T.n.T. (Terror 'n Tennessee)

An Idyllic Getaway Turns Into The Worst Weekend Ever 

 

  Pirate Press             January 2025 

 

Dr. Fox, telephone please
Dr. Fox, telephone
Dr. Fox here to dispatch
Dispatch go ahead

We have a 47 year old female
Unconscious, possible D.K.A.
Patient is not responding at this time
We are presently putting on the mask
The CPR isn't pulled up*

*Reference available here.

 

Memphis is one of those places I've always wanted to visit, but never gotten the opportunity since it's so far removed from where we usually drive. When we traveled to Tennessee on our honeymoon we hit a lot of famous cities (Chattanooga, Gatlinburg, Lynchburg, Nashville, etc.) but never Memphis as it was on the far west side of the state.   

 

So, when Victoria's college football team earned a spot in the State playoffs and her dance team was required to attend, I was secretly thrilled that I'd finally have an excuse to see Memphis. After all, we've never had a reason to drive much further north than the state capital in Jackson, so I'd finally see Mississippi's top (and hopefully better) half. 

 

Truthfully, the ballgame was in Senatobia but the extra 40 miles to Memphis was basically a skip, hop and a jump so we literally had to go. I reasoned that it had taken me 56 years to get there and I'd likely never have the opportunity again. Of course, in hindsight traveling on to Memphis was nearly a fatal mistake.

 

But those forthcoming tragedies never present themselves ahead of time and that's what makes them so deadly. If we all had such clairvoyance, we could steer clear of those calamities. Instead, when we started out for Memphis on that warm and blustery November day, my biggest concern was the rain in the forecast. Looking back now, it's hard to believe just how blissfully naive I was and how quickly my entire world would be turned upside down.

 

The first two hours were uneventful as we made it to Jackson, and the most excitement I had was when some redneck in a clapped out Hyundai Accent thought he was going to bully me and attempt to beat me to the I-55 merge. His car was definitely lighter, but with two fewer cylinders and a 125hp deficit, I blasted right past him as the lanes narrowed from four to two and the highway banked north. Of course, Amanda frustratingly exhaled after my Formula One-style overtaking maneuver, clearly not comprehending the necessity of putting said hillbilly in his place (both literally and figuratively). He futilely endeavored to keep up but as I sliced and diced my way through the Capital gridlock at extra-legal speeds he fell further and further back until no longer visible. 

 

A miserable two-hour slog later, with views of swamps that looked more at home in Louisiana, we finally reached Senatobia. Our opponent was Northwest Community College where prolific Mississippi writer John Grisham briefly attended. Had I spotted him, I would have thanked him for introducing me to Red Stripe Jamaican Lager via the movie based on his 1991 novel "The Firm". The American Adjunct beer is the only one I really enjoy and still brings back great memories of that era when everything was so much simpler and better. 

 

Surprisingly, as we took the first exit into town we spotted Victoria's collegiate bus just ahead of us. Considering we had an hour head start on them (and I never let my speed drop much below 80 mph) I was equally impressed and frightened that they somehow managed to beat us.  

 

In downtown Senatobia, we stopped for lunch at Coleman's Bar-B-Q, a small diner I hadn't eaten at in almost fifty years! That's right, some of my earliest memories of dining out were at the Coleman's restaurants in Pascagoula and Gautier circa 1976. So when I discovered that this was the last one out of the 163 locations once scattered across the South, I knew I couldn't pass it up. We arrived at perhaps the worst possible time— lunch on Saturday right before the big game. The college match-up was the talk of the restaurant with many patrons sporting "Northwest" apparel. Thankfully, Amanda nor I had any defining garments that would announce us as intruders so we were able to blend in with the enemy. In fact, given the inhospitable weather prediction we had chosen to deliberately dress down for the occasion. Not wanting to subject my pricey Canada Goose jacket to the elements, I had brought my red, county-issued rain coat from work. Unbeknownst to me, red and blue were Northwest's primary colors so my red jacket was the perfect camouflage.

 

Alas, the old saying "You can't go home again" rang true as I bit into the pulled pork sandwich I had last consumed almost a half-century ago. Despite the architecture and furnishings representing a reasonable facsimile of my youthful visits, the vinegar-based sauce was an immediate turnoff and it exposed the experience as a fraud. As much as I longed (however briefly) to be teleported back to that innocent time of my childhood, the illusion was instantly shattered into a thousand pieces upon the first taste of that bitter flavoring. Granted, it was still good but it just didn't provide the nostalgic experience that I was so deeply yearning for. That aside, the sweet tea was outstanding and the potato salad tasted homemade. In the end, I was disappointed (yet somewhat relieved) that I could finally close that chapter of my life.

Bar-B-Que Time Machine

 

As for the actual game (and the reason we drove nearly five hours) it was cloudy, cold and occasionally rainy throughout the three-hour event. On the sidelines, Victoria and her teammates even had to indignantly consume their overdue lunch amid the scattered showers. Yet despite flashes of brilliance from our team, bad luck and bad calls ultimately triumphed with us falling short by just two points. But, if there was a silver lining on that somber afternoon, it's that we wouldn't have to drive 15 hours to the national playoff game in Council Bluffs, Iowa. Granted, I'm an irrational sports fan whose happiness is completely contingent on my team winning so I enjoyed reveling in the schadenfreude when Northwest eventually lost to Iowa two weeks later.  

 

After a 3-day stint in the Infirmary just a week before, Amanda wasn't feeling well and chose to sit-out the second half of the game in my car. In hindsight, it was clearly a harbinger of bad things to come, but at the time I simply chalked it up to fatigue from her prior hospitalization. 

 

Leaving Senatobia, we headed 30 minutes north to Horn Lake which is right below the Tennessee state line. We stopped there to try Melissa Cookston's Memphis BBQ Company, which I surmised is an aptonym as well as a misnomer. Being a professional chef and having "Cook" in your name couldn't be more apropos but I took exception to the suggestion that it was in Memphis when it's actually Horn Lake. Those pedantics aside, it's clear now that I severely underestimated Melissa Cookston's seriousness when it comes to smoking meat over hot coals. After all, she is the only female American barbecue world champion and has won countless contests but somehow I dismissed her food as "middle-of-the-road" barbeque, akin to the offerings at national chains like Sonny's. I find those places to offer very generic, mainstream barbeque that caters to everyone and is very average at best. Finally, I realized the dietary transgression I was committing by eating barbeque twice in one day, but I was fully prepared to face the potential Acrylamide-poisoning and thoroughly enjoy it.   

