Gilded Palace of Sin

All New Meaning To "Giving A Hummer."

This Old Earthquake’s Gonna Leave Me In The Poor House

Shake, rattle and roll baby - shake rattle and roll. The weather planets finally lined up in some harmonic convergence of cosmic spring nice-niceness at long last. Despite some drippiness on Saturday—Sunday was just the kinda springtime bee-yoo-tee-ful around these parts —radios playing from open windows, car tops down, everybody out and shaking off that last bit of winter inertia. It was one of those weekends that you know you will think back on next January and wish the days and ice to melt away all the more quickly. But I’m not here to talk abut the earthquake...

God I ate good this weekend - sort of. Sort of ate and sort of good. Friday night found us with our favorite drug rep at Bones where I enjoyed a better than heavenly filet, mashed potatoes, fried grit cakes, sauteed spinach, pecan pie with vanilla ice cream and the lion’s share of two bottles of pinot noir. Yum. Even better was the unintentional bulimia that occurred later when I expelled every bite back up. Although I hate vomiting almost as much as church, enjoying great food without the caloric damage is pretty sweet. I think successful supermodels are onto something there.

Saturday night we headed to Midtown to eat with the straits, or rather eat at Straits, the new place opened by rapper Ludacris in the space formerly occupied by Spice. I had heard good things about Chef Chris Yeo’s Straits chain in California - notably his inspired take on traditional Singaporean cuisine infused with bold adaptations. But what sounded good in pre-opening hype regrettably did not match up under the cold glow of the flat-screen TV that hung over the bar. More about that TV later. First and foremost—the food was just okay, if not a little bland. I’m not sure if Yeo is playing it safe for the southerners—and if he is—he is woefully underestimating the sophisticated and unforgiving palettes of most Atlantans that enjoy dining out. If not, I wonder if his attempt to blend his exotic dishes with a local flavor might have taken the punch out of the end product. Or it could have just been too many things in one dish—each menu item seemed to touch at least 5 southeast Asian countries and you know—travel exhausts me. However I did find the Roti and fried calamari to be some of the best I have ever tasted —and the lychee martinis were certainly A+. And now on to that TV. I’m not sure I understand why Ludacris would spend a million to redecorate an already elegant space (that underwent 2 previous renovations under the former tenant) to create a chic and modern, asian inspired space and then hang a huge hawking plasma TV over the bar. The TV is tacky and it dominates the entire dining area. I know I’m a big ‘ol mo, but I think most people don’t want to be forced into watching a basketball game while eating Chow Kway Teow. It was just very, very out of place and made me think more “East meets ESPN Zone” than a relaxing eastern inspired space. For dessert we decided to cut our losses and take a stroll down to Chocolate Pink for a tiny cocoa pretty and coffee—made even better by copious amounts of people watching before calling it a night and heading home.

Sunday was a birthday party for one of PM’s friends—who is tight with Mr. Kevin Rathbun fresh off his victory on Iron Chef. Rathbun’s was holding their three year anniversary BBQ and we managed to get tickets for our entire party. OMG! the food was incredible - everything that could hold sauce was on the menu —pork, beef, chicken, shrimp, lobster - and the list went on. Plentiful open bars that poured nice and heavy and a couple of free-flowing beer trucks made the day even better. Something in Sweetwater Blue obviously has an ecstasy-like effect on me. After 7 or ten of the suckers the romantic in me comes out:

(To PM while affectionately rubbing the back of his neck) “I love you.”

(PM) “Honey, I think you love everyone in Atlanta right now.”

(Me) “Yeah, but I love you when I’m sober.”

(PM) “Awwwwww!”

A perfect day, perfect food and the perfect buzz—what else could you ask for? If you have never been to either of Kevin’s restaurants - I highly recommend them. In appreciation for such a swell party, I am personally designing an apron for him that says “Bobby Flay is my bitch.”

I’ve decided that it is a cosmic crime that weekends such as the above are limited to only two days and have set a goal to win the lottery and fix that. Wish me luck and light sacred money Elvis candles for my endeavor.

Lucy in the Sky with a Dead Guy

Here's to a man who made my high school years so unrememberable, Albert Hoffman—the genius who first synthesized lysergic acid diethylamide, better known as LSD. Although he never advocated the recreational use of his discovery, he remained convinced that acid had invaluable clinical applications for treating people suffering from mental illness. Call me crazy, —no, really—PLEASE call me crazy, but I'm not sure I agree. I have tripped with some crazy motherfuckers in my time and I can't say it helped any of them. But please join me in observing a Gilded Palace Moment of Debauchery in remembrance of Albert Hoffman— a man who turned on, tuned in and finally dropped dead.

Zipping Through The Days At Lightning Speed

In the photo above you will see my new toy. No, not Keith Richards—his guitar of choice, a Les Paul —the holy grail of my adolescent rock 'n roll dreams. I've been eyeing it for some time and decided Saturday to add it to my guitar collection. This is an incredibly sweet guitar—beautiful tone and sustain, amazing action that makes playing almost effortless and the weight gives it a nice, solid feel when you hold it. I haven't owned an electric guitar since college—when I spent many hours playing through headphones while watching TV. Needless to say, I spent some considerable time this past weekend—and plan to do much more in days to come— watching TV and noodling around with my new toy (that sounds way dirtier than it should).

