Characters:
Butterfat -- Chris Horne
MC Mastress JC -- Jaime Horne,
Big Hands the Sake Assassin (fka: Amidala Amelie) -- J-Doh,
Blondie as themselves,
Dave as Dave,
and introducing, Backporch Bjork -- the artist only known as Liz.
Featuring a cameo by Old Faithful, the Prodigal Babe.
Setting: Atlanta's smallest vacation resort, my sister's apartment.
Time: Sunday, early afternoon
I took a break from cleaning up to think about the last six days. Too much fun, too much pain, too much confusion, too much too much. Things, you see, were in abundance. Naturally, only time was proving difficult to keep in stock, and after the Mastress called to report her progress up I-75, I knew my musings should be put on pause. After all, I knew all I needed to know: I'd been where I was meant to be.
Slowly but surely, I resurrected the appearance of JC's apartment, picking up things and smiling as I remembered their origins and their stories. Beer and sake, a bag of stale chips, a half-emptied can of cheese dip, cigarette butts and the boxes that used to hold them, various wrappers, rented DVDs that wouldn't play, VHS tapes that would, newspapers galore, bras and panties hastily leftover in the early morning hours when miladies realized what they'd done. Three cheers for youthful indiscretions.
Be sure you look everyone in the eye when you cheer, it's seven years bad sex if you don't.
Were we on the way to see the Dark Crystal or just coming from it? Man, what a blur. A giant fuzzy blur of blurry giant fuzz. The roads were wet and party-goers were crossing where they shouldn't. I was driving so yes, we were on the way. I was driving because Big Hands couldn't. Big Hands couldn't because she and Backporch Bjork had downed a gallon of sake at R. Thomas', a place for people who prefer their foods organic.
So we're criss-crossing the mean streets of Atlanta making our way to Midtown Art Cinemas. There was dancing and singing. That means, there was the Violent Femmes. Big Hands was stylin' and profilin', Backporch was an epileptic streak of raven hair. I chipped in with the groove whenever I could. Our safety, mind you, was in my hands.
I'd never seen the Dark Crystal so my opinion comes after a couple decades of special effects innovation. That's a difficult thing to overcome. More than that, my disinterest -- nay, near-hatred -- of muppets. Visually intended to be stunning and mystical, I couldn't help but feel it was like watching ugly cracked-out California Raisins. Somehow, yes, the illusion was shattered for me.
The man character looks like Michael Jackson. The one-eyed, angry oracle reminded me of Della Reese. The love interest reminded me of a girl I liked in elementary school. It kinda freaked me out to see her with wings.
That said, what a good time, still. I was able to make fun of everything I found funny without Big Hands getting defensive or angry. That was a shock. What a gal. Before we left, I stole a box. It was a box in which the popcorn butter arrived. It was called Butterfat and a legend was born.
The first night was a movie night, too. We made haste to the Starlite Drive-in to see two great American comedies: Collateral and Anchorman.
Here's my review. Collateral, a movie. A movie not as good as it was bad. Anchorman was much better but imcomplete even though it makes the best use of celebrity cameos in the history of cinema. I wouldn't watch either again in its entirity, but I would gladly see pieces of Anchorman should they be available to me.
And I'd gladly watch anything -- a movie, a photograph, kelp noodles, aggressively pretentious pipe smokers, paint drying, male masturbation, the end of the world, etc. -- with Big Hands.
Why?
Well, outside of the outstanding company she provides, she knows how to "work it" using only a pack of chopped onions and a spork. Speaking of, I can't believe they give those away for free! If I hadn't already bought the popcorn and Cokes, I would have just grabbed tons of those. Those and packets of relish... and napkins. Open one of those bad boys and relieve two of mankind's greatest troubles: hunger and thirst. I just can't say enough.
Oh man, and if you think you like doing body shots with alcohol, try some chopped onions or relish. Jagermeister never gets stuck in your teeth, which is to say sex never does. That's a night I'll never forget... to think, I used to hate onions.