        

I ordered the Pitmaster Sampler which contained a half rack of Baby Back Ribs, Chopped Brisket and a 1/4 chicken (two thighs & a leg). The sides consisted of seasoned green beans, a slice of cornbread and macaroni and cheese. According to the menu, the Baby Back Ribs are smoked for five hours over pecan wood and they use the same recipe that won them a World Championship. Granted, the slab of ribs wasn't the prettiest I've ever seen but my indifference stopped there. I asked for them dry so I could try the various sauces available and I have to admit that the addition of Melissa's Classic Rub on top was a game changer for me! According to her website, the seasoning has a "sweet forward, but with just enough savory notes to fill the palate, and a light hint of spice to tickle the taste buds." She claims to sell it by the smoker load to high-level competition teams and brags that one customer enjoys it so much that they even sprinkle it on their corn flakes! Personally, I believe Melissa should rename it "Angel Dust" as it's just that good, but probably won't for fear of offending her Christian customers. Regardless, the ribs were so succulent and tender that they were literally falling off the bone. But even more amazing was the consistency required to cook the roughly 10,000 slabs served each week to such similar perfection. 

 

After polishing off the ribs, I started in on the chopped brisket which is my second favorite form of barbecue. Pictures didn't do it justice either as it was so rich and moist, instantly setting a new high-water mark for my expectations of future briskets. I even tried some of her "Classic" BBQ sauce which is on the sweeter side and more to my liking than other vinegar and mustard-based sauces. 

 

Unfortunately, it seems like the ribs and brisket are her strong suit as the chicken was pretty flavorless and didn't appear to have received the same amount of attention. Similarly, the greens beans would not win any contests and the cornbread, while tasty, was not warm or fresh. I didn't even try the macaroni as I originally ordered the baked beans but was served it by mistake. And while the banana pudding certainly looked award-winning, it did not equal or surpass Paula Deen's which is my current favorite.   

 

We had a pleasant young man named Lane as our server and he was eager to answer all of our questions except one: What is Melissa Cookston really like? It's fair to say that due to her R.B.F. and leathery skin from a life-long habit of smoking more tobacco than charcoal, she's developed a less-than-friendly reputation, akin to the Martha Stewart of Memphis. After some more prying, he reluctantly admitted that he's only really met her twice as her husband is the one that actually runs the restaurant. However, he did divulge that she came in over the busy Labor Day weekend and was "laser-focused" on making sure everything was running right. I couldn't pin him down to voice anything definitive but I think I summed it up when I said, "Tell me she's a bitch without telling me she's a bitch." He laughed, I laughed, and we both agreed that some things are better left unsaid. 

 

At this point, Amanda had laid her head down on the restaurant table which was unusual even for her, but once again I wrote it off as just general exhaustion. 

 

We arrived at the Memphis hotel around 9:00 that night and she went right to bed. I got to bed not long after her and don't remember anything until around 7:00 the next morning. I could hear her beside me slightly moaning and breathing heavy so I was going to crack a joke about what she was dreaming about. But as I rolled over, her eyes were wide open and she wasn't conscious. I tried shaking her, hoping she would wake up, but she was completely unresponsive. That's when I had the awful realization that something was terribly wrong. Because she was gasping for air I knew that she was still alive, but I didn't know for how much longer. As far as I could tell, she had probably been like this for hours.

 

I frantically dialed 911, something I've never had to do and wondered if with today's cellphones I needed an area code, special prefix, or anything else. Fortunately, I didn't and within a few seconds was connected to an operator who was assessing the situation. He immediately dispatched a fire truck and ambulance to my hotel and walked me through the basic steps to make sure she continued breathing and did not have an obstructed airway. 

I stood halfway between my door and the hallway watching for the paramedics so I could direct them to the right room. I knew being in Memphis the First Responders would be close by, but time slowed down and it felt like it was taking forever for them to arrive. After a seeming eternity, I could hear sirens getting closer and I briefly winced at my fellow hotel patrons who would be getting a similar rude awakening. 

 

The most agonizing phone call of my life
    

Not knowing exactly what to expect, three EMTs and a fireman showed up and they quickly set about getting her moved. Since she was still in the bed, they picked up the fitted sheet under her and used it to transfer her to the stretcher. Almost immediately they were out the door and rolling her down the hall to the waiting ambulance. A few bleary-eyed hotel occupants had curiously opened their doors to investigate the source of the disturbance. As they wheeled her past one old black man, he shook his head disapprovingly and proclaimed "Some people will do anything to get out of paying for their room!"

 

Fortunately, the hospital was less than 2 miles away and on a dreary Sunday morning there was virtually no traffic. I followed the ambulance with my hazards on blowing through red lights and stop signs with reckless abandon. It felt like I was suddenly living some bizarre, real-life version of Grand Theft Auto only I was able to do so with impunity from the police. And realistically, at this point traffic infractions were the least of my concerns. 

 

She was rushed directly into Triage and the Emergency Room was eerily quiet and dark. The attending physician inquired as to what happened so he could immediately formulate a life-saving plan. This included the rather risky procedure of placing an IV line directly into her carotid artery. Under less serious conditions, it's generally not recommended since arterial punctures occur in nearly 10% of these cases and lead to death quite quickly. But with her blood sugar over 1000 mg/dL, the doctor said she only had fifteen minutes to live so it was a calculated risk. He admitted that in his 30 years of practice, it was the highest amount he had ever seen. 

 

Next, as she writhed and moaned on the operating table they began pumping her full of as much sodium bicarbonate as her body could handle. Less glamorously known as baking soda, it's typically used as a cooking ingredient in cakes and pies, a whitening agent in toothpaste, and even in some household cleaning products. But at this point it was being employed for its ability as a systemic alkalizer. I never imagined an 89-cent box of Arm & Hammer could serve as a lich-like phylactery anchoring Amanda to this mortal plane, but it was magically working.

 

Additionally, the attending physician was concerned that she might have to be put on a ventilator. While I thought the prospect of that sounded encouraging, he cautioned against it stating that it could cause her heart to stop due to the build up of pressure in her chest. Fortunately, as she recovered it was deemed not necessary and I realized it's a good thing I'm not a doctor!       

 

Within about 4 hours, she was declared stable enough to move to ICU where they continued to administer four additional 250 mL IV bags worth of bicarb to her. The attending nurse observed that her sugar was still extremely high because their handheld instruments only read to 700 and it was beyond that. 

At 2:00, I was told that I had to leave for the patients' daily Ruhezeit (Quiet Time) so I asked the nurse about a restaurant I had been wanting to try for several years: Dyer's Burgers. As a local, she cautioned me against driving to the chaotic original spot on Beale Street and instead directed me to the little known second location in Collierville. A quick glance at my GPS also confirmed her recommendation— although the Beale Street store was geographically closer, the heavy tourist traffic made the actual travel time much longer. She was quite knowledgeable and seemed to answer everything I asked except whether building the pyramids was considered a pyramid scheme.