I’m a cold italian pizza, I could use a lemon squeezer...

Oh I’ve been bit and tossed around by every she-rat in this town. A gross exaggeration I hear you wag. True, true—not EVERY she rat perhaps. Okay, I know all you guys remember each and every time I make up a new word or create a clever phrase cause that shit is usually funny. A few years back, I coined the term “Gymuary” as an alternative name for January being that is when most doughnut eaters descend on the gym with the short-lived idea of finally getting that totally ripped physique only to crawl back into the KFC bucket by March. After that, there is a noticeable shift in gym attendance and the long lines for equipment are gone—until next Gymuary that is.

Not so this year. In fact, I am sensing a new demographic emerging lately—one that is just as annoying and takes up only slightly less space. I’m speaking of fat bridesmaids. How do I know they are bridesmaids? Because they chatter incessantly while they waddle away on the treadmills telling everyone within earshot that they are a bridesmaid—a bridesmaid who is too embarrassed to buy the big girl dress and is now determined come wedding day to slide her size 14 ass into the size 6 dress she bought at Filene’s. I can’t really think of a snappy name for this one—so I’ll just call it Fat Ass Bridesmaid April. And I hear some of you hippies out there saying I’m being elitist and mean.

Duh.

I’ll just remind everybody—it’s not mean if it’s true. Veritas vos liberabit!

It's now time to make it unclear

Oh I’m on a plain and I can’t complain—well, I could but I won’t. Oh wait, yes I will—but only about one thing. What’s up with this weather? What happened to the wonders of global warming? Shouldn’t we be warm in mid-April in the sunny south? Yesterday was gorgeous to the eye—brilliant blue, cloudless skies and sunny, but to the skin—not so much as the high never got above 50º. This morning Atlanta awoke to 36º and the dismal knowledge that 70º temps shant return ‘til Thursday—which means my ass is back on the treadmill til then.

Other than uncooperative weather, not a bad weekend kids, not bad a tall. PM was otherwise engaged performing doctorly duties at a brain convention in Dallas, so I had to make my own fun Friday night. I headed down to EAV (that’s East Atlanta Village for you out-of-towners) to meet up with OneFJef who having just completed his shift at the bookstore—was standing in the window stroking his pussy for all to see. Even if it hadn’t involved a flesh and blood cat, that would be just another Friday night in the Village. We took a short stroll down the street to Blue Frog Cantina, which is under new management and it shows. Better than decent margaritas, even better tacos—and servers that actually return to your table at frequent intervals to check on you—definitely an improvement from before. While sitting on the small patio watching the usual EAV circus parade before us —the skies opened up, and with no desire to trek back in the rain—we opened up as well and discussed just about everything—life, love, God, the devil, Idol...almost everything. When the rain subsided, we headed to Jef’s house in Grant Park where conversation and catching up continued over a few bottles of wine while the rain softly pelted the windows. By midnight, I was feeling sleepy and Jef was having problems feeling his hair—so I hoofed it back to Buckhead and called it a night.

It was Karen Silkwood Saturday as my condo got a super-radioactive scrubbing that lasted most of the day. Not just light dusting and vacuuming up the accumulated pollen—no sirree—scrubbing baseboards, grubby seams of window sils and a couple months of dried dog snot where the Boy uses his sniffer to open the front door. You could eat off that door if ya wanted to —except your food would slide off. The rest of the afternoon was spent at the gym doing an extended chest/triceps workout capped off with a 5 mile run on West Paces. I recently acquired the iPod+Nike thing and I love it. After setting the distance/time, you basically get audio updates at the press of a button that gives you distance, time, pace and even calories burned. Sweet. You can also calibrate your stride for better pace accuracy and in doing so—I discovered that the treadmills at my gym are woefully off—by like 2 minutes! Even though I strongly suspected I was running some mighty brisk 10 minute miles all this time—thanks to my calibrated shoe sensor, I discovered I am actually running 8 minute miles - which ain’t too shabby for an old guy.

Saturday evening I hopped Marta to meet PM at the airport so he wouldn’t have to ride the train with the weekend crazies. Trains on the weekends run on 20 minutes schedules and 2 trains stopped in front of me to empty everyone out before going “Out Of Service.” I swear—MARTA’s new slogan should be “Semi-Dependable Transportation, Monday-Friday, But On Weekends—You’re Fucked.” On the ride back, we decided to stop in Midtown for dinner at Gilberts—which I always forget how good it is—and later stopped for coffee with Stantasia at Chocolate Pink before heading back to the station and home.

Sunday was that aforementioned beautiful/freezing day that was pretty lazy—interrupted only by another gym visit, a trip to World Market and a carb-a-palooza at Buckhead Diner—where I was practically licking the blue cheese off the plates I tell ya. New Desperate Housewives,digging out the recently packed-away winter coat and here we are at Monday. Oh and Kinda-special-sort-of-Maybe-Milestone-Natal-Whazziz wishes to fellow Atlanta blogger and a force to be reckoned with behind the bars—handle or otherwise—John Brown.

Jef & I Are Having A Quickie

Chef Dean On The ROXX

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