I highly recommend catching a Penguins game at the Igloo. Hurry up, as a new arena is planned to open in 2010. Nothing against shiny new arenas, but they have all the charm of a major regional mall.
This was originally titled “Pirates at PNC Park.” Since the Pirates did not bother showing up to play the Diamondbacks, I dropped them from the headline. Despite the lack of effort from the hometown team, PNC Park is beautiful. A highlight of the park is the spectacular view of downtown Pittsburgh across the river.
Unlike Braves fans, the Pirates fans actually cared about the game and proceeded to heckle the team, which I found hilarious. The fans were also quite friendly and fun to hang out with. PNC Park is highly recommended. The Pirates, not so much. Insider tip: skip the craptastic domestics and order Yuengling.
Some time ago, I woke up early and headed over to Steinbeck’s with recurring Propeller Skies characters Chesty McNasterson and Greta Von Dom. I think Steinbeck’s was having some kind of oyster festival. I am generally opposed to such gatherings, because eating oysters requires effort on my part. However, they also serve beer, so I agreed to go along for the ride.
Beer was served up outside by two hotties. I drank enough beer to later get shot down by one of the aforementioned beer wenchs*.
Fire Franchione already. Gary Arnell’s (lack of) defense collapsed and the Cornhuskers scored the game winner. Gary Arnell is an embarrassment to the state of Texas. Governor Rick Perry should execute that punk ass motherfucker as a public service.
After the game was over, I ran into an old acquaintance, The Tree Hugging Hippie Prius Driver. She was hanging with a bunch of hotties, so I strolled over and started chatting with her. While I was busy chatting up one of The Tree Hugging Hippie Prius Driver’s fine friends, a smokin’ blonde joined the group. A few synapses fired, despite my best efforts to drown them all, and I asked her, “are you interested in Mr. Fangs?”
“Why, do you throw up the pieces?”
“No, I take the photographs. Do you have a Myspace page?”
“Yes”
“Are you Samantha?”
“Yes, you recognized me from my picture?”
“Yes.”
Samantha is even more fly in person than in her photograph**. We have quite a bit in common***, so I considered asking for her number, but I am just not bad ass enough to satisfy her. For example, I would never snort blow on I-85 while driving her to dinner.
* Who I later found slinging PBR behind the bar at Moe’s and Joe’s at the beginning of an over-organized pub crawl I bailed on. The wankers running it had name tags made up. What the fuck kind of pub crawl requires name tags? A lame motherfucking pub crawl, that’s what kind.
** But only because I didn’t take it.
*** We both attended the Black Keys concert and enjoy Terrapin Rye Pale Ale.
Last Thursday, I stopped by Lotus for the Atlanta Jaycees monthly happy hour. I enjoyed the event and spent some time catching up with old friends and briefly chatting with new friends. Jaycees events are smoove as hell and always worth the price of admission.
Lotus is the newest addition to the $30,000 millionaire Atlanta scene. Although Lotus is not a bad concept, Compound is still nicer. Besides, who the fuck wants to party at Lindbergh Center anyway?
In the interest of scientific inquiry, I ordered a couple of Martinis.
Halo is still the motherfucking king of dope ass Martinis in Atlanta. Lotus gave them some competition, but came up short. The following list details what Lotus got right:
How Lotus fucked up:
Lotus is not recommended. At their price point, motherfuckers need to come correct. Go to Halo, order a traditional Martini, and enjoy life. And another thing, what is with all the male bartenders? Last time I checked, Lindbergh Center was not in Midtown. Fuck, if the Earl can get a smokin’ hot six foot tall blonde to tend bar on a Wednesday night, a fucking lounge should be able to get some attractive women to sling overpriced lagers.
Fuck. I wake up to rolling thunder, which means the East Atlanta beer festival may be less than pleasant. I turn on the computer and compulsively refresh the weather every five seconds. Looks like this might be a go after all.
Running late. Of course the Downtown Congester is packed with Maryland farmers driving five miles per hour.
I get to the gate a few minutes after opening and greet an undisclosed recurring Prizzo Skeezy reader. I pay twenty five ducats and an anonymous festival volunteer issues me an insultingly small glass. This will be my last East Atlanta Beer Festival.
