Propeller Skies

I went to Funkfest 2004 on Saturday evening and getting in was a pain in the ass. Usually, when I show up with a serious camera and a bag full of gear and mention the ‘Buzz, people respond with, “thanks for coming.” The more media savvy individuals say “thanks for coming, here are some drink tickets.”

Soon after arriving, I ran into a hopelessly dorky guy wearing red chinos with a plaid shirt. I think he was going for the preppy look. Regrettably, he reminded me of an older and white version of Urkel, without the suspenders. The genius at J. Crew who came up with the idea of red pants for men should be fired. Even paired with a decent shirt, they look juvenile.

In related news, it appears that the maternity wear look has made it to the Dirty South. There was one sighting of an unfortunate woman wearing a skirt thing over jeans. There are sick perverts who are turned on by pregnant women, and I know this thanks to a most unfortunate Kazaa incident, but they are at home downloading internet porn. Not out at events. So save the maternity wear for when you are knocked up.

Saturday afternoon, I stopped by Steve’s for his Portuguese Half-Life Birthday Party* with recurring Propeller Skies characters Stacia and Kara. Most of the revelers were folks I work with at The Day Job™, but only the cool people. Well, except for Leah.

By the way, Steve is the best cook ever. For this party he smoked three pork shoulders in a Big Green Egg®** and they came out excellent. There is nothing better than drinking a several Rolling Rocks and eating tasty meat on a summer day with friends.

notes:

* Don’t ask.
** See previous note.

Since I enjoyed my previous trip to Aurora Coffee so much, I decided to stop in and pick up some more coffee. This time, I decided to visit the Little Five Points location, since it has a beautiful expanse of parking lot in front of it. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the parking nazis from hell (PNFH). Some genius came up with the world’s most irritating money making scheme. Said genius posted the PNFH at the entrance to the lot, where they collect $2 from each patron. In theory, one can present a receipt from any business served by the lot to the PNFH for a refund of the previously collected $2. However, since the lot is one way, one has to walk all the way back to the entrance to receive a refund. Which is a bigger pain than it is worth.

At this Aurora location, the counter guy was very helpful. He recommended Kenya AA beans that turned out to be fantastic. Unfortunately, he shortchanged me by $4.

Saturday afternoon, I went to The Grape, in Vinings, for lunch with recurring Propeller Skies characters The Beaver and Kara. I had the chicken quesadilla, which was exquisite. Prior to ordering, I was concerned because bourgeoisie Tex-Mex usually tastes like ass overdone and pretentious. Tex-Mex cuisine is usually best when it is simple and cooked by Mexicans at a sketchy looking restaurant that is really a house. However, the chef at The Grape used admirable restraint with the ingredients and the result was mighty zesty, without being overwhelming. This was the best quesadilla I have had in Atlanta. On a previous visit to celebrate my friend Katt’s birthday, I sampled the club sandwich, which was very good. I recommend The Grape.

I stopped by the Rejection Hotline party last Friday at Front Page News in Little Five Points. It was a decent party, I got one phone number. Amazingly, it was not the number of the Rejection Hotline.

worst. beer. ever.

At any given event sponsored by a beer company, the hotness of the marketing floozies is inversely proportional to the tastiness of the beer. At this event, the Edison beer marketing floozies were smokin’ hot. Therefore, I stuck with my usual Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. However, Herb, being a very media savvy guy, was kind enough to buy me an Edison. Before I discuss the finer points of Edison beer, I want to make clear that Herb is a cool guy and I appreciate the thought.

That said, Edison is a vile disgusting concoction that made me want to puke my fucking guts out. In order to avoid committing a party foul, I drank the whole thing. It was horrible. I had to immediately pound a Sierra Nevada to get the awful taste out of my mouth. At least shitty beers such as Bud Light, Miller Lite, or Lone Star Light have no flavor. And believe me, no flavor is far preferable to rotten flavor. In conclusion, to paraphrase Paris Hilton, light beer is for fat people.

even more revolting

At the end of July, Atlanta gets pretty fucking hot and humid. Since it is in the south and all. Unfortunately, a few revelers hanging out on the patio at this party forgot to apply anti-perspirant. No matter how well dressed a given person is, giant pit stains are fucking nasty. They look especially gross on hot women.

