so it was back to ATL for 24hours. CK. DK. Hez and myself. Tavo Carbone played at a little spot called New Street Gallery. at the bar was no whiskey. so it was PBR or Tecate. I chose PBR. whoop whoop. a lady asked me if i was a writer. i told her i was probably the worst writer she would ever encounter and she wittily replied: "there's a writer in all of us". i thought it was romantic. the marta passed by a total of 8 times. By the end of the night, we're all sitting in the perfect house drinking 5 opened bottles of Shiraz, and next thing i know, i'm waking up to the smell of vegan pumpkin pancakes. there were 4 cats. 2 were allowed out. 2 wern't. 3 were gray and 1 was orange. and there was a dog. it was 4 of us on a futon. 2 on the floor. 2 in the bed. 2 more in another bed. we fell asleep to Al Bowlly, and i remember waking up and saying something like. that's it. it's over? It was perfect.
on the 18th. we drove around looking for little 5. apparently nobody in Atlanta knows where they are, or where anything is. and they all "don't live here". at lunch i had a BLT. bought 2 postcards. and we left. the best part of road tripping is stopping at the stations in rural florida. trailers. starving cats. old candy. georgia peaches. and a 25¢ pokemon pin from the vending machine.
it was radio request hour the whole ride home.
i love my house:
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