More rain. I take shelter under the Old Savannah Brewing Company tent. Their name is nothing but lies, as they have been in business only a year and the beer is brewed in China. Ghost Ale is rather dull and flavorless. In contrast, their Pale Ale is respectable. Geoff wanders by and stops for a drink.
Eventually precipitation stops and I find my favorite brewery from South Carolina, Thomas Creek Beer. The sales manager complimented my shirt (yes, the one with mythical animals prominently displayed) and I struck up a conversation. Throughout the festival I stopped by for tasty Thomas Creek Beer, particularly the Amber, and to chat. I would have requested a number, but South Carolina is OTP - making her geographically undesirable.
During the afternoon, recurring Prizzo Skeezy character The Professor joins me. We drink plenty of beer and piss on the side of an old boarded up school. Portable johns were another amenity the organizers skimped on. The festival ends and The Professor and I head east to our next mind blowing adventure.
Saturday afternoon, I ventured OTP to the special circle of hell known as the Central Perimeter to participate in a beer festival with recurring Propeller Skies characters Lisa, Lori, Jim, and Mark. Low and highlights of the Dunwoody Beer Festival included:
Although I recommend the Dunwoody Beer Festival, the lack of hotties better damn well be fixed next year. Additionally, the t-shirt was a pain in the ass to carry around. Hopefully the organizers will omit the shirt and knock a few dollars off the price of admission next year.
Saturday afternoon, recurring Propeller Skies character The Beaver dragged me to the Dogwood Festival. As usual for an event in this sorry excuse for a city, parking sucked a big fat dick. To all the cocksuckers opposed to the parking deck in Piedmont Park: fuck all y’all, I hope your houses burn down and your insurance lapsed, causing you to die penniless and riddled with venereal diseases while being savagely beaten by the pigs for begging in downtown Atlanta.
I wrote about enjoying the Dogwood Festival a few years ago, but I was not impressed this year. Exactly three booths featured decent photography. The rest of the festival was kitsch art manufactured for the lowest common denominator. I do not recommend the Dogwood Festival.
I went to some Halloween themed events and parties last weekend. I do not feel like writing reviews. However, I will mention that Spiralween sucked. I knew it would, but I went anyway. Note to self: remember to consult the Prizzo Skeezy when deciding what to do.
Three years ago, Halloween was the best fucking holiday ever. Friday night, a crew of not yet recurring Propeller Skies characters and I attended the Wednesday Night Drinking Club party at The Mansion. That shit was superlative. We later took a cab over to Northside Tavern, where I did not get into a fight. After drinking our fill there, we took a cab back to The Quiet One’s apartment and left The Beaver, who was half asleep, on the couch. The Quiet One and I had a case of the mad munchies, so we headed to the Majestic and had some tasty food. Back at the apartment, we discovered Michelle making out in the parking lot with some random guy, dressed as a male stripper, who she had picked up at The Mansion.
Saturday night, we attended Brimstone Boogie at the Atlanta Brewing Company. As we got out of the cab, not yet recurring Propeller Skies characters Chris and Amy walked up dressed as a priest and a Catholic school girl, respectively. The beer was craptastic, but there was plenty of it for the twenty dollar cover. After drinking as much free craptastic beer as we could stand, we took a cab home and accidentally left my cracka Crunk B in the VIP. Motherfucker should have answered his cell instead of shoving his tongue down some bitch’s throat. Back to The Quiet One’s apartment we crashed. I woke up the next morning and found Crunk B sleeping in the cab of his truck with his robot costume neatly stacked in the back.
I do not remember Halloween two years ago.
Last year was mediocre. Rejection Hotline’s Halloween Hookup was fun, but Spiralween blew goats.
This year, Halloween is a fucking disaster. Wednesday Night Drinking Club is holding Scary Party Five at East Andrews. Fuck that. East Andrews is always packed full of fake ass $30,000 millionaires and obnoxious yuppie douchebags. And the staff there is a bunch of cunts. Brimstone Boogie returns to Atlanta this year with a load of bullshit. Twenty five dollars to get in and a goddamn cash bar? Fuck you, motherfuckers.
Last year, the Great Decatur Beer Festival sucked more dick than Stephanie Swift. Therefore I did not attend on Saturday. When the organizers pass out real pint glasses again and bring the price back down to reasonable levels, say around twenty dollars, I might consider attending. Bloody fucking tossers.