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On Parker's last day in Memphis he finally got to see what he had been waiting for, the city skyline (actually, it is what I really wanted to see, but I had to experience it vicariously through these photos.) He and his Grandmeh strolled around the penthouse roof top plaza enjoying the cool crisp air of Memphis (notice I didn't mention the adjective "fresh".) It was here that Parker experienced the strangest thing about Memphis all together, the penthouse & the roof top plaza didn't belong to the buildings owners, or to some important client or guest, but to the pets. You don't have to be a student of real estate to understand that this arrangement is quite nice (and pricey), but yet somehow the ducks can afford it. Parker says, "in a town where businessmen get paid too much to do too little, it shouldn't seem too odd that pets get such a good deal for such a short life."
On day three, Parker had a lunch date with the Director of Rooms of the Peabody Hotel (which I though was odd enough), and afterwards had a tickle throw down on Parker's gianormously proportioned bed (see part one). When Parker told me about this, he first assured me that he kicked the director's butt ("tickled him till he wet his pants" to use his exact words), and then proceeded to report that in Memphis all of the business executives find trivial and meaningless ways to fill their days. He further postulated that in Memphis, the important people might be getting paid too much to do too little. I promised him that this sort of thing was not anomalous to Memphis.
On his second day in the somewhat strange city of Memphis, Parker noted to me that he thought the situation with the automobiles was quite odd. I said, "Of course, the drivers are willing to go 30 miles over the speed limit, despite the limit, the maze of one way streets down town is bewildering, the licensing exam is a joke, and it is almost impossible to get to Graceland without passing three Shoney's on Elvis Presley Park Way" (the king works at one of those as a fry cook). Parker responded, "while those items are mildly amusing, (and the legitimacy of your claim about Mr. Presley is questionable at best) I was referring to the fact that there are tubes that cross over the street from building to building. Really, Dad, what purpose do they serve? Its not like it ever gets cold like it does in Minnesota. Have they mistaken Memphis for Minneapolis?"
Some say that Memphis is the best of the South, and I wouldn't disagree; necessarily. The reality is that in Memphis, they do things a little bit differently. For instance, people in Memphis pay far too much respect to a dead (supposedly), washed up, fat, mediocre musician than any one else in their right mind. They visit his out of date, over rated, not quite a mansion of a home by the droves. They also have named more than one road after him. Really, enough is enough. However, in an effort to more fully understand the mind set of those who live in Memphis, I sent Parker to do a little bit of digging (or playing and laughing, whatever gets him the story). On day one, Parker was pleased to report two phenomena of the Memphis mind set. First, an unexplainable love for the King (as described above), and second, the disproportionate sizing of beds. Apparently, the smaller the person, the larger the bed (Parker had this one all to him self, and he isn't even a fat, bloated musician).
This doesn't happen too often, only because Parker is smart enough to realize that if he took advantage on a more regular basis, we might catch on to his gig. He goes all day, refusing to take a decent nap, wearing his mother into the ground. Then, when it is bedtime, he lays in his bed and has an hour long conversation with his love monster (it is real, not imaginary). His mother, being worried that he is to tired to go to sleep, gets him out wraps him in a blanket, and then sits down with him. Always, does the plan work. Mom falls asleep, exhausted from the days events, and Parker gets to enjoy the quite of the house all to himself.
My wife (on the left) has most recently taken the opportunity to teach my son (on the right) how to dance. She explains, "white boys simply don't know what to do with their arms and hands while they shimmy and shake!" So she spends the better part of five minutes teaching Parker how to not look like a tall stick while he dances (not that anyone will ever mistake him for being tall). Never the less, developing good dance skills is key to getting girls (oh I mean to becoming a complete artist).
Several weeks ago, we ran into a women's softball team while waiting in line at the Olive Garden. Naturally, my son was a hit amongst them. He made them dance and sing and act like fools for the better part of half an hour. At one point, a player gave him a piece of trash and he ran to the garbage can and slammed it home. THE CROWD WENT WILD (really, you would have thought Parker was Lebron James). At this moment I recognized my son's future NBA potential (and simultaneously it's limit as imposed by potential for growth). So, I hired a friend of mine (who also has some experience as a pediatrician), and have begun a rigorous 17 year physical therapy schedule. You see, the best money goes to the guys with the 40+ inch vertical leap, not the little white guy throwing in buckets from 40 feet out. The good doctor has guaranteed me that through a continuous series of exercises and procedures he will turn Parker into the best 6' 10" power forward in the history of sports.
Mr. Cooper is a good friend to fathers (really any father who is lucky enough for Mr. Cooper to be the best friend of his son is truly lucky). Mr. Cooper and Mr. Parker are great friends and their relationship has evolved to the point were they address each other by name (Barber & Poopter), actually play with one another, and are openly giddy anytime you even mention their names to one another. This being the case, Cooper (Poopter) is probably the only reason why Parker (Barber) will live to see his 18th birthday. Cooper's (Poopter's) father, Blaine, has seen the future and it is real. One day (or probably on many occasions) Parker (Barber) will attempt to engage in some activity that will be dangerous or life threatening, and Cooper (Poopter) will talk sense into my son's hard headed head. Cooper (Poopter), you see is OCD (Overly Cautions Disorder), and every time Parker (Barber) tries to drink a whole gallon of milk in 20 minutes Cooper (Poopter) will be the one to explain that, "the milk will curdle in the stomach when exposed to acid, and the stomach will reject that quantity of spoiled, curdled milk if ingested in that short of period of time." If Parker (Barber) should ever decide to jump off a 30 foot bridge into a shallow creek, Cooper (Poopter) will be the one to say, "You do realize that you could break every bone in your legs if you hit the water wrong." Parker (Barber) will inevitably one day decide to jump of the roof of the house using a bed sheet as a parachute, and Cooper (Poopter) will be the one to say, " Ok, but when the sheet gets caught in the tree, and your neck gets caught in the sheet, and you get caught in the air with no way down, don't come crying to me." I love that boy (Poopter, that is).
On Parker's last day in Memphis he finally got to see what he had been waiting for, the city skyline (actually, it is what I really wanted to see, but I had to experience it vicariously through these photos.) He and his Grandmeh strolled around the penthouse roof top plaza enjoying the cool crisp air of Memphis (notice I didn't mention the adjective "fresh".) It was here that Parker experienced the strangest thing about Memphis all together, the penthouse & the roof top plaza didn't belong to the buildings owners, or to some important client or guest, but to the pets. You don't have to be a student of real estate to understand that this arrangement is quite nice (and pricey), but yet somehow the ducks can afford it. Parker says, "in a town where businessmen get paid too much to do too little, it shouldn't seem too odd that pets get such a good deal for such a short life."
