Last night, being Friday and all, I decided that it had been too long since I had gone out and had a good time. Actually there was a small string of events that led me to this decision, the first of which was going out to a bar with a bunch of folks from work and having a beer at about 6:00. I had a date in about an hour, but I decided to go by my old place in Atlanta and see my friend Brian (who still lives there and would undoubtedly have a whole pile of my mail in his living room by now). I went over and we shot the bull for a few minutes, then I saw a birthday card on his table and remembered that his birthday had passed the previous Monday. Being a true friend (not true enough to remember a birthday, but we’re both guys, and we really don’t remember our own birthdays most of the time), I called and cancelled the date; told her “I know I’m a flake, we can do something tomorrow night, I missed Brian’s birthday and I feel like a turd, so I’m taking him out for a few coldies.” We really will. She’s reading this, so I can’t lie too much.

We went to this little seafood bar in Buckhead about a half mile from his house to grab some chow. I found a super awesome parking spot on the side of the road right in front of where I was going, and was proud of myself for finding the g-spot (the name for good parking spaces). We ordered some shrimp and a couple of beers each. I was still dressed from work, so I was taking extra care to keep cocktail sauce off my brand new white shirt and dry-clean only pants. All of these factors were falling into place to be the best and worst night in recent memory. We ate, talked about women, figured out seven different no-miss ways to fame and fortune, solved most of the problems in the world, and basically convinced ourselves that we were smarter than almost anyone out there. The fact that we have good jobs and are devilishly handsome is merely frosting on the cake.

Now brimming with manufactured security, we decided to walk across the street to a few bars and spread the word. I paid for dinner and the drinks since I missed his birthday, and we sauntered down the street. We got to the first place, which has a big outdoor open air deck on top, packed with tons of dudes and about half as many ladies, all of whom wanted us in the worst way, according to us. We struck up conversations with a few of them and made small talk until it got boring, and then he showed me his socks.

The Wondersock. A silken footglove deserving of the highest praise. I’m not really a foot man, especially when said foot is attached to a hairy leg which is attached to a guy, but these socks were a wonder to behold. They have toes in them, much the same way a glove has fingers. They were brimming with potential on a social level, and we proceeded to exploit it. At the next bar, we started talking to the waitress. She was pretty, somewhat bright, and kind of personable, but she had the slump. The slump is that posture people take on when they sort of tuck their ass under and hold their shoulders too far forward. It screams low self-esteem, especially on a female, and is very unattractive to all but the most predatory males. Oh, she was also quite taken by the socks. How did you work socks into the conversation, you ask? Here’s how it went-

Waitress: Are you guys running a tab? Because if you have a tab at the bar, you can’t sit out here.

Me: Really? Why’s that?

Waitress: Because these tables are for the wait staff to wait on, and if you are paying the bartender…

Me: (looking around and seeing only two other tables with people sitting at them) I don’t follow. There’s no one here. Can’t we just sit here in the nice comfy chairs and enjoy these delicious beers, then order the next round from you?

Waitress: Well, we-

Me: (cutting in rudely) What do you think about socks?

Waitress: (visibly confused, and understandably so) well, um.. what? I, ah…I wear them, if that’s what you mean…

Me: Great. I’ll have a Bass ale and a glass of water.

Brian: Miller Lite.

Waitress: Alright…I’ll be right back.

Me and Brian: hehehe.

On the table are these things they call “table tents”. The little foldey paper things that tell you what kind of beer they have, specials of the day, etc. While the stewardess was busily pouring beers and thinking about the two hot guys in the corner with the sock thing, Brian took the table tent and put it on the floor, then proceeded to take off his right shoe. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but I haven’t been disappointed by the guy yet. The waitress returned.

Waitress: Here’s your Bass, water, and here’s your-

At this point, Brian grasps the table tent between his toes (handily molded into the sock), and places the table tent back on the table with his foot. The black-clad prehensile foot is a surprise to the waitress.

Waitress: eeeewwww.

Me: See? You couldn’t have done that with a regular sock! No way, not without practice, anyway.

Brian: No sir, these are socks from the future. You know, in the future when we can all fly, and we talk to our dogs and stuff, everyone will have these socks. Issued at birth, they will grow as you grow. Eventually, we won’t even need hands.

Waitress: You touched it with your toes!

Me: Don’t worry. He’s from the future.

Brian: Yeah, these are brand new socks, and brand new feet.

Waitress: (now smiling at the irresistible charm, or maybe it was just gas) New feet, huh?

Me: Yeah, I know a really good foot guy if you ever need it.

Random guy walking by: Those are killer socks, man. Where’d you get ‘em?

Me: The future.

Brian: (speaking o the waitress) I got the feet at a sweet discount. They only have three toes, but the socks make me look totally normal.

Waitress: (still smiling, but in a more condescending manner, I think) Can I get you anything else?

Me: I think we’re alright for now.

Brian: I’ll take a couple of toes.

I laughed for a full four minutes at that comment. The whole exchange, though more than a little bizarre, was great. People will say “man I bet she thought you were weird.”

And I say to them- Number one: she was right, and number two: who cares what she thought? She had a conversation about something other than “how are the wings”, and we all laughed. It would be nice to find a girl who could take an exchange like that and give it back even better. I have met a few, but they all have boyfriends or live far away. Atlanta girls are not known (in my experience) for their quick wit. Just be good looking and everything will be handed to you.

On to the rest of the night…(stop here and continue reading later if you want to. A lot of stuff happened last night, and some of it spilled over into today, so this will be a long entry)

We went to a couple of other places, and forged fake identities to mess with people’s heads. In one scenario, I was the son of the inventor of the wondersock (heir of the wondersock fortune), and Brian was Chase Blazewell, test pilot and foot model. He was also a spy.

