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While living in Texas for two years, I was unable to locate even one example of a Texas Hot.
On the surface, Johnny’s Lunch appears to be nothing more than a quintessential blue collar hot dog and hamburger joint. What makes Johnny’s Lunch special is their supremely zesty sauce. I highly recommend Johnny’s Lunch.
I am not particularly fond of Ohio for the following reasons:
However, Ohio does have a few things going for it:
Despite my lack of enthusiasm for Ohio, home of seven past presidents, I decided to stop in Columbus to meet The Geographer on my way from Atlanta to Lakewood, New York.
[The following conversations were edited for clarity. By edited for clarity, we mean pretty much made up, although the concept is accurate - Ed.]
“Hello.”
“Hi, this is Smoove D and I’m a few miles south of Columbus.”
“I forgot you were coming through town today and I have plans, want to go to a salmon roast?”
“Sure, why not? ” A salmon roast? What kind of bourgeoisie shit is this? My people roast regular ass animals, like pigs. Besides, I was looking forward to some tasty Waffle House.
“Get on I-270 West, and call me.”
Barns, empty fields, and roughly 3,700 state police pass.
“I’m on 270 West.”
“Go a couple of exits and take 315 North to the salmon festival and call me when you get there.”
I drive for a while, go under I-70, and conclude I missed the exit while on the phone. Driving back, there is no evidence of the mysterious 315 anywhere. I exit at SR 3 under the dubious theory that Ohio decided to drop the one and the five to cut costs. Also, SR 3 seems to be in the right place. There is no salmon roast anywhere. I begin to consider the possibility that 315 does not exist. I could check my atlas, but it is conveniently located in the trunk.
“I have issues, I can’t find 315, but I am one exit east of US 29.”
“You’re almost here, 315 is one exit west of US 29. Can I get you a beer?”
“Sure.”
“What do you like? How about something hoppy?”
“Hoppy sounds good, see you in five minutes.”
I get back on I-270 West, cross US 29 and the next exit is not 315. I decide the alleged 315 is nothing but lies and consider ditching.
A nightlight illuminates above Smoove D’s head and the following phone conversation takes place:
“Are you north or south of downtown?”
“North.”
“I’m South, that explains a lot.”
“My bad.”
I manage to arrive and meet up with The Geographer.
“I hope you’re not weirded out, but my parents are here.”
“No problem, this whole situation is weird.”
Weird like what the fuck am I doing in the middle of Ohio hanging out with someone I met on the internet. At a salmon roast, of all places.
We sat down, and The Geographer introduced me to her friend, a professional drummer, as well as her parents. Her parents turned out to be pretty cool (for parents).
As an apology for giving me bootleg directions, The Geographer bought me a beer, which was a tasty IPA produced by Buckeye Brewing. While sipping our brews, we chatted for a while. I enjoyed the conversation - the one thing I really miss about the north is vicious, yet funny, sarcasm.
Towards the end of the festivities, The Geographer and The Drummer donated to charity for the chance to send a female friend of Bill into the dunk tank. Unfortunately neither one had the aiming skills to get the woman wet.
I had a fun time, and a tasty beer, meeting The Geographer was absolutely worth getting lost. If you have the means, I highly recommend meeting The Geographer. Just bring a map.
Last Saturday I took my whip in for its first service at Ed Voyles Acura. These guys, specifically Kevin and John, are top notch and earned the Propellers Skies seal of approval. I was out of there early and under budget. I highly recommend the service department at Ed Voyles Acura.
For the longest time, I thought Sex on Wheelz, by My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult, was about having sex in a car. Then I drove an Acura TL.
I highly recommend the TL with six speed manual gearbox*. The only thing Acura forgot to include is a hot blonde, like Samantha, in the passenger seat.
* Suckers that drive automatics get ripped off - the manual comes with big Brembo brakes up front and LSD.
Reading Esquire’s article on the best bars in America put me in the mood to have a drink. Specifically a Rob Roy. Unfortunately, according to the rules a Rob Roy can only be imbibed during winter. Rules are for suckers.