During halftime, I called Old Faithful because she called Big Hands earlier as we were suffering through Tom Cruise being a bad ass. Faithful didn't answer, I left a message and hit the head. On the way back to the car, she returned the call. She was watching an apparently decrepid Robert Smith lead his immortal 'the Cure' in concert. Big Hands and I took turns confusing her. It was fun.
It was almost as much fun as talking to her the next day. Somehow, that Prodigal Babe can make anything fun. Like, say, a bitch session. For six and a half hours, I listened to her rant and rave about her insurance company. And still, I had a great time. Her second coming is upon us. Some would say it's 'nigh'.
Then later that day, I ate at a blues bbq place with my sister. And I did so without eating red meat. Actually, that wasn't hard. I prefer pork bbq. All the same, this is a convienent opportunity for me to inform you that I'm giving up red meat. A week and a half and going strong. Seriously, I feel better. I doubt cows do since most of them I'd be eating are still dead, but the point is I'm feeling good.
I invited my sister, the great JC, to explore the Atlanta Art Museum thing as Big Hands had offered before. But she had to go to work and didn't want to go anyway -- that's exactly the order in which she explained herself after leading me to believe she was all about it. By the time Big Hands came over to lead us to the land of expression, there was no time left to see anything. That much is my fault for badly managing the order of events.
Instead, JC went to work. BH and I made a trip to Blockbuster, renting the City of Lost Children only to endure the indignities forced upon us by an obstintatious DVD player. The Todd Stolondz flick, Happiness, was our VHS substitute. I don't feel like giving another review so suffice it to say, I watched it and drank Cream Soda that was supposed to be Cherry-Limeade.
Afterward, she took me to R. Thomas for the first time. I think. Damn bad memory.
Sounds kinky, I'll do it!
I love organic. Organicky, organic, organic. Whether it was that night or the one before or even if we never went, the point is... well shit. So, since I'm trying to avoid red meat and I'm straight chillin' with a vegetarian, I figure, 'the hell with meat'. Accordingly, I order and proceed to swallow things I never knew existed. Like the previously mentioned and still controversial, Kelp Noodles. Imagine sneezing translucent gelatin all over a plate. That's kelp noodles: the most pointless garnish since that green stuff that Shoney's used to put next to my All-American Cheeseburgers. What's that called? Parsley? Or is it just garnish?
The kelp noodles, to their credit, made for a lovely conversation starter and later, a conversation continuer. Big Hands and I don't talk much and hardly get along so it's really nice to have something strange at which we can both point and laugh.
The kelp noodles, for no reason, were the bed on which my seaweed salad sat. And despite being smarter than the average bear, I ordered a salad of raw kale and Quinoa too. I love salad. Salady, salad, salad.
I forgot to mention (when I was busy mentioning the second trip to R. Thomas'), that with the help of Backporch Bjork and Big Hands the Sake Assassin, I pulled off the most amazing feat of physical strength and agility known to man. I carried -- he says with added gravity -- two women on my back more than twenty feet away from and back to the car.
In the words of Ron Burgundy, "I'm a man who discovered the wheel and built the Eiffel Tower out of metal and braun. That's what kind of man I am."
Where the fuck am I?
Oh, on Thursday, Big Hands was sick and I hadn't yet met B'Bjork. Therefore, I spent time with an old friend... after I got mad that I had to pet a dog while I was trying to talk on the phone. Nothing else to report except that I watched a lot of the Olympics. Did you know that there's an event in which actual gold, silver and bronze is awarded to people with the best performances on a trampoline? And rightly so, I say, because they were doing some wicked shit -- flips and spins 30 feet in the air. Damn, it was cool.
Then there was Friday.
Wait. Friday was the day with the Dark Crystal. It was a long, happy, sad day. A day of rain and perverts.
Big Hands was getting out of work -- first at 7pm, then at 6:30pm, then at 6pm -- at 5:30pm while I was trying to find Centennial Park where Blondie and the Psychedelic Furs would later play. So I made my way over to her swank pad... except I got lost... except I was where I thought I should be... except I had to get directions there.
Has anyone noticed that Trump's saying "You're fired" more without his show on, than he ever did on the show?