 

So, on an empty stomach and a prayer I drove headlong into the Grand Division that is the Western Tennessee countryside. It was amazing how quickly the glass and steel commercialism of Memphis faded away and was replaced by endless miles of rolling green hills and bucolic pastures. I was similarly unprepared for the beautiful town square where Dyer's was located. Not only is it listed on the National Register of Historic Places but it was also ranked by Parade magazine in 2014 as the "Best Main Street" in America. On the "Judgemental Map of Memphis" Collierville seems to be located between 10-acre properties that were formerly slave plantations and where wealthy CEOs are chauffeured to their "jobs." 

 

 

Established in 1866, the Collierville Historic District is unique in that its varied architectural influences are primarily overlaid on conventional building frames. The diverse styles included Colonial Revival, Commercial Italianate, Greek Revival and Queen Anne. However, Dyer's chose to embrace a Western False Front architecture to mimic that of an Old Wild West Saloon. 

 

The building housing the restaurant was believed to have been built in 1897 and while the interior has been dressed up with a lot of memorabilia and current news paper articles, the original ceiling still remains intact.

   

Of course, I wasn't there to ogle the architecture but rather try their world famous burgers cooked in grease that's almost as ancient as the restaurant itself! That's right, Dyer's special recipe is simply recycling the same oil from the original batch in 1912. According to lore, a lazy cook forgot to dump the grease from the previous night and instead reused it when cooking burgers the following day. Something about the unique seasoning and the overnight marination of it led to customers asking for the special burgers so they began straining it nightly and reusing it. 

 

But while it's debatable how much of the original grease is actually still intact, it does make for a good story and ensures Dyer's frying process is unique. In much the same way Kentucky Fried Chicken transitioned to using "KFC" to omit the perceived dirty word "fried", Dyer's has also taken a similar tongue-in-cheek approach. Touting the medicinal benefits, they've even dubbed their special formula as "Vitamin G." 

 

So, not wanting to miss my recommended daily allowance of Vitamin G, I ordered their largest burger available: The Off-Road 4x4 which consisted of four 3-oz. patties and four slices of cheese. And for the final culinary coup de grace, I asked for it to be "Double-Dipped." This is Dyer's Secret Menu Hack wherein the entire burger is quickly dunked in the world-famous grease. It's performed quickly enough that the bun doesn't get soggy but long enough to coat everything in a mouth-watering sheen of deliciousness. 

 

 

I quickly discovered that even lettuce tastes great this way and the final few bites of the moist, grease-soaked bun were pure heaven. Believe it or not, I do have a sensitive stomach and can tell when I've consumed less than high-quality food. Despite the copious amounts of purported 100 year-old animal fat I ingested, it was all ultra-pure as I didn't suffer any dyspepsia. Now, I wouldn't drive almost 6 hours again to eat it, but it was certainly an unusual burger to add to my Gastronaut resume.

 

Throughout my visit, I was waited on by a young teenage girl who looked as if she had swallowed a watermelon. I didn't see a wedding ring and could only assume she was unmarried. It reminded me again that even with the vast differences between my age group and Gen Z, indoor games like "Hide the Salami" are still just as popular now as they were forty years ago.   

 

On the drive back to Memphis, which I must admit was mostly accomplished in a hazy food coma, I happened to come across the most unusual vehicle of the entire trip. It was an exotic Lincoln, which I understand is an oxymoron since I don't believe those two words have never been uttered together. Regardless, I don't know how else to explain the presence of a rare 400hp Lincoln. Helping it's anonymity,  it's nearly indistinguishable from its much more common 2.0 turbocharged sibling which only generates 245hp, a sum incapable of motivating its 3,900-lb. curb weight with any significant authority.    

 

But this special variant, called the MKZ and denoted by the 3.0T badge on its fiberglass stern, indicates the presence of a twin-turbo six cylinder pumping out equal amounts of 400 horsepower and 400 torque. However, the V6 is not a twister like the 3.5 in my Fusion. Whereas mine makes its peak power at a lofty 6250rpm, the MKZ's 400hp arrives much lower at 5500rpm, ostensibly for reliability reasons. The Lincoln is also quite anti-Ozempic, tipping the scales at 4,300lbs. Opting out of the complexity and weight of the AWD platform shaves around 250lbs but drops power to 350hp, because the engineers likely agreed that funneling 400hp solely to the front wheels was a recipe for disaster.           

    

Prior to Amanda being admitted to Saint Francis Hospital, we had only planned to stay in Memphis overnight so I hastily had to arrange some type of accommodation for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, the Church of God's 116th Holy Convocation had descended on the city and the 30,000 faithful were as religiously fervent as Hamas. Due to that, hotel rooms were scare and the only ones available were guilty of price-gouging. Luckily, my notoriety preceded me and the front desk clerk recognized me as the guest who had caused all the commotion earlier. She took pity on me and allowed me to stay in my same room indefinitely. However, it was most assuredly not The Peabody (which was $400 per night) and instead of cute ducks in the lobby, my hotel's mascot was a rabid raccoon. I also think all the marijuana smoke in the parking lot had imbued it with super powers, but thankfully I never confirmed it. 

 

Additionally, my urban lodging was quite unforgettable as over the next week I experienced what it was like living as a bachelor in a big city. Only this wasn't the desirable single life glamorized in movies with endless parties and a hot girl next door. No, mine consisted of spending my days at the hospital and lonely nights visiting the hotel laundromat where it cost $10 to clean and dry my only set of clothes. Victoria had jokingly suggested I buy new ones at Five Below and honestly it would probably have been cheaper to do that. 

 

Surprisingly, in 2022 Memphis was rated the most dangerous city in America and recorded 299 homicides. As I traveled around I tried to be cognizant of that (particularly at night) but fortunately I was staying a little east of Memphis in Bartlett, a much safer suburb. Common sense also dictated not to visit any dangerous areas like South Memphis, Binghampton or the toilet at Graceland that Elvis died on. Thankfully, I never felt threatened but there was always an underlying uneasiness during my whole tenure in Memphis. I've been to similar crime-ridden cities like Chicago, D.C. and New York and never experienced anything like it.  I suppose some of that could be attributed to the anxiety from my wife's hospitalization but overall the town just seems to have a very foreboding atmosphere surrounding it.         

Looking for different restaurants that I'd never tried and were local, I stumbled upon Gus’s World Famous Hot & Spicy Fried Chicken. With just 30 locations nationwide, it was not over-commercialized like some fast food places and GQ magazine boldly proclaimed it "The Best Fried Chicken in the World." However, upon arriving I noticed the most morbid form of advertising I've ever personally witnessed: a black hearse was parked out front with a huge sign declaring "Chicken so good it's worth dying for." Well, Amanda almost technically qualified for that so I figured I was in the right place. Alas, it was hot and fresh but otherwise about on-par with Popeyes spicy fried chicken. It was certainly not life-changing nor would I seek it out again even if I lived nearby.   