I was also feeling some regional pride and decided to modify the recipe and introduce some Dirty South Flavor. No city in the Dirty South is filthier than New Orleans, so I looked there for inspiration. I came up with the following and had three for quality control purposes:
Combine ingredients over cracked ice in a mixing glass and stir. Strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Drink.
The second Propeller Skies True American Hero™ award goes to an alert citizen who recorded five corrupt DeKalb County pigs beating down an innocent man in front of Famous Pub. Reading between the lines of the Atlanta Urinal Constipation’s typically inept reporting, it seems that Captain O’Malley started a fight with unidentified Famous Pub Patron No. 1. When Famous Pub Patron No. 1 started beating Captain O’Malley’s bitch ass, the four other swine jumped in and viciously beat Famous Pub Patron No. 1. In the initial report, the five police lied like Bush, claiming they were breaking up a fight. Unfortunately for them, our hero caught their dumb asses on tape. I hope these five filthy animals go to jail and get cornholed harder than a little boy at a Michael Jackson sleepover.
As of this writing, Famous Pub Patron No. 1 has not come forward to press charges. This is a wise decision in a county where Sheriff Derwin Brown was ruthlessly assassinated third world style in a plot masterminded by the former Sheriff. The trigger man, and DeKalb Sherriff’s Deputy, Patrick Cuffey walked due to District Attorney J. Tom Morgan’s incompetent prosecution.
Recurring and alert Propeller Skies readers will recall I have no love for the Flying Biscuit. A few days ago, I discovered the Flying Biscuit was selling out to Raving Brands while flipping through the worst paper in the country. Atlanta based Prizzo Skeezy readers will recognize Raving Brands as the owner of such craptastic chains as Moe’s, Shane’s Rib Shack, and Mama Fu’s. For Propeller Skies readers lucky enough to not live in this sorry excuse for a city, if Raving Brands brewed beer, it would have less flavor than Budweiser.
The irony inherent in a bunch of free range tree hugging hippies selling out to corporate America is funnier than Dave Chapelle. Now, the Flying Biscuit ain’t nothing but an organic Waffle House. I hear that in the draft version of the Raving Brands staff training manual, guest service team members will be required to have a minimum of 37 tattoos instead of wearing the usual buttons to meet the official corporate flair requirements. Final score - The Man: 1, Tree Hugging Hippies: 0.
Smoove D, minding his own damn business, is waiting to cross the street in Atlantic Station, an overrated and underwhelming retail development in Midtown Atlanta. An early 1990s vintage red and white Ford Bronco full of lost retards pulls up next to Smoove D. The passenger window rolls down and the following exchange takes place.
“Can you give us directions to Perimeter Mall?”
“Where?”
“Perimeter Mall.”
“No.”
“It’s on Ashford Dunwoody.”
“Never heard of it.”
Perimeter Mall is fucking fifteen miles from Atlantic Station. Buy a motherfucking map and stop bothering me.
Smoove D exits Caribou and is standing across from Subway in a strip commercial center that looks exactly like every other plaza in the United States. A crackhead walks up.
“Are you into computers?”
“No.”
“Want to buy a touch screen [unintelligible]?”
“No.”
Smoove D continues on to East Atlanta, where he finds his car exactly where he left it the day before. All windows are intact and the wheels are still attached.
The Man shut the East Atlanta Beer Festival down promptly at 6 pm. Cocksucker. The Professor and I rolled to Oakhurst.
I think we intended to eat at Sweet Devil Moon. We ate at the creatively named Oakhurst Grill, which had a key advantage over Sweet Devil Moon. The Oakhurst Grill existed.
Chef Michael Condon owns the restaurant and cooks some mighty tasty food. I highly recommend all five Propeller Skies readers try the Oakhurst Grill. Here is what to order:
Prices are ridiculously low for a restaurant of this quality. However, the Oakhurst Grill is missing a few amenities found in more blingalicious establishments, like a crapper designed by the Johnson Studio.