Monday, May 21, 2007

Nothing To See Here

There is absolutely no knitting content in this here post. I got exactly one set of the repeats done on one sock. I got exactly zero new yarn because some people were yarn commies and wouldn't go to the yarn store that was mere minutes from where they lived. Pinko bastards! They even like Jane Fonda. 'Nuff said!

Though there is no knitting to speak of, there are other things to talk about, I think. I mean, most of the trip cannot be recounted because what happens in Hotlanta stays in Hotlanta. But I am sure I can tell you something. Like about the funny boy who sat next to me on the flight out, "swinging richards," sleeping with Hannibal Lecter, and forty-two inch men. Oh, and the state of rectal health care in the greater Atlanta area. These are the things I can tell you about.

Since I just told you that I had a nice seat companion on my flight out (he was all cute and nervous about this meeting of a potential beau for the first time in real life and so we talked the entire flight and I neither knit nor read), let's start with food. Actually I could have stared at the liquor store because that was the very first stop we made. Surprise the Birthday Girl? Nah, lets get some booze first! We are GREAT friends. Or I could have started off with Henri (said with a french accent), BG's dog and by far the most cutest smartest dog in Georgia (so there Mr. Babies)!

Anywho, there is a great little Italian place, Sotto Sotto, that has some yummo food. They have a great scallop appetizer which everyone, even vegans, enjoy. There was other food that was yummy too. I think. Much wine was consumed at Sotto Sotto. Red wine. That was good. And didn't taste like trees like most red wine does. Much wine was also spilled by Shorty. *

So much so that our wine bill, excluding the food and the regular liquor, was $253. Let me say it again, $253, for the wine. Only. As a Boone' s Farm kind of girl this was a lot to me. But (did I mention?) it didn't taste like trees, so there you have it. There was some concern, the next day when it was too late to look into this, that we were charged for an extra bottle of wine. This could be because our English waiter was tired of being accosted by six drunk folks and repeatedly explaining that no, really, he was not Irish. NOT. FROM. IRELAND. But that's just my guess.

I sobered up after dinner, having spent all of my cash on our first stop. This was a wise decision as I could then recount the rest of the evening in minute detail the following day much to the mortification of my friends. Hi, I am the guest from out of town and your are making me the designated driver in your brand new huge pimp mobile car. You bet your ass I am going to make fun of you falling out of chairs and giving me a tour of the same room three times!

But I digress. After wine dinner, we went to a cigar bar where more employees were accosted. This time it was an owner. Not a regular old employee. We're kuh-lassy like that. He was in the middle of calling his bookie after seeing something very important on the ESPN Bottom Line when Shorty started caterwauling at him. Shorty swears it was singing. It was not. He also swears the owner was flirting with him. And I suppose he was, if saying, "Yah, I'd like to put a dime on the Braves" into his mobile phone while standing ten feet away and staring through a window at a television is considered flirting. In any event, the owner having been tonally accosted then decided to tell Joan that he didn't like her as much as he liked everyone else. His like for Joan fell somewhere between having his eyeball repeatedly pierced with rusty metal that had been lying in a roach and rodent infested crack house and sliding down a razor blade into a pool of alcohol.

It was sometime after this that the drunk boys thought it would be a brilliant idea to go to home. Home it seems was really a metaphor for Swinging Richards. So while BG and Joan chilled at the bar with the owner that did not like Joan, me and my three gay men went to a male strip club. A full on, full nekkid, no clothes on the dancers (do you get what I am telling you here?) strip club. It was truth in advertising. There were a lot of swinging richards. There was also more accosting of bar staff. I shall speak no more of this. I was traumatized. I may need therapy.

Considering the large amount of alcohol consumed by my peeps, I was pretty pleased that there was no blood shed (little did I know what was to come). Saturday was filled with bad noises, hangover food, protein smoothies, naps, hornet attacks, fun stories recounted by yours truly, and the stalking of Anderson Cooper.

As you may recall, I had suggested that we capture Anderson Cooper and love on him for a little bit while we were in Hotlanta. I had no idea that this would actually become a real item on the agenda. Opa, having been dragged into a world of salacious sin the night before, became somewhat fearless and decided to track down the poor Mr. Cooper at a book signing. The only things I can really say are that Opa was not arrested and he did manage to get the number of some other random boy at the bookstore.

While Opa was engaged in his activities, Joan was lying paralyzed on the couch. Apparently a hornet had taken up residence in Chez Henri. Joan later composed a song about The Battle of The Hornet, but I have been told not to publish said song as it is a violation of her copyright and she shall have me prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Bitch. It wasn't a very good song anyway so y'all are not missing out.

Saturday night was very low key though there was some interaction with a mid-operation transvestite (another fun item I suggested we could do that I had no idea would become fact). In a weird twist of something or other Mr. SPR and I, separated by thousands of miles, both fell asleep that night watching Casino Royale. Doesn't say much for the movie, huh?

