In a Strange Land

Posted by Max on Aug 30, 2011 in The.Blog | 1 comment

The honeymoon is over.

I left Georgia in my rear-view with a smile on my face.  I had a bottle of caffeine pills and a pocket full of ephedrine.  I didn’t care where I stayed, or how much gas I burned, I just wanted to leave.

My first weekend in town I spent a long weekend slithering through the local bar scene.  I reconnoitered everything by foot, making mental notes and getting loaded.  Initially there was promise . . .

When I landed up here, my only point-of-contact was my buddy Ford.  I asked him about the dive-bar scene and he told me about the Galley.  I was on a first-name basis with the wait-staff after three days.  It’s hard for me to argue with good food and cheap drinks.

Next I hit the Kitchen – the local hot spot for live music.  Metal, punk, and rock-a-billy.  I stumbled across a duo named Hopeless Jack.  They’re the best band you’ve never heard of, and I highly recommend them.

Unfortunately, a man cannot live on PBR alone.  It was then the cracks began to show.  You can gamble on every corner, in every bar, but the liquor authority here sucks.  The bars start throwing people out by 1:30.  Booze is expensive, and liquor stores are few and far between.  My days of cheap Evan Williams and walking to the strip club are over.

Speaking of strip clubs, there are only two in town.  Full-nude juice-bar type joints.  There are only seven in the whole fucking state, and none of them serve alcohol.

Who’s fucking idea was that?  If I wanted to stare up a stripper’s cunt, I’d throw her an extra hundred and ask to see the VIP room.  As it is, I know better than that.  I don’t go to strip clubs with the false belief that they’ll go home with me.  I just want to get hammered and stare at their tits.  Sure, it’s nice when they cop a feel, or squeeze my upper arm, but I’m not taking them home to mother.

And I’m certainly not paying to fuck them.  For one thing, they keep diseases in there.  What’s more, I don’t want them knowing where I live.  I know they’re not taking me home.  Our “lovemaking” would wake up their kid.  That leaves fucking in the car, and something tells me there’s not a lot of room in the front seat of a Scion tC.

If I want to feel cheap and low at three in the morning I’ll just piss on my boots behind a gas station.