During the whole hospitalization, I'd done my best to not alarm Victoria about the severity of Amanda's illness. After all, her fiance had just left for boot camp and she was missing him terribly. Also, just a month prior she was involved in an accident whereby she saw two people perish when the school bus in front of them collided with a vehicle on the way to a football game. Her mental state was already very fragile and with us stuck 5 hours away in Memphis I didn't want any unnecessary stress imposed on her. 

But they say when it rains it pours, so when she asked if I was alone, I knew something was wrong. She said she didn't want to upset her mother but she confided in me that the night before she had been driving back to college when a deer ran out in front of her and she wrecked her car trying to avoid it. 

Back in 2022, when we bought her brand new Kia Forte we discussed a lot of things but the number one priority was safety. Naturally, I objected to the inflated COVID prices and the $4000 premium we paid above MSRP, but I felt confident that it was the best car for the money. And it turned out to be a very good investment as the Forte literally gave its life to protect her. She said it was dark and raining, and as she rounded a corner it apparently startled a deer who then ran out in front of her. Instinctively, she said she swerved and felt the car go into a slide as the tires lost contact on the wet pavement. The last thing she said she remembers is seeing the traction control and the electronic stability lights flashing before her vehicle left the road. I couldn't fault her or the car as even the most advanced safety features in the world cannot defeat the laws of physics. However, 38 years of engineering improvements can make a huge difference— my 1986 Fiero was the same approximate size and weight as her Forte and when I wrecked in a similar situation it flipped several times while hers never did.  I'm also grateful for the advanced air bags that monitored impact severity and adjusted accordingly so she walked away with nothing more than a mild concussion.

 

The exterior body was designed with reinforced, high-strength steel and in crash tests it was one of the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS) Top Safety Picks of 2022. I credit that with it holding up so well despite the severe impact. Miraculously, none of the glass shattered and there's very little visible damage save for the passenger side strike. The most noticeable item is the missing mirror which was cleanly sheared off and the crumpled door and fender panel. Otherwise, the front, rear and driver-side areas were all undamaged.    

 

It started right up and despite a warning that the backup camera was not working, drove perfectly. Honestly, the biggest difficulty I encountered was trying to see with all the deflated airbags covering the windows. But the worst part in this whole sordid ordeal was dealing with Progressive Insurance as they purposely over-inflated the repair costs so they could justify totaling it. I knew the airbags were going to be costly but they checked in at only $2800 versus the $5000 I was expecting. Instead, it was the seat belts that surprised me the most with each one costing $950 to replace (that's $450 for the belt, $300 for the tensioner and $200 for the buckle.) Of course, the belts weren't damaged but after an accident of that magnitude they're required to replace them. The single most expensive part ended up being the right front door shell at $1,065, followed by the right rear door shell at $842 and the right rear quarter panel at $523. 

 

The complete cost of all the parts was calculated at $8,023 followed by labor costs of $6,485 and paint/materials was another $920. Of course, any reputable body shop could do it a lot cheaper but even my insurance agent admitted that Progressive would rather total it than pay to fix it. And in an attempt to console me, he confessed his mother also hit a deer the same week. It was a nice platitude but realistically did zero to improve my situation.

 

Finally, after the Forte was hauled to an auction lot in Alabama I was made aware that Victoria had forgotten her new $300 Burberry sunglasses in the overhead bin. Normally, I would have considered them a lost cause but after everything she had been through I decided to try and retrieve them for her. Her car was located at the Copart facility near Mobile and if you've ever been remotely exposed to buying or selling a car, you've probably heard of them at some point.  It's the largest salvage company in the U.S. and they auction off virtually every type of car imaginable. Want a Ferrari 360 that an angry wife vandalized when she caught her husband cheating? They have it. Or how about a $477,000 Ferrari F8 Spider that briefly became a submarine when Hurricane Helene flooded Tampa? They have it. And don't forget the rich idiot who couldn't handle the 819hp of his brand new 2024 Ferrari 296 and completely rearranged the front-end.

 

Unfortunately, the Google scores for my Copart were not encouraging. Multiple people had posted reviews claiming that their items had been stolen out of their car and I figured an expensive pair of sunglasses like hers might last about as long as an ice cream cone on a hot August afternoon. Even worse, it was only open Monday-Friday so I had to take a day off from work to drive there and then was subjected to Pentagon-level security checks before I could even enter. Once there, I had to don a hardhat and a orange vest and wait thirty minutes while an attendant brought the KIA up to the front office. Miraculously, her sunglasses were still there so either I was very lucky or they simply hadn't been discovered. Either way, she was thrilled and it was the first good news of the entire month.

 

Nearly 60 days later, Amanda has finally been able to go back to work and I reminded her that while some people take vacations, she apparently enjoys visiting hospitals. After all, in the past six months she has visited three different emergency rooms in three different states. Furthermore, I can sympathize with Luigi Mangione as the entire reason Amanda fell into the diabetic coma in Memphis was because her sugar spiked while she slept and neither of us knew it. For the past five years, my health insurance has steadfastly refused to cover her insulin pump and this was the result of that. Had she died due to their corporate greed, I would have held them personally responsible. Ironically, their attempts to save money by not paying for a pump have backfired and now they're on the hook for tens of thousands due to her sudden hospitalization at Saint Francis.  

 

However, after this fiasco Amanda was able to get a glucose monitor and it has (literally) been a life-saver. We still have to pay $150 monthly for it but it's the best insurance we can get. The photo below illustrates the wild swings her blood sugar takes, going from too high (250+) to dangerously low (50) all within a narrow 6 hour window. When it plunged to 50 at 3a.m., it alerted her and she was able to quickly consume some orange juice which corrected it. Otherwise, she would have slipped into another diabetic coma and low blood sugar is even more destructive than the high blood sugar that almost killed her in Memphis. 

 

 

Progressive has finally begun the paperwork to pay the vehicle off. As such, we're still in limbo with the car and it's expected to take another month before everything is finalized. Making matters worse, Amanda's health has literally been in free fall since her emergency brain surgery in 2018 with each passing year bringing a multitude of new illnesses.  To say all this has been a nightmare would be an understatement and I can unequivocally affirm that 2024 has been our worst year ever. Amanda jokes about using up her nine lives, but the truth is she has narrowly escaped death three times since 2020 and I'm worried how much more trauma her body can handle. 

Hopefully, 2025 will be a better and brighter year for us and we'll start it by getting Victoria a replacement for her beloved Kia. Of course, I already have a vehicle in mind and once she gets her sweaty little mitts on it, I don't think she'll miss the Forte at all. Also, unlike the past couple years, I pray Amanda's health improves enough for us to start traveling again as I've got several, long-gestating ideas for Pirate Press I can't wait to write!

       

Burger Bonanza!

