Propeller Skies

The following list summarizes the myriad reasons my Acura is better than any woman ever made:

1. It starts every time without protesting and requires only thirty seconds of warm-up;
2. The car responds to input quickly and without complaint or superfluous discussion;
3. Despite taking 91 octane gasoline, it is also much cheaper than a woman. An extra twenty cents a gallon is nothing compared to a Jimmy Choo habit;
4. My Acura is eminently predictable and never moody;
5. The vehicle never complains about stupid shit; and
6. The car is extremely low maintenance and should run to 200,000 miles without complaint.

Upon further reflection, my Acura may even be better than booze. However, that is a topic for another post.

A general tendancy here at the Prizzo Skeezy is to focus on the crappy aspects of living in Atlanta, resulting in an overwhelming tidal wave of negativity. Today, in contrast, it will be all kittens, flowers, peace, love, and other tree-hugging hippie bullshit.

One of the nice things about living in Atlanta is the preponderance of excellent street art. The writer behind Mr. Fangs is pretty much my favorite artist. While out shooting for Aspherical, I have run across several variations of Mr. Fangs painted on buildings and I have taken flicks. Enjoy the following images of Mr. Fangs, which include: a photograph of a blue Mr. Fangs, an image of a yellow Mr. Fangs, and a photo of a pink Mr. Fangs. I am still looking for a red Mr. Fangs. Stay tuned, eventually I will find the red geist in some forgotten hood.

As I was getting up to mix myself another Vesper, I suddenly heard a crash and a horn going off on the street outside my apartment. As the horn sounded like mine, I decided a quick investigation was warranted. I grabbed my Polaroid and some shoes and headed downstairs to see if some drunken fucktard had run into my sweet ride.

Fearing that my white trash neighbors had gone on a Natural Light fueled bender and crashed into my car on their way home, I braced for the worst. What I found was the wrecked Acura RSX pictured above and some dude running away from the car. This was a brilliant plan on his part, except the car could easily be traced to him through the license plate or VIN number and the continuously blowing horn insured someone would call the pigs. On the way back upstairs, I was lucky enough to meet my brand new smokin’ hot neighbor, who had also come out to see the commotion.

notes:

PHOTO: Smoove D for d.2263 Photographics.

Currently, here in the Dirty South, speculating about the impending bankruptcy of Delta is a popular topic of conversation. Personally, I think Delta deserves to go bankrupt because they fucking suck ass. Every flight I have ever taken on Delta, which would be about a dozen, has been delayed. Once, I even had to spend the night in Cincinatti after sitting on the runway for four flippin’ hours.

In six months of riding MARTA, the train had issues once, because some dumbass decided to walk on the tracks and get killed. This was, however, a minor inconvenience and much more pleasant than spending a night in Ohio.

Comparing Delta to public transit is an insult to public transit. Public transit is cheaper, has better schedule adherence, and is more customer service oriented than Delta. I hereby apologize to any transit agencies I may have offended with this post.

Saturday morning I awoke at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock and headed down to the southside to scout some locations for an upcoming shoot. After wandering around the hood, finding a Trabant, and spotting one actual ghetto dog, I had enough material. I realize it seems unlikely anyone in Atlanta is rolling in a Trabbie, so as evidence I present this photograph of a Trabant.

A few minutes after leaving, I found myself in the shadow of the Fulton Cotton Mill Lofts, eating breakfast at the Carroll Street Cafe. Feeling treacherous, I ordered the classic benedict, which is pretty much eggs benedict served on toast instead of english muffins. It was mighty tasty, as were the hash browns served on the side. To wash everything down I had a coffee, which was decent. I look forward to returning several times to try other intriguing items on the menu.

While perusing the aforementioned menu, I noticed that the prices seemed rather high for the hood. I later found out the same team that runs the overpriced Apres Diem also owns the Carroll Street Cafe.

I recommend the Carroll Street cafe. However, as word spreads and the yuppie population increases as Cabbagetown continues to gentrify, this cafe will have a tough avoiding faux bohemian lameness, just like a certain other cafe named after a fictional location in an F. Scott Fitzgerald book. My advice to all five Propeller Skies readers is to try it now before the fucking yuppies ruin it.

As Cap’n Ken over at The Wisdom has noted recently, college football season has started. With that in mind, I dropped in to ESPN on line and discovered that Texas A&M is ranked 17th in the ESPN coaches poll. Additionally, an interesting article on ESPN pointed out that the Aggies are a potential sleeper team and could do very well this year. However, all this does not mean a damn thing if Dennis Franchione does not get on the job and beat TU this year.

The south is like one giant dumpster overflowing with filthy, disgusting, immoral, and lazy white trash. A case in point would be my white trash neighbors, who once asked me for a jump, and also asked to borrow tools.

The other day, I arrived home to find my white trash neighbors had parked their bootleg car diagonally, taking up not one, not two, not three, but FOUR FUCKING PARKING SPACES. And premium spaces at that. This alone is not white trash behavior, but simply stupidity. What elevated this stunt beyond general dumbassery and into the elite realm of white trash behavior was the condition of the ghetto sled. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that one of the front tires was flat and the front of the car was smashed up a bit. If my neighbors were not white trash, they simply would have called triple goddamn A like normal fucking people and had the offending hooptie towed.

Dear foreign fucktard in front of me in line at Publix,

First, hang up your goddamn cell and use both hands to place items on the belt. The hardworking cashier can scan them faster than you can load them with only one hand. Second, stop trying to scam the long suffering cashier with an expired coupon that you so cleverly cut the date off. I am not sure what bootleg third world country your dumb ass is from, but that shit does not fly here in America. Third, after you have held me up enough, DO NOT BLOCK THE ONLY EXIT FROM THE STORE.

Dear slow ass motherfucker,

Going twenty fucking five down Deering Road is a serious offense. For the record, that would be five miles per hour SLOWER than the posted speed limit. Because you refused to get a clue and speed up when I rode your ass like a dildo, the next time this occurs severe beatdowns will be administered. Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.

p.s. The gas pedal is THE ONE ON THE RIGHT. It works best when pushed all the way to the floor.

A few weeks ago I stopped by the West Egg Cafe for breakfast. Like every single other restaurant in Atlanta not located in a strip mall, it is a loft space in a converted warehouse. I ordered a full stack of blueberry pancakes and a cup of coffee. The pancakes were tasty and the coffee was all right. Unfortunately the interior was hotter than Rachael Ray and Sarah Silverman making out in a hypothetical lesbian porno, so I did not linger and try anything else. West Egg Cafe is a decent place to eat, but it is not all that and a bag of Doritos.

Since I have gotten quite a few dumbass comments from clearly retarded people recently, I think I need to have a little refresher course on how, exactly, comments work. Put simply, I rule. Stupid comments are held in moderation through the magic of spam filters. I then either delete them, or in the case of particularly stupid people, I viciously mock them.