Biloxxxi's Woodshed

Another weekend, another adventure. Even something so simple as a trip to Eatonton, GA to go see a couple of former bandmates play an acoustic show gets way out of hand. I recruited a couple of friends, Jacoby and Caroline to go with me. They’re both from out of state and had never seen rural Georgia in all its glory.

Eatonton is not far from Milledgeville, where I went to college; maybe 20 minutes or so. So, after the acoustic show at the restaurant, I took Jacoby and Caroline down to Milledgeville to show them my old stomping grounds. Our intention was to go and hit up a couple of the bars I used to frequent and then crash over at my buddy Joe’s place. That plan hit a snag as we were pulling into town and Joe sends me a text message saying that the new girl he’s dating is “…gonna crash on the couch. Sorry.” Haha, likely story. This ain’t my first rodeo, so I told him not to sweat it and we’d find other accommodations. Worst case scenario, we’d have to get a $40 hotel room.

My next call was to Woodshed Player, Andrew Tecumseh Crider. He’s still in college down there at the distinguished Georgia College & State University, so I was thinking he might be out and we could borrow some floor space at his casa. It turns out that not only was he in town, Wiley and his fiance were in town as well and all hanging out over at another friend, Garr’s, house. By the time we made it to the bar, Wiley and Tracy were already passed out, but Andrew was still ready to party.

First stop: Buffington’s. I worked there for a couple of years while I was in school, and the thing I love most about the place is that even 5 years later, as soon as I walk in the door, I know 10 people. That’s rare in a college town.

Caroline and Jacoby were immediately stoked by the beer prices. A Tall Boy of PBR is like a $1, which is a nice change from the over-priced boutique beers all the rage in Atlanta. I’d been drinking beer all night, so I needed a liquor drink. “Jack & Coke, Good Sir, and don’t scrimp on the Jack.”

Andrew met us at The Buff and we all got pretty liquored up, for a grand total of $16. Hard to beat that, even with a stick. Meanwhile, Jacoby went and made friends with the bass player of the band. She said he looked like a rapist. How that translates into someone you want to meet, I haven’t the slightest clue, but she came out of the deal with a free t-shirt and 2 cds. The girl gets results, and you can’t argue with results.

Quttin’ time rolled around, so we headed back down the street towards Garr’s house. I’d asked Andrew if it was cool if  we stayed at his apartment, but he was like, “Dude, just stay over at Garr’s house. He’s got extra beds.” I’d told him to ask Garr to be sure. Garr and I know each other and are cool with each other, but we’re not like best friends or anything. I probably only see the guy 2 or 3 times a year. Andrew swore that it was ok, so off we went.

En Route to Garr’s house, Jacoby decided it to be fun to ride on Andrew’s back while he ran. I’ve seen enough drunken wrecks, concussions, and trips to Grady in 2010 to know this was going to end badly. As I stood there with Caroline watching these fools, I said to her, “They’re going to bust their asses.” Right as finished speaking, Jacoby leaned forward and Andrew lost his balance. He fell onto his knees at first, ripping his jeans. He was able to break the rest of his fall with his hands, but not before his forehead skipped off the ground. I had a hearty belly laugh and then said, “I told you so.”

We got back to Garr’s house and of course everyone was passed out. He’s got these 2 twin sized beds in what used to be the karaoke room. I staked my claim to one and laid down. About 8:30 or so, I hear talking. I also realize that someone is curled up by my back. I looked over into the other bed and I see Caroline. I just sorta assumed that Jacoby was on the other side of her next to the wall. That only left one person who could be in the bed with me. Andrew. Awkward.

Because this body snuggled up to me was facing my back, I couldn’t tell who it was. The mind races in situations like these, and my feet were freezing, plus I had to piss like a Russian racehorse. The talking outside the room stopped and I heard the sound of footsteps going back upstairs. I rolled over and realized that it was Jacoby sleeping next to me. That was a relief, but where the hell was Andrew?