So we walked all over north Atlanta and talked to everyone we wanted to, and then we ran out of steam and headed back to the car. I was very proud that I hadn’t spilled anything on my shirt, and planned on crashing at Brian’s house for the night. We turned the corner, fully expecting my car to be where I left it (as is usually the case), and found no cars at all. In a rush, it all came back to me- watching cars get towed from this spot a few months before. Why didn’t I think of that? I am an idiot. I was as furious as everyone gets when that happens to them, muttering about being a taxpayer, paying for $5 beers all night and they have the nerve to tow my car and will charge me more money to get it back. MY FUCKING CAR!!! What right do they have, blah blah blah. After that part was over and I got it together again, I called around to figure out where I had to go to get it. You have to go to a place in midtown and get a slip of paper saying that you are claiming your car, and then drive further north and pay the nice man to give you your car back. Man, the thought of spending Saturday morning all hung over and angry, waiting in line to talk to some public servant who could care less that they are running a total racket to extort money from me was making me more and more irrational. They gave me the number for the impound lot, and I looked around for a pen and found a sharpie and an old cardboard box to write it on. The pen slipped out of my hand and put a nice black line of permanent ink on my white shirt that I had only had for three days. Anger. Extreme anger. Approaching the point where I go nonlinear. I had to do some thinking to relax myself. I was lying there on Brian’s couch, thinking “hey, this really blows. However, I do have plenty of money to pay for it at the moment, and it’s not like they don’t make those shirts anymore. It’s just going to be a very expensive evening when all is said and done.” I slept until seven this morning, and Brian and I piled into his car and headed on a new adventure.

Going to Buy My Own Property Back from Someone Who Legally Stole It.

Atlanta is a diverse and strange place on any day, but on Saturday morning at 7:30 in the worst parts of town, you will look around and feel like an idiot for even thinking that having your car towed is a problem. All around us were the sketchiest of the sketchy, left over from a hard night of doing whatever it is they do. There were people sleeping under bushes, stumbling down the street, holding signs asking for money, arguing with other people who were invisible, vomiting in garbage cans, and so on. You see this stuff all the time, but at this time of day in this part of town, that’s all there was. It was like an outdoor asylum. These people have problems that make an impounded car look like a fart in a windstorm. Granted, most of them have brought it on themselves in one way or another (I don’t buy into the “victim of society” excuse), but they do actually live that way. They could be one of the most rich and powerful groups in Atlanta if they had some leadership. They may not know it, but they control the real estate values, and could have quite an extortion ring going by telling the rich homeowners associations that they won’t move into their neighborhoods and ruin the value of their homes if the homeowners agree to hand over a few bucks every month.

I guess if they thought like that, they wouldn’t be homeless…

Beer does some wrong things to my insides if I have more than three or four, and on the way there, I ripped a fart that made both of us cry. It cracked the vinyl on Brian’s dashboard, and I really thought we were going to have to pull over and walk the rest of the way. I had to share that because it really was one of my best ever. I wish you had been there.

We finally found the police property claims place, and it was just as nasty as everything around it. I filled out the paper, the lady was just as nice as government employees can be (think “Raccoon in a paper sack” for an image), and that part went off without a hitch. We drove over to the impound lot in a different but equally shady part of town not known for its drug addicts as much as its sexual deviants. As soon as we got out of the car, we were approached by a woman who appeared pretty normal, if a little dirty and tired looking. She asked very nicely if we would mind giving her a ride to the VA hospital a few miles away. She had bandages around both hands and forearms and smelled like puke in an ashtray. I had already decided that there was no way she was getting into my car, but Brian asked if she had a gun or anything, I asked if she was crazy, she answered no to both, and Brian agreed to help her out. I kind of felt like a shit for feeling so instantly guarded against the situation, but I play it safe when dealing with unkowns. I went in the office, they asked me for $85, and I handed it over with a look of total bewilderment on my face. I still couldn’t believe I had to pay to get my own car back. The place was filthy and the people working there were even worse. The lady behind the desk said, “it’s in the back”, and I went to get it. Surprisingly, I found the passenger door unlocked and even more surprisingly I found my stereo, CD’s, and sever hundred dollars worth of books and electronics still where I had left it. I gave daps to God for that one. More unbelievable than surprising, there was a ticket on my windshield for illegal parking. Another $25, with an envelope attached to it for my “convenience”. It would seem to me that if they were concerned about my convenience, they wouldn’t have towed my car, but I don’t understand the government.

I started to leave, and saw Mrs. Vagrant McSketchington get into Brian’s car. I thought it over, called him ,and told him I’d follow him. He was nervous because I told him she was going to stab him with a used syringe or something. I love messing with his mind, although it didn’t seem impossible that she would try something like that. I have no idea how my following him would have helped if she had wigged out and started chopping him up, but I did it anyway. After he dropped her off, he called me and told me about their conversation. She wouldn’t really tell him what her situation was, but we both wanted to know. She said that her car had been towed a couple of days before and she didn’t have money to get it out, and had nowhere to go. Then she asked him “Do I stink?” Brian, ever the honest one, said “yeah, you kind of do.” She said, “the hospital will help me out, won’t they?” “I guess that depends on the nature of your problem.” Said Brian. We exchanged theories on what her story was, and have now decided that she was sent from the future to quell the popularity of the wondersock before it changes society.

My overall assessment of the past 14 hours:

Dinner with old friend: $50.00

Drinks at various bars: $20.00

White shirt $30.00

Getting car out of impound lot: $85.00

Ticket to add insult to injury: $25.00

An epic 14 hours of strange circumstance, weird conversation, drunken laughter, and all of those women who loved us but were unsure how to show it: $210.00?!

SON OF A BITCH!! Err…I mean, priceless.

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