Testing The Biggest & Best Fast Food Burgers 

 

  Pirate Press             Autumn 2024 

Proudly Writing Reviews No One Asked For Since 1990

 

My quest to try Fatburger, the iconic California hamburger chain, has been a three-decade one as I first read it in 1994 when JFK Jr. was spotted eating at one in Los Angeles. Apparently, his father celebrated his 1960 Presidential Democratic Nomination by dining at Fatburger afterwards and JFK Jr. made a point to visit that same location. Obviously, I can't do that, but I can finally try the iconic burger that has become a permanent fixture of the culinary zeitgeist. 

First started in 1947, it actually beat rival In-N-Out Burger in nearby Baldwin Park by one year and was owned by an African-American woman, Lovie Yancey.

Also, my literal journey to Fatburger was nearly as confusing and mystifying as the events surrounding JFK's assassination. For starters, the nearest Fatburger opened in Alexandria, Louisiana in 2020, but the four-hour drive and it's location (virtually in the middle of nowhere) meant that it closed with a whimper in 2023. Incidentally, the new store is even more isolated but at least it's 2.5 hours closer. Despite that, I still think it's probably the weirdest Fatburger location in the U.S., if not the world.

Unlike the clean and modern (albeit shuttered) venue in Alexandria, this location seemingly followed none of the distinctive hallmarks of a Fatburger store. And until I clamped my eyes on it in person, it wasn't clear if it was located in a Chevron, Shell or Pilot gas station (all three had referenced it). Even the address— 65583 Pump Slough Road— sounded crude and unwelcoming. Google's omnipresent Street View was equally flummoxed, offering only an 8 year-old snapshot of a ramshackle building with bars on the windows and a dusty, gravel parking lot.

Despite that, the Google listing promised that it was open, but I knew better than to trust our A.I. overlords.

Obviously, there was no phone number, so I tried searching and discovered two separate numbers for the address it was listed at. One was for the "Sunny Time Chevron" and the other was on the Pilot/Flying J website. Both were dead ends as one stated that voicemail was not set up, and the other said calls were not being accepted. 

Undeterred, I then tried emailing Fatburger but ran into more complications as their website "Contact Form" was a flowchart with no email. Furthermore, it required you to pick a location before you could proceed and the Pearl River franchise wasn't even listed, although the closed Alexandria store was. I then tried googling the email address and found one for the CFO of Fatburger as well as a general mailbox. 

Amazingly, those two were also rejected and I quickly discovered that Fatburger has the most unfriendly social media presence of any product I've ever come across! Then again, it kind of goes lockstep with the absolutely abysmal rating of 1.2 stars the Fatburger Corporate Office has garnered on Google.

 

 

                          

 

 

By this point, I was pretty frustrated and even wondering if driving the 100 miles would be worth it? After all, this was a lot of damn work for just a hamburger, even counting the thirty years I had been waiting to try it! 

Also contributing to our protracted mastication schedule was Amanda fainting and taking a nasty fall in our kitchen just 5 days before we were scheduled to try Fatburger. Aside from a brain bleed, the impact also damaged her olfactory nerves so badly that she wasn't able to taste or smell anything. That clearly wasn't on my bingo card and understandably sucked a lot of excitement and energy out of the excursion. After all, who wants to eat anything if you can't enjoy it? So, I tabled our trip indefinitely and put it on the back burner until Amanda's first consultation with a neurologist. In the meantime, I had her smelling various strong scents daily in an effort to retrain her brain and reverse the Anosmia.    

So, in the meantime I decided to work my way up to Fatburger's biggest offering by consuming a couple other slightly smaller (but still massive) current fast food burgers. 

First up, I had Denny's "Beetlejuicy Burger" which, despite the name, does not contain any juicy beetles. No, it was actually a marketing tie-in with the Beetlejuice sequel playing in theaters. And thankfully, the burger was much better than the movie with three 4 oz. patties, three strips of bacon, three slices of provolone cheese, lettuce, onions, tomatoes and topped with Denny's "Diner Q" sauce, which tasted suspiciously like Thousand Island. (Spoiler Alert: the "Wavy-Cut" fries that accompanied it were the best of all three places I tried.) Because it was a limited-time offering and Denny's wasn't exactly keen on divulging the artery-clogging numbers, I was unable to find an official tally although one report claimed that it had 1,790 calories which seems fairly accurate. FUN FACT: it's also nearly the same amount of calories recommended for an active adult to eat in 24 hours, never mind that I'd be having it for a lunch snack. The fries added another 400 calories, but at this point, who's counting?   

Next up was the "Gold Medal Burger"— Red Robin's nod to the 2024 Summer Olympics with three 6 oz. patties that they assert closely replicates the weight of a real gold medal. It was served with three slices of (obviously) American Cheese, lettuce, onions, tomatoes and a red sauce dubbed "Red's Relish." Despite boasting over a quarter-pound more beef, online estimates place the Gold Medal Burger at 1,770 calories. For that I blame the absent bacon strips, which were present on the Denny's burger, but were sadly not an option at Red Robin. Seriously, how can you have a burger that personifies America but doesn't include some kind of bacon on it?

 

 

But when it was finally time for our trip to Fatburger, Google, Bing and Yahoo let me down. However, I eventually found a link on DuckDuckGo that confirmed the store was indeed open. The article was brief, but quoted Fatburger COO as saying, "Fatburger’s brand identity is fun and light-hearted which aligns well with the vibrant nature of New Orleans. Whether you are a local or a traveler, we promise to roll out a good time for you at our Pearl River location." I doubt the Fatburger COO has actually ever been to The Big Easy, so I'll take "vibrant" as his uneducated euphemism for the persistent problems of pollution, poverty and crime that pervades the city. 

Incidentally, I noticed that the Pearl River ran nearby (hence the pump slough reference) and I remarked to Amanda that this was the very same estuary responsible for carving out the Mississippi Grand Canyon we visited in November 2022. It was also a mnemonic of the wild uncertainty of life and literally how anything is possible— I would never have believed that 22 months later I'd be visiting my first Fatburger in a Louisiana swamp. I'd always imagined it would be in a large metro area like Miami so it was truly akin to something like a fever dream.  

 (This is what happened when I asked A.I. what a Fatburger restaurant in a swamp would look like)

Fortunately, geographically getting to Fatburger was largely trouble-free as we simply drove west on I-10 for roughly an hour before we hit what I refer to as the Slidell cloverleaf. It's that crucial 4-way convergence wherein you either continue south on Interstate 10, west on Interstate 12 or north on Interstate 59. As expected, taking any of these routes leads you in vastly different directions. I say this because the first (and last time) I ever took I-59 was after an all-night bender on Bourbon Street. My buddy Rick and I were heading home and since he was less drunk, he was logically the designated driver. I was attempting to sleep in the passenger seat when he woke me up to ask which way to go at the cloverleaf. When he inquired if we were headed in the right direction, I quickly agreed so he'd leave me alone and then I proceeded to pass back out. I remained undisturbed for approximately 30 minutes, or however long it took his alcohol-addled brain to fully process that the signs for Hattiesburg meant we were completely lost.  

