Propeller Skies

After getting crocked at the oyster festival, Chesty McNasterson, Greta Von Dom, and I set off for an art show. However, someone was a little under the weather, so we stopped in L5P for burgers and tots at the Vortex.

While waiting for a table, I asked the bartender to surprise me with an India Pale Ale (IPA). She hooked me up with one from Lugunitas Brewing Company in Petaluma, California, which The Vortex just started carrying. The IPA was mighty tasty, and I have some in my private stash, but I still prefer Loose Cannon for every day drinking purposes.

Two Lagunitas IPAs later, we finally got a table. I overheard the waitress* mention, “I feel like a baby sitter,” to Chesty McNasterson**.

“Really, do you have to give spankings?”

“I can for twenty dollars.”

“I don’t have that much on me.”

Chesty McNasterson’s friend Joyce fronts the cash. The waitress bends me over a table, takes off her belt, and whips me. I enjoyed it. Additionally, watching looks of surprise, disgust, and fear cross the faces of the yuppie patrons was priceless.

notes:

* Yes, I know the proper politically correct tree hugging hippie liberal term is “server”. However, I don’t give a fuck.
** Who was sober.

Last Saturday, some dude from Cincinnati put together a little pub crawl through the now sun drenched Vizzo Heezy. Moe’s & Joe’s was the first stop. I consumed two draft Pabst Blue Ribbons. The bartender was all right.

We moseyed across the street to Fontaine’s. I switched to Sierra Nevada and chatted with a blonde hottie. The bartender was attentive and quick with the drinks.

Noche was next on the list and rather dull. I had a big bottle of Newcastle Nut Brown and bitched about downtown Atlanta’s bum problem with an attractive young lady.

We wandered across Highland to Taco Mac. Elizabeth, the bartender, was blonde and smokin’ hot. We all did a shot of something disgusting. I imbibed a Loose Cannon India Pale Ale. I highly recommend Loose Cannon IPA. This beer is on par with IPAs from Saranac or Southern Tier Brewing.

Limerick Junction was the last bar on the crawl that I made it to. We drank a round of Irish Car Bombs. I consumed more SNPA. The bartender was an easy to look at brunette, but somewhat surly.

I wandered back towards Highland and stopped at George’s for a tasty burger. The Professor met me there. We headed over to his place and drank some more. I highly recommend pub crawls organized by Dan.

My original Saint Patrick’s Day plan was to spend the evening getting loaded at the previously reviewed El Bar with several recurring Propeller Skies characters. Friday night, that plan collided with my top secret plan to save as much money as possible, retire early, move to Jamaica, and rock the ganj like Jay and Silent Bob.

My friend Phizz to tha O-Z threw a pre-party at his crib. In the spirit of saving money, I rolled up with a twelve pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale (SNPA). I then pounded SNPA like it was my job. Later, to get in touch with my Irish heritage, I did some shots of whiskey.

Eventually we made it to El Bar. At El Bar, I called the Dog the Rabbit or maybe the Rabbit the Dog and went to find the restroom. While taking a leak, I noticed the toilet was revolving rapidly. I decided this was a sign from God* that I should take my leave and walked home to my ghetto fabulous apartment complex.

Saturday morning, while strolling back to Virginia Highlands to retrieve my dope ride, apocalyptic visions of drunken chavs crashing into my Acura while attempting to parallel park their ghetto sleds were running through my head. I was very relieved to find my beloved Acura right where I left it and in pristine condition.

notes:

* I do not actually believe in God, or any other supreme being, this is only a figure of speech for comedic effect.

dinner at surin

Saturday evening, I met Recurring Propeller Skies character The Professor* at Surin for dinner. Surin serves the best coconut soup in Atlanta - Strip City, so I ordered a bowl with shrimp. As usual, the soup was superlative. For an entree I had the spicy seafood, which was most excellent albeit not as hot as I expected. I highly recommend Surin.

party at the institution

Next we headed to a loft party. The party was slammin’ and packed with interesting characters. Highlights of the party included a smokin’ blonde foreign chick and a person of ambiguous gender. Based on my conversation with the person of ambiguous gender, I now have a new purpose in life. I want to be a judge at the Cannabis Cup. Although this was a fun party with some vertically challenged folks, there were no actual midgets in attendance. Excessive Bluntster out, yo.

[While researching this story, Smoove D came across the Cannabis Cup Name Generator. Have fun - Ed.]

puking at the local

Finally, The Professor and I found ourselves at The Local. We wandered in and grabbed the only table available, which happened to seat about eight. Soon some guy from Atlanta - Strip City and a bunch of his boys from Massachusetts - The Lightweight State showed up. We graciously offered to share our table. Roughly half an hour later, one of them started puking all over the floor. Fortuitously, The Professor spotted some friends at the bar so we went and kicked it with them. Another, barf free, table opened up and I found myself discussing breast enlargement surgery with The Professor and three hotties. Eventually, the hotties headed over to MJQ and The Professor and I headed back to our respective cribs. Like a retard, I neglected to get the number of the blonde hottie, because the Pabst Blue Ribbon slowed my synapses and it took me too long to realize I dug her. I recommend The Local.

notes:

* Not The Professor in The Woggles.