She still wasn't ready when I arrived -- though on the phone she said she was just waiting on me -- so I sat and watched TV. MTV, to be exact. The remote wouldn't work for me (I have a theory that it wasn't the right remote but she wanted to make me writhe). The show was this awful and addicting dating thing where people go through strangers bedrooms to determine who they want to fuck. It's strange stuff, man, but damned compelling. Voyeur much? And holy crap would I love to be on either end of that, the inspector or inspected.
My room, as a rule, is a hideous place to visit. It's never really mattered when -- on the timeline of my life -- you visit, it's going to be messy. I can't imagine many of the ladies I've dated wanting to have anything to do with me had they made their choice by examining my room. But the point is, I'd have a damn good time if I were on the show having my room raided. I think the name of the show is Room Raiders now that I think about it.
Picture this:
It's early in the morning, the van arrives to pick up unsuspecting potential dates for some hot chick. The other two guys have already been plucked from the throes of sleep. When they come to take me, I'm sitting at the computer drinking coffee -- I haven't gone to bed. Then the chick starts going through the rooms of the other fellows, cracking wise about condoms and porn mags. She gets to mine. The little briefcase they've provided has only a single rubber glove. She insists on a Level 5 Bio-Hazard Containment Suit, and I'm laughing my ass off (having been awakened by the other contestants since I dozed off during the segments at their houses). Six or seven cups half full of liquid, mold floating stoically on top. Boxes of books and books and books everywhere, mingling with the seemingly omniscent pile of clothes -- clean and dirty, I'm no respecter of persons. She finds the cigar box that holds the 1200 Camel Cash I've pulled from almost every pack I've ever smoked. All manner of paper strewn about, receipts and notes. There are teddy bears under the bed and no sheets on top. I'm just dying to meet her but I don't think it's mutual.
Pardon the above, I have a rich and prolific imagination.
The only distraction I had there -- not counting the times I slyly tried catching glimpses of Big Hands in the mirror hoping she'd inexplicably disrobed -- is her baby cat, sometimes called a kitten. This tiny street urchin of an animal (I'm sure it has a name, I'll call it Toby though), is wrestling with the four yellow paged phone books each Atlanta resident is given should they want to get something telephonically. Toby would fight it, climb on top to claim his triumph and slide down again. Watch and repeat as desired. This went on for, at least, three days.
That's when God invented going to see Blondie.
It was a mess thanks to a Falcons preseason game taking place inches from our intended destination. Parking was going for $20 a car, which would double the cost of admission to the concert for the two of us. Unacceptable. Then we saw a sign reading 'public parking $6'. Big Hands pulled down that path and eventually -- though inadvertently -- lead us into a massive concrete hell that smelled like cheap hamburgers. And strangely enough, people were parking down there. We had to turn around and I learned (because I asked) that she really has no depth perception. Scary!
Ya, so we found a spot for $10, but as soon as we'd navigated down the multi-tiered structure through it's fancy elevators, rain threatened to rain on our parade. We took a seriously ridiculous route to shelter in a park cafe -- negotiating with other friends about their arrival along the way. As it happened, we stood close to the doors on the glass and chit-chatted. Again, we have such a horrendous time together.
Our banter is interrupted by a comment some guy makes to some ladies who soon trotted through the park.
"Yeah or you could go back out there, get wet and let me stare at your nipples some more."
He didn't know them. I know this because we had a conversation. His philosophy, he summed up nicely, was "Well, I might get slapped for asking for what I want or I might get what I want." He also mentioned coming inside "to drink my whiskey". Go figure.
The entire time I was entertaining myself with this weird-o, Big Hands was growing ever closer to the large glass windows, apparently trying to move through them.
As soon as we could, we went outside to sit and smoke cigarettes. She went off about ol' boy with the loose tongue. I admired a guy with a hand-carved cane, he talked to us. Big Hands talked punk, oi!, hardcore and death metal with a dude named Dave. He asked what I like and I said, "Frank Sinatra." It was a good day to talk to a complete stranger.