Heading north on I-59, we passed the "No Pay No Stay No Play" Mobile Home Park. No kidding, I thought it was some sort of joke until I googled it later. However, the reviews are pretty predictable, with one person named Hunney Addams (no relation) succinctly stating, "You don't want to live here. The only nice thing I can say is it was affordable." and another reviewer remarked, "If this is the place im thinking of. It is a run down trailer park." which pretty much summed up my estimation also. Despite that, their no-nonsense name is more pragmatic than a French Quarter escort.    

However, even without the debilitating effects of a drunken stupor Fatburger still would have been easily missed had I not been actively searching for it. It turns out, the previous tiny building has been completely steamrolled for a massive new structure that is part liquor store, part fast food joint and part gas station. But whizzing past on I-59 at speeds averaging 85 mph, it takes eagle eyes and fast reflexes to spot the tiny Fatburger marquee, quietly hidden below a giant Pilot sign broadcasting 24/7 gas prices.

We parked next to a row of shiny, new Tesla Supercharging stations (none of which were occupied) and strolled into the stunning travel center which looked like somewhere we'd stop outside Orlando, not alligator-infested Cajun Country.

Inside, there was a small food court where Fatburger was flanked by an Arby's and a Chacha's Dhaba Indian restaurant. From a business perspective, the Arby's was a no-brainer, but I was truly bewildered over who thought a middle-eastern eatery in a Southern Louisiana gas station was a shrewd investment? Pearl River is 83% Caucasian and Indian isn't even represented in the demographics. Someone didn't read the room because all the customers I saw were more interested in crawfish than curry. And it was indeed a puzzling location— when I sent a photo of Fatburger to my co-worker Richard, he asked where I was, inquiring if I was in a mall or airport?    

However, it's a new era and Fatburger has had to (unfortunately) diversify their menu to reflect silly little nuisances like climate change and market dynamics. As such, items previously considered unthinkable like veggie burgers and turkey burgers are now available. And for the hipsters and millennials, there's even Gluten-Free Buns and Dairy-Free Cheese. Just don't order the Vegan shake, as I discovered that at a whopping $10.99 it costs more than a half-pound Fatburger and doesn't even contain any booze, something that should be considered heresy in a state known for it's drive-thru daiquiri shops. Prior to visiting, I had joked about the unhealthy items like the XXXL Burger and Fat Fries, but I didn't realize it was the prices (and not the food) that would give me a heart attack!

But, I hadn't driven 100 miles and waited 30 years to cut any corners and homogenize my first Fatburger meal. I wanted the full, unadulterated experience: Gimme all the calories, saturated fat and protein of 100% pure ground beef just as God intended. So, I ordered the 1.5-lb. XXXL Burger which is the largest available and boasts as much beef as SEVEN Big Macs! It was $19.59 and adding a side with a medium drink brought it to $27.09. Victoria got the Western Bacon BBQ Burger Meal for $20.19 and Amanda picked the $18.99 1000 Island Burger Meal. We decided to each get a different side that matches our personality so Victoria clearly chose the Sweet Potato fries, I settled on the Fat Fries because I'm always salty and Amanda got the Onion Rings due to her making me cry so much. As such, our total came to over $70 which I consider pretty pricey just for a fast food lunch.

As the meal arrived, I can't remember any time I've ever gotten a hamburger that had not one, but three massive patties actually hanging over the sides of the bun. Pictures truly don't do it justice and it reminds me of the old Burger King commercial that proclaimed it takes two hands to handle a Whopper. With my XXXL Fatburger, I felt I needed at least three hands since I couldn't get my mouth around it to take a bite, and even then it was collapsing under it's own enormous weight, shedding chunks of mayonnaise-drowned lettuce and chopped raw onions everywhere. At one point, a whole tomato slice slipped out and dropped into my lap leaving a huge, greasy stain. As my Dad would joke, it looked like an inside job!       

But, the patties were perfectly cooked and still steaming as I consumed them, and it seemed like I was eating for an awfully long time. I suppose I've never considered how much ground beef is actually in 1.5 pounds but it was certainly satisfying. For most people, 24 ounces of meat in a burger is complete overkill, but I read that such gluttony actually dates back to Medieval times. The late sociologist Priscilla Ferguson described it as an expression of identifiably American connections between abundance and country. “Overeating both honors country and transgresses social norms,” Ferguson wrote in the journal Contexts. It certainly sounds enlightening, but somehow I think my Health Insurance Provider might disagree.  

And for those curious, Fatburger isn't shy and proudly posts the nutrition information for anyone to see. My "Triple King" rang in with 1,686 calories (ironically the lowest of the bunch), 96 grams of fat, 2,179 grams of sodium, and a whopping 129 grams of protein. But, pound-for-pound the most toxic menu item is the Cookies & Ice Cream Shake with 1,180 calories, 99 grams of sugar and 163 carbs! In comparison, the burger only sports 69 carbs and a middling 12 grams of sugar, plus a much healthier ingredient profile from the meat, bread and vegetables.        

 

 

Honestly, the Triple King wasn't that filling to me, but the lovely Latina employee insisted if I ate it all in one sitting that I would get my picture on the wall and a certificate for my accomplishment.  

 

In my official ranking, In-N-Out is still my absolute favorite burger, followed closely behind by Shake Shack and BurgerFi, with Fatburger now taking the fourth spot on the esteemed list. My only gripes about this location are the cramped dining area with too few tables and chairs, as well as a soda machine that dispensed carbonated water instead of the iced tea I wanted. But best of all, after 30 years I could finally scratch Fatburger off my Bucket-List. And as the rapper Ice Cube would no doubt agree, "It Was a Good Day!" 

 

Finally, if you do get to visit the only Fatburger in Louisiana, tell them Pirate Press sent you and receive a whopping 0% discount! 😎 

 

Pumpkin Spice

It's not everyday you park next to an orange Lotus Elise  

 

  Pirate Press            November 2023  

 

 

 

At the end of July, Victoria had her first collegiate-level dance competition in Tuscaloosa. So, as a lifelong University of Alabama fan I was excited to finally see the campus there. Over her high school dance career, we'd already visited both Mississippi State in Starkville and University of Southern Mississippi in Hattiesburg. 

 

Amazingly, when I mapped out the distance we drove to Starkville in 2019 versus the route to Tuscaloosa, it was only separated by one singular mile. But for whatever reason, the jaunt to State seemed so much longer. Despite that, the first two hours are an identical slog up Hwy 45 through such strangely named small towns as Buckatunna and Shubuta. From Meridian onward, it's a combination of I-20 and I-59 for the remaining 100 miles into Tuscaloosa. 