Sunday morning I woke up to the dulcet tones of Hannibal Lecter whispering in my ear that he could smell ... stuff. A few seconds later Buffalo Bill asked if I was a size fourteen. I was not hallucinating. I was not dreaming. Turns out Shorty is a master of impersonation. It also turns out that fear for your life, or at least your skin, is a great way to jump start your morning. Once we verified that I was not having a heart attack and everyone else was awake, we made breakfast plans. The plans were to meet in two minutes. I was not allowed to shower but instead thrown out the door and shoved in the car.

During breakfast Pookie was possessed by the spirit of Bat Boy. Everything he ate turned into the shape of a bat. I wanted to sell these mystical items on eBay. Right after I showered. I was denied. Instead we saw the grave of Margaret Mitchell (did you know she carried a dagger with a mother-of-pearl inlaid handle) and Cyclorama (home of the forty-two inch man. Oh, and FYI, should you silently laugh so hard that you snort during the Cyclorama, the snort sound will be carried and amplified by the wonderful acoustics). By this time I was ripe, but I was still not allowed to shower. Instead I was brought to a restaurant with a make your own Bloody Mary bar.

Eventually we returned to Chez Pookie where I had six minutes to shower and pack before we needed to leave for the airport. Miraculously I did shower and pack and made it to the car unscathed and in a most timely fashion. I took a deep breath thinking that I would now be able to chillax. Wrong. As we were driving to the airport a bus passed us.

The advertisement on the side told us to "Prevent Fecal Incontinence" and "Protect Your Perineum From Deterioration." What the fuk? What the hell are the people of Atlanta doing to their asses? Why is it so bad that they need to advertise for some special anal medical device ON THE SIDE OF A CITY BUS?

After reading that little gem, I thought we were getting out of town just in time (who knows what nefarious plans were being made for our butts?) I thought wrong. Atlanta, wanting to give us one more thing to remember it by, spit some glass out on the floor of the airport security metal detector and attacked Joan's foot. Fearing gangrene, and a lawsuit, the TSA personnel whisked Joan to a chair and administered first aid in the form of a spray bottle full of the stuff used to wipe down the x-ray machines and metal detectors. Antiseptic? Pushaw. Alcohol? Bahh. Soap and water? Are you kidding. Neosporin? For wimps. Squirt, squirt, wipe, wipe, done. After her wounds were "cleansed," Opa deftly bandaged her foot (sealing in the gangrene for legal purposes I'm sure) and we were on our way.

I really thought that the weekend was over after this. What more could there be? What more could happen? As I boarded my plane, I thought, "NOW I can sit back and relax." Turns out that I was premature in my planned relaxing. It was actually my turn to accost a stranger and make him a little scared of me.

My plane was full and there were only two seats open for stand-by passengers. They were the last two people to get on. One of them was this really familiar tall muscular looking guy. Since he had pants on, I wasn't quite sure where I had seen him. As he made his way to the back, where I was sitting, people would say stuff to him about baseball and the NY Yankees as he passed. He got into a seat in the row behind me and the guy there said something to him about the Yankees. He responded by saying that he was really just hoping that the Yanks could make a run for the Wild Card. He wasn't even hoping for a division win. I, being 1) an asshole, 2) nosey, and 3) an eavesdropper, turned around and said, "Wild card?! Dude. 1978. The Yanks were seventeen, 17!!!, seven-frigging-teen, games back in July and managed to win the World Series. Bah. Wild card, schmild card." Though his lips gave me a half smile, his eyes shined with holy terror. I carefully turned back around and sat down. But I did not stop being an asshole eavesdropper and this is how I found out that I had just verbally flogged an ESPN on-air reporter and not a swinging richard. Woopsie!

*Pookie's boyfriend wanted to have a blog alias of Pookie Davenport. I vetoed this. I think there was a suggestion of Kitty McKinley or something else equally asinine. As I am dictator here in SPRland (which is minutes north of JoanisaC'ville), I choose all aliases and said boyfriend shall be known as Shorty because 1) he has a VERY short small dog (nicknamed Mr. Babies but actually named Texas. Texas. Can you say overcompensation? Next thing ya know the dog will be driving a Corvette ...) and 2) the man wears lifts in his shoes. One night he is like, my height (around five foot nine) and the next night he is six foot two and a half. Riiiigggghhhhttt. Like I wouldn't have noticed him towering over me the night before ... I mean, yes, he was often laying down and passed out, but still.


Joan said...

Uh, you still didn't get the sign on the bus right. It read, and I quote (which is why I use quotations marks), "Prevent perineum deterioration. Protect your fecal incontinence patients."

Joan said...

I'm gangrene free!!!