I climbed out of bed to go pee. I then looked around the house only to discover that Andrew had bailed on us at some point during the night. Awesome. Now we were sleeping in a house where the owners had no idea we were there, and the one guy that could vouch for us, had hit the bricks. I crept back into the room and woke Jacoby and Caroline.

“Y’all wanna get out of here before anyone wakes up?” I said. They both agreed and we tracked down our stuff and walked out the front door without anyone noticing. We made it about 2 blocks down the road when Jacoby stopped. “Wait, where’s my cellphone? I must have left it in the house…”

This necessitated me going back into a house that I had essentially just squatted in. It’s like returning to the scene of a crime after you know you’ve gotten away with it. I stepped inside the door and immediately went to look for the phone as stealthily as possible. I dialed Jacoby’s phone with mine, and I could hear it vibrating. I looked around in the bedroom. No luck. “Where the hell is that thing?” I muttered to myself.  I heard someone stirring upstairs. “Shit! I gotta hurry!”

I walked back into the living room and dialed the phone again. It was definitely in here somewhere. I dug around in the couch, not there. I pulled off the cushion on one of those huge wing-chairs that everyone has in their formal living room but no one ever sits in and there it is was, laughing at me in all its 1997 Cricket Phone glory. I quickly grabbed it and headed back out the front door, silent as a ninja.

I hoofed it back down to where Jacoby and Caroline were waiting on the sidewalk. “Well, I guess we dodged a bullet on that one, huh?” I asked. “Let’s go get some Waffle House. I need a patty melt.”

Saturday had to be one of the most frustrating days in recent memory. I woke up Saturday morning for work and the pipes were frozen, even though I’d left the faucets dripping. That meant that when I got home from work, I’d be unable to take a shower. Freezing cold + Filthy = Awesome. (You can read more about this here.)

I got to work and some douche-nozzle had tried to steal my truck, El Chup, but failed miserably. (Obviously they weren’t aware that a fictional beast cannot be stolen.) They did manage to smash out the vent window which seriously blows, because they are a bitch to install. While cleaning up the glass and attempting to repair the damage with some cardboard, I gashed my wrist. Since it was a grand total of 19 degrees outside, I didn’t notice until the blood started soaking into my sweatshirt.

I’d arranged to take a shower over at Jenn’s house, but she was out running errands after work, so Andrew Tecumseh Crider was supposed to let me in. He is almost completely nocturnal at this point, so he didn’t bother to wake up and let me in until about 4:00. Jenn’s house can also be effectively described as a fortress with these ridiculous dead-bolt screen doors that can only be opened with a key. It took another 15 minutes for Tecumseh to locate a key to open the door. It was like I was 8 years old again, playing The Legend of Zelda. I could see where I needed to be, but I couldn’t figure out how to get there.

After trying every key on every door of the house, he was finally able to get one of these Death Star Portals to open. Three and half hours after I got home from work, I got to take a shower. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that it was one of the top 5 showers I’ve ever taken. Ahh, sweet sweet warmth.

I hung out with Tecumseh for a bit and knocked back a couple of Dirty Caucasians (a White Russian made with vanilla vodka). That smoothed the edges a bit. Slid things out of focus, if you will. It’s amazing what dairy products and alcohol will do for your life outlook.

Following a brief appearance at a housewarming party where I performed a stirring rendition of Run To The Hills by Iron Maiden, The Wharf Rats decided that a trip to Metalsome Karaoke was in order. If you’re not familiar with Metalsome, it’s just like regular karaoke, except you’re performing with a real band. The crowd gets into it a lot more than a typical karaoke night and it’s really a lot of fun.

A couple of Jenn’s friends joined us and we all grabbed some beers and made our way to the front. Whilst we were rocking out to the soothing sounds of Styx, these cougar-like women burst through our group to get to the front. I’m hesitant to call them cougars. Truthfully, they were more like silver foxes, but since they weren’t attractive at all, we should probably just refer to them as someone else’s problem.