This one stuck to us like glue. After a conversation lasting a half-hour, he followed us to see if the show would go on. It wasn't, it was, it was up in the air. The whole time Dave-o was our steadfast companion. We smoked, we talked, we saw a guy on a Segway wearing a helmet and black socks with his shorts. Dave-o had all sorts of plans for us getting tickets, all of them involved our female lead using her feminine wiles. He had no suggestions for me whereas getting tickets were concerned. He marveled, in her absense, that we weren't a couple and wondered if we were, as we'd said we were, cousins.
Hey, J-Doh, I think he had the hots for you.
Right now, the puppy is caught in a blanket hanging on the back of the recliner and I can't help him because it is too funny to me.
We finally lost Big D when we lost all hope of seeing Blondie play. We'd waited for about two and a half hours in the drizzle (and we were demographic oddities, only young ones and old ones, we in the middle). We'd made new friends. I crooned Ram Jam and the Allman Brothers. She disapproved. A sad woman walked by with "Call Me" in glitter paint on the back of her shirt. On the front, she informed all, "I'm available."
We lost all hope when it was confirmed that Blondie wasn't going on because no one tarped the damn amps. It was suggested that we take off for our car before they issued the announcement. We obliged slowed only when the Strokes tried to lay the mack down on J-Doh. She was wearing a Billy Idol shirt and looking exquisite, so I can't blame them. I'd have hit on her if I could.
In case you're wondering, I helped the pup. He was grateful and showed it by bouncing as he ran.
Meeting B'Bjork and seeing the Dark Crystal followed. At the end, I went home sad and lonely. That's the downside of having a great time with good people and drinking coffee too late at night.
Saturday was supposed to be my departure day. I was so damn grumpy and crotchety, very old man of me. I couldn't write (by the way, I was nailing my novel this whole week until then) and I didn't like people. It happens, you know. Thankfully, depression is becoming more and more like a cold. It comes on, I don't like it and it goes. Way better than it used to be.
Ditching my plans to return to the Mid-State, I had Big Hands and B'Bjork over to the apartment. We were going to drink and watch a movie about prison. J-Doh hadn't slept much, worked a full day and was fading fast. We went for a walk to Blockbuster because the DVD wouldn't play... the second one that wouldn't. We got other movies and with the blood flowing through our veins, got to drinking.
These two ladies took out an entire bottle of premium sake. A cross-roads approached. Get more or get lame. The former won by a landslide but there was only 20 minutes before Sunday cramped our style. I led us on an ill-advised walk to a very closed Publix. That gave us like 8 minutes to get in the car and get to Kroger.
I'm a stud. I came out with another bottle of Sake. It was exactly midnight when my purchase finished ringing. I'm a stud. I even teased the girl in front of me for buying Chips Ahoy at midnight on a Saturday.
The second bottle was a stumbling block for them and despite a manic display of Louis Prima inspired swing dancing and dipping, they were sluggish. I did the only thing I knew to do. I dropped my pants and said, "Let's roll."
In moments, the three of us had become a big, sweaty knot of orgasmic pleasure and thanks to the weekend I spent at Sting's house learning the intricacies of tantric sex, it was an orgasmic pleasure that lasted hours and hours. Sometimes, a man has to do what a man has to do. That night, I had to make sweet love to two beautiful ladies.
Thanks, miladies...
With them passed out, I sat up and wrote a book of haiku poetry, then settled the whole World Bank dilemma via phone conference before saying my prayers and going to bed. Had I known I should, I would have prayed that Big Hands not snore so much but there was nothing I could do about it then. B'Bjork sings in her sleep. And I only had three hours of rest before I noticed they were gone.
A message, in lipstick, on the full-length bathroom mirror said it all:
"Dear Butterfat,
That was tremendous fun and you're great in the sack but it was a terrible bad idea since we are both married and soon to enter the Lord's work in a covent. If it makes you feel any better, we left as soon as we realized why we were so sore. I'm sure we'll remember you fondly.
Eternally yours in sweaty passion,
the Violated Femmes"
I just checked my bank account, I only have $6 left. It was a good week.
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