The Ballyhoo show last night was stellar as always, and too loud as is usually the case when anyone plays at the Brandy House. Three of my finest readers (okay two readers and one girl who was there with her friend presumably to make sure I wasn’t a mass murderer) met me there and we had a great time talking and laughing. I even danced for them a little bit, but they were bad tippers, opting to gag in lieu of holding dollar bills in their teeth. I think it’s funny how as soon as you tell anyone that you are meeting someone from the internet, they make a serial killer joke. It’s acceptable to go home with someone you met two hours ago at a bar called “The Crawlspace”, because we all know that sociopaths don’t go to bars. They are too busy surfing the net for the latest in murderwear and people to kill. I have met tons of people in person that I got to know on the net, and I haven’t been murdered even one time.

After the show, I went to another place to see a friend of mine who makes tons of money hosting parties. He’s having me write the invitations because someone told him I was funny or something. Wednesday Night Drinking Club is the biggest social club in Atlanta, and the parties they throw are boggling in their massitude. A thousand of Atlanta’s best looking, most successful, drunkest people between the ages of about 25 and 40 converge wherever the club dictates to imbibe of the great equalizer.

So I’m leaving the parking lot at the Brandy House, with my new friends and an old friend behind me, and the muffler finally gives up. That was one of the repairs I was waiting on while I have the more important work done to my car. Well, it just moved to the front of the list, because the accord is in full time “japped-out” mode now. Sounds like a go-cart. It fell off as I was pulling into the street, and was dragged mercilessly behind the car until I pulled into the next gas station. “Showering sparks” according to Samantha and Julie, who witnessed the whole thing. Of course it took them a good five minutes to stop laughing long enough to gasp out the description, but that’s it. So now we have witness to the shit that happens to me at times.

Here I am in the parking lot of a gas station with two girls and my friend Cram laughing at me as I crawl under the car to remove the remains of my tattered muffler. Luckily, one of them was nice enough to snap a photo. You’d think I was holding a world-record bass or something. No…wait. That’s my muffler.

With the muffler was safely in my trunk, it was off to Front Page News for a little WNDC action. Here’s the thing about social clubs in Atlanta- prepare to be hit upon. Even I got hit on. Granted, I was hanging out with the Grand Master of the event, but seriously. If you are talking to a girl and look away for a minute, another dude will take over. Fortunately, after an hour or so, I realized that I was significantly less drunk than my competition, so I had the upper hand. This resulted in a lot of nothing, but it made me feel good. I got home at 2 a.m. That is way too late.

I barely had time to dispose of the bodies.

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