That whole someone else’s problem thing sure didn’t last long though. One of the ladies slammed into Jenn’s friend, Dana, who then bumped her back.

“Don’t shove me, Bitch!” The woman exclaimed.

“Umm, you shoved me. I was getting you off me.” Dana replied.

I missed this exchange, since it was happening behind me and I screaming Mother by Danzig at the top of my lungs. The next thing I knew I was doused in girlie-drink and the cougar-woman was diving head first into a column near the stage. Somehow, possibly because God protects drunks and dumbasses, she avoided slamming her head into the post and merely drove her shoulder into it in an exciting football tackle fashion.

Ladies and gentleman, may I present Exhibit A (the one in the back)

Initially, I thought the woman was in a one person fight and the post won, but as she climbed drunkenly back to her feet, I realized she was seriously pissed at someone. That someone was Dana. I have no idea how she managed to muster the strength to throw that woman who was considerably larger than she was into that post, but I sure did enjoy it. I glanced back at Dana. There was a look of calm in her eyes. She was ready.

Conversely, cougar-lynx woman was enraged. The opportunity was there to step in and stop this before it got out of hand, but probably the most important thing I ever learned being a bartender was never get involved in a girl fight. They will grab hair and scratch you fight all kinds of dirty, even though you’re just trying to break it up. Let the bouncers handle it. I stayed put for the time being, content to see how this battle of good versus evil would play out. Unfortunately, my revelry was cut short by security tackling the cougar-lynx-liger woman.

She was ejected and after a brief explanation, Dana was allowed to stay. We rocked out to a few more songs and decided to head down the street to our favorite watering-hole, Fontaine’s. As we climbed the stairs to get back to street level, there was the cougar-lynx-liger-bobcat woman waiting for us. The girls made a marginally big deal out of this, but the bouncer was right there, and the woman was way too drunk to realize who had hip-checked her into a pillar anyway. No issue there.

We all proceeded to Fontaine’s where we all got inexplicably wasted and did terrible things which were ill-advised, but not regrettable (because you only regret things you didn’t do). All in all, just another standard Wharf Rat Saturday night.

I moved into the Narnia Harem in February of 2009. I knew the girl who lived there previously, and my landlord is her father. We all went out a few times when she was still living there in the dead of winter, so I knew the place could get kind of chilly. It’s an old cottage house, for God’s sake, they aren’t known for their efficiency. I wasn’t deterred. This is Atlanta. We really only have about a month of really cold weather a year, and by the time I moved in, that month was almost over.

My problems started in December. After 10 months of warm weather, it finally got cold enough to turn the furnace on. I flipped the switch, and nothing happened. I gave it a good five or ten minutes, still nothing. I checked all the circuit breakers and they were all kosher. I even went around to the furnace unit out back and poked it with a stick, cause that works well for homeless people. Still no luck.

I called up the caretaker guy that lives in the house in front of mine. He came out and took a look at it and discovered that the blower on the furnace had frozen up. “Easy enough fix.” He said, and I was back in the heat business.

December was relatively mild, so I didn’t turn on the furnace unless it got really cold. I did notice that when I turned on the furnace it ran almost non-stop. That was a bit worrisome.

December 31st rolls around and just as I was about to head out to this wedding I was in, I looked at my e-mail. My Georgia Natural Gas bill had arrived. I took a gander at it, and immediately lost my shit. It was $197! That’s Dollars American, not Zimbabwean Dollars. Ridiculous.

By this point, it had started getting really cold down here; like 30s for the high. That’s bone-chilling cold for The ATL. I had to leave the heat on while I was gone or everything would freeze. So off I go to enjoy my New Year’s celebration and when I returned the next day my pipes were frozen. I’d left the water trickling and everything. Freakin awesome. I didn’t realize at the time that the temperature would not get above freezing for the next week, so I didn’t really sweat it too much. “They’ll thaw in a few hours when it warms up outside.” I thought to myself.