Friday night I stopped by the worst micro brewery in the country for a brewery tour and tasting. For the clueless, by brewery tour and tasting I mean free craptastic beer. Unfortunately, pretty much every student at Georgia Tech had the same bright idea.

After standing in line for a while, I finally got inside and had the privilege of being packed in with a bunch of Tech students tighter than a gerbil in a certain famous actor’s asshole. Now if these had been Georgia students, life would have been grand. For those unfamiliar with public institutions of higher learning in Georgia, all the smokin’ hotties attend the not very academically rigorous University of Georgia, located in Athens, while Georgia Tech, an engineering school with actual admissions standards, is conveniently located here in Atlanta.

While standing in line waiting patiently for free beer a retard who worked at the brewery kept yelling one line was for some kind of not so tasty beer and another line was for some other shitty beer. Newsflash: I am here to get wasted and I do not give a fuck. Just fill my motherfucking cup with the free beer, bitches. During my wait in line, some douchebag guido wannabe standing in front of me tried to start some shit because allegedly I stood too close to him. By this time, I was cranky and regretting ever showing up. If there had been room to swing, I would have destroyed his punk ass for thinking he was special.

I finally got some beer and headed outside. Things improved, as a smokin’ hottie showing off some sweet cleavage was standing in the parking lot. I had a great view from my vantage point on the loading dock. Later, some dumbass wandered up and asked if anyone knew the house number. Apparently the shit for brains cab dispatcher he was on the phone with had no idea where the brewing company was located. It irritates me to no end that these fucking foreign cab drivers do not know where a damn thing is. I cannot count on two hands the number of times I have needed to provide them with directions to my apartment complex. There ought to be a law. Finally, my night was ruined when I witnessed some pervert making out with a fat chick. Get a damn room!

While school is in session, I do not recommend this event. I might stop by again next summer to see if things are better when the Tech students are not around. More likely, I will buy a six pack of Sierra Nevada with my five dollar tasting fee and have my own goddamn tasting in air conditioned comfort.

“… your car can get up to a hundred and ten
you’ve nowhere to go but you’ll go there again …”
– Pulp

Would someone please open an original and creative new venue in Atlanta? I am tired of having nowhere worth going on the weekends. Compound is over, Shout! is old and the valet sucks, and Vision is just stupid (not that I would ever go there in the first place). In conclusion, I miss the Onyx bar at Commune.

Friday evening, The Beaver, The Rabbit, an as yet unnicknamed person, and I went to see Sean Costello play at a crappy restaurant named Silk*. Normally, Mr. Costello plays at shit holes like Northside Tavern, because he is a blues musician and the law clearly states they must play only in dive bars.

As Silk is a poor excuse for a restaurant and Mr. Costello’s usual fans were not in attendance (it was far too clean and well lit for their tastes) the crowd was mighty thin. However, because Silk is located in Midtown, there was a typical crew of lacquered late thirty something gold diggers at the bar. Around midnight one of the gold diggers got liquored up enough to start dancing poorly. That was pathetic. I could dance better and I am white, male, and straight.

Despite the asstastic crowd, this was a pretty decent way to spend an evening. The band members were all pretty nice guys and during a break, they chilled with us for a bit. I recommend catching a Sean Costello show at a suitably grimy venue, such as 10 High.

notes:

* I have never eaten at Silk, but I know that it sucks because the name is stupid and, less importantly, no one seemed to be eating there on a Friday night. Finally, Silk is totally lame for ripping off the communal sink idea first presented at the now defunct Commune.

Saturday evening, I met up with recurring Propeller Skies characters Dawnmarie and Charlie at Jocks and Jills in Midtown. Our friends Jim and Andrea were also in attendance. I had a bit of difficulty finding everyone, because I was inebriated upon arrival. The great thing about being transit dependant is that it allows one to stumble through life in an alcohol induced haze, with no fear of legal repercussions.

The ostensible purpose of the gathering was to watch the football playoffs. Unfortunately, it was wild card weekend and the playoffs featured a bunch of weak teams, so we were forced to drink heavily. As Dawnmarie and Charlie had been drinking longer than I was awake, they eventually decided to leave. Jim and Andrea left because they are married and boring.

Despite a distinct lack of Jills, I recommend Jocks and Jills. They nail the simple formula for a good sports bar - loads of televisions and a great selection of beers on tap.

On the way home, I got a case of the mad munchies. So I stopped into Kroger and managed to locate the Tostinos® Pizza Rolls® that had eluded me the night before on my way home from Vinyl. The clever bastards placed them opposite the pizzas in the frozen foods aisle. Instead of next to the pizzas, where a normal person would expect to find them.

Instead of covering an event tonight, I hung out with recurring Propeller Skies characters Lisa and Susan in front of a Texaco on Roswell Road. We chilled and drank O.E. 800 and Colt 45. Later on, we went cruising in Buckhead Village.

Not really. I actually hung out with them at Taxco, a somewhat sketchy looking Mexican joint on Roswell Road. Despite the somewhat dilapidated appearance of Taxco, it has two important features. First, there were plenty of beautiful babies. Second, and most importantly, big-ass beers were only $3.00. I am not sure what kind of beer it was. The aforementioned beer will not be winning any Smoove D beer tasting festivals. That said, if quality is not an option then quantity is certainly an acceptable substitute.