 

Weirdly enough, we'd driven the 85 miles to Tuscaloosa from Starkville before, but it was for the express purpose of dining at the Chuy's restaurant there. We never toured the campus or even saw the stadium. However, the Tuscaloosa Chuy's closed down just 4 months after we ate there, so we sadly wouldn't get the opportunity to do it again.

 

Instead, lunch was at Rama Jama's, a Roll Tide-devoted dive that's to Crimson Tide fans what Graceland is to Elvis enthusiasts. As we pulled up, I noticed that it was just as popular with the locals as it was with tourists— vehicles from Louisiana, Texas and Oklahoma competed with regional ones for the few parking spaces available.

 

 

Luckily, we made it right before the lunch rush and the customers were a mix of families and campus residents. The young girl taking our order seemed like she could also be a student but was surprisingly unenthusiastic which was rather shocking given the otherwise upbeat vibe in the restaurant. There was some sort of novelty champagne bottles being consumed and several tables were letting it flow freely. However, each time a loud pop accompanied a bottle being opened there was an audible knee-jerk reaction from Amanda and some of the other patrons. Sadly, random school shootings are no laughing matter and our current crazed society requires constant vigilance. 

 

Fortunately, the most dangerous thing I saw there was the $22 National Champs BLT sandwich which consisted of 18 strips of bacon (one for each National Championship), on 3 slices of Texas Toast with double lettuce and tomato. I'm confident I could have taken it down but I knew we would be driving into Birmingham later to eat at Chuy's so I wanted to save my appetite for that. Instead, I opted for the large Cheeseburger and fries while Amanda ordered the Fried Green Tomato BLT with a fried Peach Pie. My burger was nothing special, but Amanda raved about the BLT and said the Peach Pie was even better than the one she had eaten at The Varsity in Atlanta.

 

                     

 

Afterwards, we made our way down the main drag, Paul W. Bryant Drive, and marveled at how calm and quiet everything was. With a coverage of 72 square miles and a population of 100K, Tuscaloosa certainly dwarfed the other college towns like Hattiesburg and Starkville. 

Further down, we stopped at a huge University of Alabama Supply Store to see if any of the merchandise appealed to us. Of course, there were all the usual items with the Crimson "A" or elephant mascot on them, but not nearly the amount of "Bear" Bryant or Nick Saban paraphernalia that I'd been warned about. I can remember the fervor over the Bear Bryant Coke bottles in the early 80s, and I even found a couple of them in my parents' attic when I cleaned it out in 2016. Unfortunately, over three decades of heat and humidity conspired to turn the soda a frothy green color that definitely didn't look safe to consume.

 

I was tempted to buy something but with Victoria attending Perkinston Junior College for two years and then planning on going to USM for the last two, it didn't make much sense (financial or otherwise) to sport any Alabama apparel.

 

But it was when we walked out to my car that I got the shock of the weekend. There, parked beside it was a bright orange Lotus Elise. Naturally, it was striking, but it nonetheless reminded me how unusual the Lotus brand is and that is occupies a very strange segment in the automotive universe.  

 

For starters, I've always felt that Lotus is the most "non-exotic" exotic car ever built. After all, for a couple decades it was saddled with a four-cylinder despite competing with twelve-cylinder Ferraris and Lambos. But it's sheer rarity and unusual styling means that it is often mistaken for much more expensive machinery. Upon sharing the photo with both my daughter and a long-time Pirate Press reader, both pegged it incorrectly as a McLaren. However, I did give them credit for recognizing the British ancestry as Lotus and McLaren each hail from England. 

 

I distinctly remember the first time I saw a Lotus and it coincided with my first James Bond movie, The Spy Who Loved Me. Of course, at eight years old I didn't understand the significance of the brand, only that a car that turned into a submarine (and back again) was something I'd never seen before. And it would be five years later before I'd witness another sports car submerged. However, this time it would be unintentional and by a very young Tom Cruise in Risky Business. 

 

1976 was the first year for the Lotus Esprit and it produced a decidedly unimpressive 160hp from a naturally aspirated 2-liter four-cylinder. In comparison, it's closest contender at the time, a Porsche 911, made 200hp. 

 

Eleven years later, I'd see my first Esprit in person as in the late 1980s New Orleans actually had it's own authorized Lotus dealership. By then, the engine had grown 10% to displace a full 2.2-liters and a turbocharger had been added to give it a more competitive 215hp.          

 

The Elise pictured here debuted twenty years after the Esprit and is the Lotus most likely to be spotted in daily driving. It certainly looks exotic, but a Toyota powertrain and a Corvette resale price makes it a lot more common than a real purebred like a Ferrari or McLaren.

 

If you remember the 2000 Celica GT-S than you're familiar with the 1.8-liter four-banger in the 2005 Elise that squeezes out a miserly 190hp and 133tq— an amount that is clearly not supercar territory. That's not a typo, the 1976 Esprit actually makes more torque than this 2005 model!

 

Reliability-wise, I'd personally have been a nervous wreck (no pun intended) driving a nearly 20 year-old Lotus the 800 miles from Hopkins County, Missouri to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. And even assuming you made it in one piece, the nearest Lotus dealer is still another three hours away in Atlanta. However, my biggest gripe wouldn't be the possibility of breaking down, but the space-saver 10-gallon fuel tank, which with an optimistic EPA rating of 22 mpg, would require four separate fuel stops on such a trip.  

 

Smaller than even a Miata, it also begs the question of how any semblance of luggage and personal possessions were transported across four states? I know when we helped Victoria move to Perk, we filled up her Kia Forte, her cousin's Toyota Tacoma and my Ford Fusion, each from floor to ceiling. 

 

Funny enough, as we were leaving I noticed a stunning young woman walking across the street. She looked like a model who had just stepped out of a Cosmopolitan feature, with perfectly-styled hair, dark sunglasses and a flowing dress. I muttered to Amanda that there was no way she was getting into that cramped Lotus that was barely sitting 4 inches off the ground! I desperately craned my neck around searching for a Range Rover or some other high-end SUV that seemed like something she'd drive. 

 

Sure enough, she approached it and opened the passenger door to drop her purchases in the seat. Not wanting to appear as some pervert stalking her, I nonetheless stole a quick glance inside the Lotus and was surprised to see a mess of papers and other items littering the interior and footwell. In a perfect world, I'd love to have gotten her thoughts on the livability of the Lotus but a lot of factors (read: wife) conspired to prevent that. Obviously, Amanda wouldn't appreciate me chatting up a strange blonde in a sports car and it foiled my efforts to inquire if she needed a Sugar Daddy?

 

Also, the "BTMOBL" tag seems to suggest that it's an abbreviation of "Batmobile" hinting at the Caped Crusader's personal vehicle. I take exception to this as the orange color and fish-eyed countenance strongly suggests "Aquaman" if we're associating it with superheroes. And an "AQUAMAN" tag would be perfect for the submarine-diving Lotus Esprit in "The Spy Who Loved Me." 