The temperature never warmed up, and I spent most of the weekend over at Jenn’s house, because that’s where the party was (and where I could take a shower). Sunday night I had to go back home to get ready for work the next morning. I go inside and it’s not exactly warm in there. The thermostat is set to 62, but the temperature reads 54. Something is not right. I know the furnace is working, I can hear it. I can go to the back of the house and feel it blowing out some warm air out of the vent. It’s not nearly as forceful as it should be though.

This got me to thinking. The house has a relatively new furnace, and it’s huge. It ought to be able to heat this place to 62, even if it is relatively drafty. I’ve lived in 100 year-old houses that were way less insulated than this place and they were much warmer. The house used to have one of those old style furnaces that sits just below the floor with the huge grate covering it. The heat register I think it’s called. That unit is still there, but it’s not functional. There’s another smaller grate nearby that I always just assumed was part of the old system because it’s not like the other vents in the house that distribute the heat. I’d never had a heating issue before, so I never thought too much about it.

After a few minutes of logical thought, I got to thinking about where the air for the furnace was being drawn from. “It makes no sense for the air for the furnace to be drawn from outside the house. That must be the intake vent. I’ll check it out in the morning.” I said to myself.

I woke up this morning, changed out of my Spongebob pajamas*, and pulled back the grate in question. Underneath was a layer of cardboard. Never a good sign in a HVAC system. I removed the cardboard and there, much to my chagrin, was the ductwork for the vent laying on the ground two feet below, unattached. I reached my hand down to see if it was working and there was all my heat, being pumped unceremoniously into the crawlspace beneath the house.

This is not a minor issue of simply reconnecting some ductwork. My crawlspace is open, so critters and vermin of various shapes and sizes can just sorta camp out down there at their leisure. As a matter of fact, Narnia is actually run by squirrels, so I’m pretty sure a few of those have probably galloped through there, wreaking havoc on my perfect world, probably nesting and having their disgusting squirrel babies in my heat system. Nope, that whole son of a bitching (I stole that one from George Patton) stretch of duct has to be replaced.

To make matters even worse, I paid my rent yesterday. Nothing quite like dropping over a week’s pay on a house that’s unlivable.

*They’re actually Spider-Man PJs.

The year is 2003. Early 2003. It’s cold and I need to keep my narrow ass warm, So me and my lady friend (let’s call her Angela) head over to the Goodwill. Once inside, I lay my eyes on a spectacle never before seen. A sweater so ball-quakingly bad ass that even Steve McQueen was scared to wear it. I, of course, had to have it, despite vehement protestations from Angela.

I wore the sweater proudly from that moment on, swearing that I would never dishonor its glory. It became sort of a cult thing after I wore it onstage for Idle Yeti’s debut performance at Open-Mic night. It’s name came from a friend who exclaimed to me after laying eyes upon it for the first time, “Holy Shit Dude! That ship sweater is bad ass!” Henceforth it was to be known as “The Holy Ship* Sweater.” Middle Eastern countries cowered before it.

The sweater was worn quite often and time rolls on as it has a tendency to do, and in the early spring of 2005, the once eloquent courtship between Angela and I wore out its welcome. We went our separate ways and as many of you know, sometimes not everything gets returned to its rightful owner. Unfortunately, this was the case for the Holy Ship Sweater, although through no real fault of Angela’s.

At some point during 2004 while the weather was warm, the King of the Sweaters was placed into a bag with some of Angela’s towels and sheets and things for summer storage, with every intention of being used again in the fall. But alas, landlords kick people out and stuff gets misplaced. After the demise of “Biloxxxi Von Lutz and Angela,” The sweater was thought to have been taken to the Goodwill by Angela with some other clothes and things that she’d rather I never wear again. The Holy Ship Sweater was wholly lost… Forever?

Enter January 28th, 2008. I’m lying in bed, fixin to go to sleep when my phone rings. Much to my surprise, it’s Angela. We’ll send text messages back and forth every month or so to see how the other is doing, but it had been at least 6 months since we’d actually talked, let alone her call me. I answered the phone a bit hesitantly. She says, “Hey, what you got going on tomorrow?”

