8:19 AM | Dallas Airport

This morning I woke up at a quarter to five, normally the time I’d be going to bed. And whereas I can’t say that I sprang to life, I managed. After eating breakfast, I was miraculously able to fit all my clothes, electronic devices, and toiletries (including all my creams, pastes, and lotions for my various skin issues) into my luggage. My dad drove to the Fort Smith airport, and the check-in process was quick and seamless, one of the few advantages to living in a small town. Well, there was one snag. My granola bars, all twelve of them, were individually wiped down and checked for explosives residue by TSA. The guy who performed this health-food pat-down actually did so with a serious look on his face, as if he, like Sherlock Holmes, were going to uncover some ill intent of mine by fondling my raisins and nuts with his blue-gloved hands. It took everything in me, including my faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, to not roll my eyes.

Like, I’m not going to hijack the plane, sir, I’m just watching my waistline.

The flight here to Dallas went well. The plane itself, operated by American Airlines, was a puddle jumper, but since the seat next to me was empty, I felt like I was flying first class. The coffee was lukewarm, like those Christians God wants nothing to do with. He and I had the same thought–I will spew you out of my mouth. The miniature pretzels came in a bag that said, “It’s crunch time.” Cute, right? The Biscotti biscuits, made overseas, didn’t have a calorie count on the back of the package, so I made up my own–zero.

Now I’m in Terminal B at the Dallas airport, drinking hot coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts and charging my phone. The flight to Memphis should be boarding soon. As I’m typing, my hands are shaking from lack of sleep and the fact that they’ve been shaky a lot lately. It’s probably “just one more thing” or–more likely–an inherited condition. (Thanks, Dad.) I’m sure the coffee doesn’t help. Earlier I made a lap around the terminal to get the lay of the land, and no one–including the hot TSA agent with biceps as big as my thighs–looks happy to be here. I know we take things for granted, but come on, y’all–we’re flying!

3:56 PM | Memphis

I spoke too soon. Earlier when I said, “We’re flying,” I meant to say, “We’re sitting on the runway for two hours!” Y’all, our plane had a problem with the steering mechanism, which I guess is important. Anyway, it took a while to fix, then we had to wait longer because someone got pissed off (I assume) and wanted to exit the plane. What do you do? In my case, I tweeted American Airlines about it, suggesting they give everyone on board free alcohol. Believe it or not, they responded, like, we’re sorry you’re having a bad day.

But no free alcohol. (For a link to my Twitter account, which I’m trying to use more often, click here.)

Also, I found out I was wrong about the number of calories in Biscotti biscuits. The correct number is 120, not zero. What a drag–what a serious drag.

When I arrived in Memphis, the public relations firm I’m working for this week transported me and a few other journalists to our respective hotels. Arriving at the Hotel Napoleon in downtown Memphis at one, I decided to kill some time (that is, eat some pancakes at the Blue Plate Cafe) until the official check-in time at three. After the pancakes, I walked Main Street, stopping at a used bookstore and the National Civil Rights Museum (the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was assassinated). The museum itself was closed today, but there were still a lot of people outside looking up at Room 306, where the murder took place. It felt like sacred ground, everyone quiet or speaking in hushed voices.

Now I’m settled into my room, and y’all, it’s swank. There’s a sliding barn door between the sink area and the shower, and a mirror with a built-in light that makes my skin look radiant. The hotel is new (a year and a half), so everything is up-to-date and modern with USB wall plugs and shit like that. I’ve got the room to myself and a couple hours to kill before dinner (our first official group activity), so I’d like to catch a nap. It’s been a long day, and I imagine it will be an even longer week, albeit a fun one. More later.

10:45 PM | Memphis

OMG, y’all, I’m stuffed. After my nap, I met the group for dinner at Blues City Cafe, and it was SO good. (Everyone else had ribs and catfish; I ate steak because I’m that guy.) Also, I’m not just saying that because I’m sort of being paid to promote everywhere I’m going. I’m doing that elsewhere (and meaning it), but this is still my blog. But seriously, so great. There was live music, and just, well, the south and its food. Also, the waitress gave us a handwritten note, thanking us for being there. It said, “The beauty of your presence was my pleasure.” This reminds that each person truly is beautiful, if we only stop to notice.

After dinner I wandered around Beale Street and visited with some of the folks who work for the company that brought me here. One of them was even kind enough to walk me back to my hotel when I was ready to leave so I wouldn’t get mugged. Talk about a gentleman!

So far everyone I’ve met has been really great, kind, interesting. I was stressed getting here, but now that I’m here, I’m thrilled. It’s good to be out-of-town.

Earlier this evening I got the results of my latest blood work, the blood work the immunologist ordered. I’m not doctor, but everything (except my tetanus antibodies) came back within range. When I told my dad, I said, “At some point, I wish they’d find SOMETHING wrong.” But what do I know? Some of the levels were right on the line, so maybe there is something to “fix.” I should hear from the doctor in a day or two with his interpretation. But it is frustrating, not feeling well and seeing test after test that says I’m perfectly fine–on paper. I swear, it’s like white people who clap on the 1 and the 3. You know just as well as I do–something ain’t right.

While looking around Beale Street, a necklace I often wear, a spiritual necklace of sorts, broke. Specifically, the chain broke. I felt it give, then the pendant on the necklace just rolled across the floor like one of Elvis’s records, bumped right up against a display full of shot glasses and t-shirts. According to the group that gave me the necklace, this is supposed to mean something (not good), like–I don’t know–stay away from booze and rock and roll. More likely, if it means anything, it means I could pay more attention to my spiritual life, which I’ve admittedly had “an attitude” about this last year. I truly do believe that the beauty of life’s presence is everywhere–in a good meal, in the face of a stranger, in the sound of the blues. All of this is sacred ground. There’s not a square inch of the universe, including you and me, that isn’t. But I know that when I don’t feel well, when life is “challenging,” that’s when I lose that connection. That’s when my chain breaks. That’s when I don’t see life for what it actually is–love, baby, love.