A
Civic hatchback trundles by us.
"ohh, look! The car's so cute, the leetle car's sooooo cuuuuute..."
Carson sighs. The more a car resembles a Micro-Machine, the more Laura likes it. She croons every time one zips past us. God knows what would happen if she got a hold of a Mini Cooper... the experience would be religious in intensity, I'd wager.
"I know what I'm doing. You'll see!"
It's true! They won't trust me. So I got the wrong exit - Cobb Avenue, South Cobb Street, all the same. Jessica recommended taking I-75 over, and everyone's believing that to be the gospel truth, but I will prove them wrong. It's Cobb Avenue, that's the shortest way, I'm driving, you all will have to shut up and like it.
I end up being right, but my idiotic GPS has Jessica's apartment erroneously placed north 500 feet, so any possible juice I might have gained is pissed away. But it doesn't matter; we arrived and Jessica has baked us baked goods and Jamcracker is as cute as her pictures promised and we spend the rest of the hour bombarding the poor little cat with attention.
"Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!"
Medieval is killing a bottle of Purple Passion in one of the most impressive displays of binge drinking that I've ever had the good fortune to lay eyes upon. I'm trying to remember his actual name; it's like 'Carson', but it's not. Six letters, starts with C, but I can't think and for the whole rest of the weekend I refer to Medieval as Carson.
There's a bathtub full of beer. It is my solemn and sworn duty to partake.
Dave & Buster's is truly lacking. There is no Dance Dance Revolution to be had. That's a bit of a bummer, since we had so much trouble finding D&B's in the first place, and expected to be well-rewarded for our efforts. Eventually, everyone gathers at a table and beings munching on congealed grease that is pretending to be actual food. I play two rounds of pool and suck hard, but that's all right, because Chris, Scott, and Christy aren't much better.
Suzy is not real. Her hair stays supremely styled and spiky, even in heavy precipitation, just like any self-respecting anime character. She has to stand outside in the drenching rain - something is wrong with Scott's rental car. A serpentine belt? Isn't that with the steering something or other? I try and bullshit, pretend I know the answer, but I'm dead wrong. The car works well enough for them to get home.
Brian's Acura lacks a working windshield wiper motor. We rely on Rain-X to save our sweet asses from fiery doom.
Some chick broke into Scott's room and is sitting on the hotel bed dressed in skimpy sleepywear! Scandalous.
Brian's with the Wonkoalition and Laura's meeting another blogger by the name of Bob so we head out to find one of these fabled 'geocaches'. The target in question is a mere three miles from Jessica's apartment, and after an initial misstep, we get to within 150 feet, when suddenly the GPS loses signal. We never find the hidden pirate treasure. Jessica's brother, Noah, begins to limp, his foot in pain - adding injury to insult. But at least I still have Jammy to play with.
Jessica lets me log on with her user name! I HAVE GOD POWERS. Oh, it's so wonderful stringing thefez along, sending him delicious /msgs. He's just a big trusting sweetie, emphasis on the 'trusting'.
Birch is gone. He's off breaking the law, he's a big fat lawbreaker.
"Third boxcar, midnight train / Destination Bangor, Maine / Old worn out suits and shoes / I don't pay no Union dues"
I'm feeling my oats as Chad, Brian, and I share a particularly bad pitcher of Amber Bock. But any energy I have soon leaves me; no lanes open up, no bowling is to be had. At least there's kareoke. Christy does her thang, competing with an Issac Hayes-style soul brother for the hearts and souls of the audience. The only one who gets close to either of those two is Scott, who, resplendent in a fine corduroy smoking jacket, performs King of the Road to general (and deserved) acclaim.
Chris performs a Britney Spears song. Badly. Laura and Jessica gathers up their brood (they're competing for the title of Den Mother). We make like a tree and leave.
I feel the need to mention here that Chad has the coolest black velvet slacks.
The Waffle House is, as expected, the cultural center of late-night Atlanta. The joint is jumpin', the juke is jamming. Christy regales us with tales of the people she's met working as a singer in Nashville. Our waitress has the gravelly voice that all good late-night waitresses have; I pray and pray she calls one of us "darlin'" but I must sadly report that there is no God and she never said that word.
We arrive back at the hotel and dear God, the bathtub is still full of beer. I do my part to right that fundamental wrong. piq has stayed with the group, and he and Brian will have to duke it out for the title of cutest Everythingian (male). Every time I see him, I think Raphael; Brian brings to mind the works of Lucian Freud for reasons I can't place.
Laura is a caterpillar and she's going to eat Jamcracker. She's evil.
"They're so big, the guy has to bring in his balls on a wheelbarrow. 'scuse me... 'scuse me..."
Jessica is a very very very nice person and she's given us many burned CDs, including one of Bill Hicks' vision of Arizona Bay. I drive for a bit, and then relegate myself to backseat duty, pondering crossword ponderables, letting Laura and Carson get all cute and adorable in the front seat.
Birch is either asleep or awake; it's hard to tell which. He keeps his slim figure by twitching endlessly while he naps; a good eight-hour rest must burn at least 500 calories for him.
Whiz-bang is over and a good time was had by all.
You got this far? Then you deserve some dirt. Ready? Jessicapierce is a member of JCPenney's 6 Bra/12 Panty club! Be sure and tell all your friends.