God Bless America

I say, “Workin. What’s up?”

She replies, “I’ve got a job interview in Atlanta tomorrow, and I’ve got something I want to give you.”

I’m a bit taken aback by this, and there are a million different thoughts running through my head. I respond, “It’s not a punch to the face is it?” (don’t laugh, it’s happened before…)

She says, “Of course not. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Now I’m intrigued. We decide to go to lunch after her interview and she shows up in the parking lot of my office with none other than the Holy Ship Sweater itself, shining like a golden beacon in the warm afternoon sun. I wept much as a school girl would when presented with Hannah Montana tickets when the show is sold out. I could not believe my good fortune, because I’d asked Angela on several occasions if she still had the sweater and she’d always said it had gone to the Goodwill, which she thought it had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been nearly two years since I’ve reclaimed the Holy Ship Sweater. I don’t wear it quite as often as I used to, but there’s still magic in those threads. My Aunt thinks it’s hilarious that I wear it, but she swears it’s a women’s sweater. I disagree. For one, I bought it in the Men’s Section at the Goodwill. Two, what woman in her right mind would ever wear a sweater that hideous/bad ass. And three, there’s no boob stretch marks in it. Bam! Vindicated!

*The ship itself is the U.S.S. Irony (pronounced iron-ee).

Girls, Girls, Girls,
At The Dollhouse in Fort Lauderdale.
Girls, Girls Girls,
Rockin in Atlanta at The Tattletale.
-Motley Crue Girls Girls Girls

So let me tell you about my weekend. Friday night was to be the night of Woodshed Player Deuce’s bachelor party. He’ll be marrying Woodshed Player Leigh in just a few short weeks, and the rest of us decided to send him into marriage in style.

We grilled out some steaks and drank a few dozen beers at the Narnia Harem. It was an unusually warm day in Atlanta, so we spent most of the evening in the yard around the fire. Our original plan was to go to The Pink Pony, which is a really nice gentleman’s club, but Wiley suggested we go somewhere else. ‘The Pink Pony is too nice.” He said. “We need some sleaze.” I concurred wholeheartedly. We settled on The Tattle Tale.

The Tattle Tale is an Atlanta landmark, at least as far as I’m concerned. Up until recently it was probably best known for being mentioned in the Motley Crue hit, Girls Girls Girls from the album with the same title (which I own on vinyl). Evidently, some doucher named Josh Duhamel who is married to that douchette, Fergie, hooked up with a stripper from there. We should not be shocked by his decision making skills from here on out, given that he, A.) Married Fergie, and B.) Cheated on her with a stripper who then went to the tabloids. I ain’t sayin she’s a gold digger…

There are really two trains of thought as far as (legit) strip clubs go. You can either have the really hot strippers with fake parts without any blemishes who are unobtainable, or you can have slightly less hot strippers that are real and unobtainable. The Pink Pony is the former and The Tattle Tale is the latter. I prefer the latter. These are the kinds of beanheads that you’d have no chance with, but if you met them in a bar, you’d probably still bother to try.

The Woodshed Crew, Me, Deuce, Wiley, Arizona Bill, and Deuce’s brother, Chad, paid our cover charge and the waitress hooked us up with a table right by the main stage. I knew I was gonna dig this place as soon I walked in and AC/DC was playing.

The first stripper was pretty hot, so I stood up and gave her a dollar dollar bill, yo. I enjoy encounters with strippers. They get treated like a commodity so often that if you break that mold just a little bit, you often get some interesting results. When I gave her the money, she asked what my name was. “Biloxi.” I replied. “What’s yours?” She told me but I had a hard time hearing it. “How old are you?” She asked. “27.” I replied. Then she says, “Wow. You look a lot younger than that.” “Well, I do a lot of lunges,” was my response. She got a pretty good chuckle out of that one.

