were Okay. I was Okay, just by virtue of my seat at the bar. And Okay were the two crooners center-stage covering Elton John, the Beatles, Prince and George Michael in a kumbaya blanket of twin rhythm guitars and vocals. The patrons of any Seattle bar would lose interest after hearing covered more than one song found in steady rotation on KZOK[i]. But Chattanoogans love classic rock covers as much as they love classic rock[ii] and the two gentlemen played on, past Prince into Simon & Garfunkel and beyond. The only thing missing from my first southern bar Experience was a solid cover of “Wagon Wheel”[iii].

After sampling a number of beers from Highland Brewery[iv] it was back to Kate’s for a night on the pleather couch. Parched on the drive home, I lamented a decision made earlier that day to pee into my Nalgene (while driving) as I crossed the Mississippi River. The expediency (and the Marking of Territory) of peeing across the Mississippi was attractive at the time, but 28oz of urine were still in that Nalgene eight hours later and I was thirsty. Thankfully Chattanooga has no deserts to provide a measure of acceptance to the notion of drinking my own urine for the second time[v] in my life.

Coffee and writing in the morning. Kate’s house was cold in the Chattanooga winter, but the sky was blue and the cafe we worked at brewed a solid cup. Kate managed the discussion forums for The Chattanoogan, laughing as reactions to local and national news poured in. Sitting in the South is like Sitting in the West–find a nook and scatter your brain. I felt at home.

After a nap at Kate’s while she ran, BBQ called me to Sugar’s Ribs on Missionary Ridge overlooking the city. You haven’t eaten okra until you’ve eaten at Sugar’s, where the sliminess of your childhood okra experience is flash-fried and salted into oblivion, subverted slowly by each lick of your fingers. Being no particular fan of spareribs[vi], Sugar’s Ribs didn’t tickle my fancy–but the plethora of sauces in labelled squeeze bottles provided enough alchemical satisfaction to win me over.

Not that I needed winning over. Winning over happened the moment I walked in the restaurant, when I first glimpsed the only waitress working the floor. 5’6″ on a good day and reaching six feet in heels, 100lbs of sass and southern hospitality steadily feeding the juke box to play her favourite songs as an excuse to sing as she waited tables. I can’t remember the last time someone touched my arm in casual conversation, let alone to see how these ribs tasted, honey. In that touch, the ribs heavily impressed. We left only when I ran out of increasingly asinine excuses to solicit her attention… tagless, I never knew her name.

In the car again, up a switchback on the southern face of Lookout Mountain to the Mountain Opry, a Chattanooga Friday night staple for the last 29 years. In an assembly hall heated and lit by evening donation, the area woodwork gathered to drink 50 cent coffee and wade in the bluegrass. For two and a half hours, spirituals and standards in scattered arrangement played second fiddle to the life stories of this weekly crossroads.

Slim Pickens’ spitting image sat centre stage for the first hour, lighting up silences with decades of southern wisdom and an often-unintelligible urging to enjoy the moment:

Have fun, man… Thass what iss all about. ‘Cause you cain’t take it with you when you go. I mean… I ain’t never seen no U-Haul truck following an ambulance.

With that in mind, back down the mountain to J.J.’s Bohemian, where Chattanooga 20-somethings chiefed cigarettes indoors and chased the second-hand smoke with the champagne of beers. Met two guys, Daniel and Zeke, who spent time in King County Jail during the 1999 WTO Riots–Dan and Zeke are punk musicians and anarchists, members of a bike[vii] gang and drinkers of Sad Mountain moonshine.  Good people.

Good people fill the entirety of J.J.’s, whose three bartenders rang up High Life after High Life on my credit card tab. And after a long night of drinking and bluegrass, including “Wagon Wheel” covers at the bar and at the opry before, back to pleather and a sleeping bag and hours before the morning drive.

And the drive out of town, after my most surprisingly feel-good visit of the entire trip, brightened with the knowledge that I will be back to Chattanooga, to revel again in the city’s urgent honesty. Until then, the charmed life continues toward inauguration and beyond.

1. that’s 102.5 on the FM dial for the greater Seattle area, pumping out classic rock tunes 24/7… not to mention those fabulous weekend block parties.|↩|
2. and they LOVE classic rock…|↩|
3. we call this Foreshadowing in the Business…|↩|
4. the greatest of these being the Black Mocha Stout. The Cold Mountain Winter Ale was not in stock, but that picture on the website looks amazing.|↩|
5. if I haven’t told you the story of the first time this occurred, buy me a beer sometime and I will tell you.|↩|
6. preferring the baby back ribs of my maternal grandmother.|↩|
7. bicycle|↩|