After a hard day of sailing on Lake Claire, there is nothing like kicking back at the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club and swilling down some $2 glasses of PBR. This Friday’s happy hour event was in honor of Andy, who is leaving Atlanta and moving to Ohio.

As we were leaving the office and travel arrangements were being made, Tim and I thought we would be smart and carpool to take advantage of the HOV system. Unfortunately, the HOV lane is just another devious scam perpetuated by the lazy dumbasses at Georgia DOT to excuse them from doing real work. Like building some damn roads, for example.

Despite taking an hour to travel roughly fifteen miles, we were among the first to arrive at the Yacht Club. As other revelers rolled in, we ordered beers and took full advantage of the people watching opportunity afforded by the large plate glass window (read: we enjoying the eye-candy strolling by). Good times.

After chatting with friends and colleagues for a while, I started to get hungry. As I had not eaten at the Yacht Club before, I waited to see what other people thought of the food. Eventually, Tim and recurring Propeller Skies character Tracy ordered pork burritos. I lost all respect for Tracy when she ate her burrito with a knife and fork. Both of them enjoyed the burritos. However, I decided to take a chance and order a cheap burger. The burger turned out to be somewhat tasty. Certainly far better than McDonalds® but nowhere near the same level as The Vortex or Hand in Hand.

The Yacht Club has a great atmosphere, decent food, and, most importantly, plenty of cheap beer. I highly recommend it.

This will be a longer than usual entry, with a good bit to cover. So grab a tasty beverage, settle in, and allow me to profoundly philosophize.

I started this blog to chronicle my adventures at shows and events around Atlanta. Sadly, as recurring Propeller Skies readers know, there have been no adventures. Shows are pretty much all the same. A bunch of musicians show up and play, sometimes badly. Sometimes the sound quality is good. Sometimes not so good. Especially at The Earl. [Kick that dead horse one more time and beatdowns will be administered � Ed.] Events follow a similar pattern of mind numbing repetition. First, some hotties show up and I take pictures of them. Sometimes I get a number or two. Other times I do not bother asking, because I am [1] broke, [2] too drunk to form coherent sentences, or [3] I just do not give a rat�s ass, since I will meet a dozen more at the next event. Next, I chat with whatever acquaintances happen to be there. Finally, after getting a reasonable number of photographs, I leave and go do something interesting with my friends that I do not write about. Therefore, this blog has gotten pretty fucking monotonous. [Thanks for pointing that out, captain obvious � Ed.]

Part of the problem is that nothing of great import or interest ever happens in Atlanta. The southerners are too damn polite to actually do something interesting. Inexplicably, this attitude has rubbed off on all the carpetbaggers as well. This place is one giant glorified suburb. And a boring one at that. As opposed to a Lynchian suburb, with dead bodies and sinister plots lurking underneath a facade of manicured lawns and white picket fences. I might as well live in motherfucking New Jersey. Which would be more exciting, because the streets are filled with swarms of guidos wearing tight shiny shirts and twenty-four carat garden hoses, driving Camaros, and beating the shit out of each other or anyone else nearby. Short of a massive government sponsored guido relocation program, I doubt the excitement level in Atlanta will be improving anytime in the near future.

In conclusion, I am pretty fucking tired of writing the same damn thing about every single damn event. The entries have become as tedious and formulaic as a romance novel, or a Michael Bay film. So, Prizzo Skeezy will be changing direction. Instead of reviewing events that I photograph for AtlantaBuzz, I will be viciously mocking the fashion victims and stupid people that say dumb stuff at the aforementioned events. Similar to previous posts, shitty venues will be ridiculed as appropriate. Additionally, I will be writing more about the previously discussed interesting things I do with my friends. Finally, Wire is one of the greatest bands of all time.