After that, they had this two-for-one deal, where you could get lap dances, well, two-for one. (Just in case you’re wondering, lap dances are sold by the song. So two-for-one means you get a lap dance that lasts 2 songs.) They have this thing where all the girls get out on the stage and dance and then you select the one you’d like to get a lap dance from. I wasn’t planning on purchasing a lap dance, but this one girl came up to me and she looked an awful lot someone I went to high school with, so I obliged her. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say.

She started into her little routine and it was quite nice, I might add. I asked her her name and she said it was Zoey. Obviously a stripper name. She asked me mine and we went through that old chestnut. Then I noticed she had some pretty unique stripper shoes on, so I asked her where she got them. She told me this website she ordered them from, turns out it’s the same company that makes the boots for KISS. We then proceeded to spend the entirety of the next song discussing unique stripper shoes. When the song ended, I gave her a tip and she made me stand so I could see the difference that 8-inch stripper heels make. Odd, you might say, but you meet the most interesting people at the nudie bar.

I guess Wiley was starting to get a bit drunk by this point, so he got up and started throwing dollar bills at the stage. The DJ was yelling out, “Make it rain! Make it rain!” Then Wiley stopped throwing money and the DJ goes, “Aww, make it drizzle.” That was pretty much the motto for the evening from that point forward.

The most entertaining portion of the evening for me came a bit later on. I stood up to tip another stripper a dollar and like the one previously, she asked me my name. I gave her my first name, not Biloxi, and she’s like, “Wow! That’s my first name too! I don’t go by that on stage though.” Then a strange thing happened. She shook my hand. If you’ve never been to strip club, you should know that you’re not really supposed to touch strippers. One might give you a hug, if she’s off the stage or if you’ve met her before, but it’s pretty damn odd for one to shake your hand while on stage.

She, I believe she went by Leslie, then started ruffling my hair. “How long do you spend on that?” She asked. “I just get out of the shower and let it go. This is how it turns out.” I responded. She says, “I really like it. It’s so soft. Strippers really dig guys with nice hair.” “I have absolutely no problems with that.” I said.

There were a few more words exchanged and she may or may not have told me to Facebook her, but I walked away thinking, “That had to have been the longest conversation with a stripper on stage ever. And I’m pretty sure she was hitting on me. She might have just been trying to make a dollar, but she already had the money, why not just let it go at that?”

We capped off the evening by going to Fontaine’s and shutting that joint down. As we were leaving, I decided to run across the street and grab a Gatorade from the gas station. When I walked in, I noticed a woman sitting on the curb. She was dressed up, and she was drunk as piss, and she obviously wasn’t homeless. But I didn’t really pay her much attention. I walked inside and grabbed my drink and when I came back out, this woman was face down in the parking lot.

I was about three sheets to the wind at this point, but it just didn’t seem right to step over this woman and just walk my happy ass on home. So I tried to help her up and that’s when I noticed all the blood pouring out of her forehead. Awesome. I got her sitting up on the curb again and asked her where she lived. “Roswell.” She replied. We’re sure as hell weren’t anywhere near Roswell and she certainly wasn’t coming home to die on my couch. I told one of the other guys standing around to call the police or an ambulance. In the meantime, one of the gas station attendants brought out some paper towels and rubbing alcohol to clean up her face. Freaking rubbing alcohol!

I got one of the paper towels wet down with the rubbing alcohol and handed it to her. “This is gonna burn like hell, honey.” I told her as she wiped down her face. She didn’t even flinch, and the blood certainly didn’t stop coming out. I just told her to hold her hand up against it till the ambulance got there. Evidently, she had tried to stand up and fell and hit her temple on one of those concrete parking blocks. I’m really surprised it didn’t knock her out. The cops showed up and Bill and Wiley and I just sorta disappeared. We weren’t really in the best shape to be conversing with Johnny Law.

All in all, a pretty damn entertaining weekend. And I haven’t even gotten to Saturday night or the wedding at 11:00 Sunday morning…