 

It's also not very often that I park beside an exotic car and am able to boast about having a more powerful engine. I believe the last time was in October 2021 when I spotted an Acura NSX. However, the lilliputian Lotus is accustomed to doing more with less and it's still slightly faster given a weight (1,975 lbs) that sounds like a birth year instead of the tonnage of a full-sized car. In comparison, my Fusion weighs almost double that! 

 

However, I can say with complete conviction that I would not have enjoyed driving the Lotus three hours to Tuscaloosa. And by that I mean my wife would not have enjoyed riding in the Lotus three hours to Tuscaloosa. With the cramped space, noisy drone from the engine and lack of modern amenities, she would have been (ahem!) very vocal about her discomfort. 

 

As such, it was probably better that we took the Fusion, particularly for the hour drive into Birmingham. Of course, we had no idea that it was a Tax-Free Weekend so The Summit had become a traffic-snarled hellscape straight out of a Stephen King novel. It honestly looked like the city's entire population of 200,000 had all tried to cram into that shopping center and it created an entrance and exit choke-hold of biblical proportions. 

 

It also didn't help that everyone wanted to eat at Chuy's because with a 600-ft elevation, the view of the Appalachians in the distance is stunning, particularly at sunset. And while it's certainly the most scenic restaurant at The Summit, I'd also wager that it offers the prettiest vista of all 100 Chuy's restaurants in seventeen states! 

 

As we patiently waited, one pretentious woman clad head-to-toe in Lululemon marched up to the hostess stand with her husband and two young kids in tow. She obviously expected to be seated immediately and was furious when informed of the 1.5 hour delay. Clearly, she was used to getting her way and was completely unprepared to handle the rejection. Trying to save face in front of all the patrons and employees, she spun around and dragged her husband and children out the door muttering under her breath that such an extended wait was "ridiculous!" I laughed and told Amanda that she should have just sucked it up because any decent place on a Saturday night was going to have a similar backlog and the longer she held off, the worse it would be.   

 

And being late July, we wisely opted for an inside table to avoid the stifling heat. Of course, it meant forgoing a patio spot with an amazing view, but the temp would have made it unbearable. Nonetheless, Amanda and I were seated at a massive booth large enough to accommodate six or seven adults. The gesture was appreciated, but seemed unusual given the lengthy waiting list of families who needed it much more than we did. Personally, I would have been fine with two chairs at the bar. 

 

After dinner, we made our way back to the hotel which was from a brand we had never patronized before. Billed as "SureStay by Best Western"  I was initially turned-off by the "Best Western" name as I've always viewed that economy hotel chain as a place where I'd rather pay more to stay somewhere else. However, when I researched the SureStay brand I discovered that it follows the contemporary template of upmarket collections by big hotel companies such as Marriott's Autograph and Hilton’s Curio. In essence, it's a separate "white label" offering that operates independently from Best Western. Typically, properties that are selected for the SureStay group are individual entities that have carved out their own personal niche, but would benefit from the resources and more favorable commercial advantages afforded by partnering with a major hotel platform. 

Indeed, our "boutique" lodging boasted a unique and appealing colonial architecture that looked like something I'd expect in Virginia or along the Northeastern seaboard, not rural Alabama. Inside, the furnishings were similarly eclectic, with a faux brick partition acting as a divider in our suite. I reminded Amanda that it recalled our hotel in Times Square in which I opened our curtains expecting a beautiful view of Central Park only to be greeted by the unappealing visage of a brick wall.

 

 

 

 

That questionable styling aesthetic aside, our "SureStay" was comfortable and affordable which made it ideal for a getaway weekend in Tuscaloosa. And although we furiously looked all weekend, we never once spotted Nick Saban driving his new 2023 Ferrari Portofino M. You see, Saban is an investor in the new Prancing Horse of Nashville, the only authorized Ferrari dealership in Tennessee. That's because after signing a $93 million contract last year, he clearly needs a side hustle to earn extra money.

With that kind of transportation enhancement fund, I can certainly think of several different Ferraris that would be at the top of my shopping list, but the one he chose would certainly not be. Don't get me wrong— the Portofino is a fine Ferrari, but it is the entry-level model and is in one of the most uninspiring colors possible: a drab, dishwater grey somewhere between Grigio Titanio Metall and Grigio Silverstone. It's almost as if he took the least desirable Ferrari they had, perhaps because it was at a very attractive price. I mean, who buys a grey convertible as their first new Ferrari, particularly if you're the coach of the Crimson Tide? He will never live down not getting it in a Scarlett color like Rosso Barchetta, the color of my 360.

Regardless, it's 612hp twin-turbo V8 spits it to 60 mph faster than he can yell "Roll Tide!" and it corners quicker than his 72 year-old reaction time. And judging by the photos of it below at Tuscaloosa National Airport, it looks like he could seriously use some parking lessons. However, he recently admitted to being very superstitious about it and claimed on The Pat McAfee Show that he only drives it on Wednesdays and if it's not raining. Finally, Ferrari has gotten so soft about coddling it's clients that one of the Portofino's new features is a neck warmer, which I suppose speaks volumes about it's  septuagenarian demographic like Saban. The press release states that the neck warmer "offers a choice of three heat levels and the system constantly adapts the speed of the warm air flow from the headrest to ensure it is proportional to the car’s speed, outside temperature and the position of the retractable top." Somehow, it just feels wrong even including "Neck Warmer" and "Ferrari" in the same sentence, unless you're referring to something manly like the mid-engine V8 catching on fire 🔥 which I suppose would definitely raise the temperature on your neck. Until then, if Saban wants frivolous things like a neck warmer, he should stick to the Mercedes he hawks at his dealership in Irondale. 

Lastly, it's sad to acknowledge that Lotus, which was originally created by Englishman Colin Chapman in 1952, has now split it's ownership between Chinese Multinational Geely and Malaysian business tycoon, Syed Mokhtar Albukhary. Whomever said "politics makes strange bedfellows" has obviously never seen the bizarre roster of owners Lotus has had in it's 70+ years, which also includes brief stints with GM and Bugatti. 

As of now, the Lotus Eletre is the first offspring from that peculiar Pan-Asian conglomerate. It flies in the face of every principal Colin Chapman set forward with Lotus as it's too big, too heavy, possesses 4 doors and runs solely on electricity. Even more aspirational, Geely claims that by 2028 the entire Lotus lineup will be electric and they will be selling 100,000 cars annually. Supposedly, they will all be built at a plant in Wuhan (Yes, that Wuhan!🦇) and it's pretty far-fetched when a good year for Lotus is churning out 4,000 vehicles, but I suppose stranger things have happened.

As for the new Eletre, I bet Nick Saban is wondering if it has a neck warmer?