Atlanta

My drinking buddies had decamped to Atlanta, giving my liver and kidneys a welcome break, but leaving a small hole in my Friday nights. But with all the money I saved, I was able to book a flight to Atlanta and experience how the other homeys live.

Of course, we started in the office, which was full of people from Bermuda


Norris.	Mike B. (Joanne had either begun her marathon shop or was mentally preparing herself for it.)	Homeboy Alex, beer in hand.
Soon enough though, we were back at Chris's very des res, nearly ready to hit the town, just as soon as Chris had finished his Dot Cotton impression.

Chris. Is he auditioning for a part in American History X, or in Eastenders?	Alex, Chez Chris.	The boys preparing for their A.A. meeting.
Friday night was stunningly good. So good, that the only thing we achieved in daylight was a trip for Brunch. At 3pm. Saturday was a little quieter (no double 'cos Branco didn't lead us astray...), so on Sunday we made it out into the surrounding countryside to XXXX.

Some serious vandalism.	Alex searching for Chris.	Chris catching up on Alex.

That shadow on the horizon is Atlanta. No, really.
To celebrate we headed to a sports bar, whence Chris and I pickled ourselves with beer, while Alex complained about how weak his margaritas were. We then headed to the cinema, with Alex somewhere between drunk and disorderly. Of course he had to have some popcorn, and made two or three trips to the counter and returned with a bucket drenched in butter and someone's phone number. He then proceeded to graze (in the manner of a very hungry cow) on the popcorn. He not only fell asleep during the film, he climbed onto the floor so he could lie down.
		Mr Margarita mix. Unfortunately I didn't have the camera inside the cinema, but the smell of the rancid butter still makes me retch.

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Last modified on 10th December 2008 2:07 PM EST

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