It sounds like the premise for a bad Republican propaganda film. You spend a night in New York City shooting whiskey with siren-gorgeous lesbians, drink a dead zone into your memory and wake up the next morning on a strange floor discombobulated, face down and ass up with a button that says "Keep It Gay" pinned to your sweater.
But it wasn't a GOP nightmare. It was just another Wednesday night. Welcome to Zoo York.
I was in Manhattan to help guide my longtime pal/Grant Park ranger Country Mouse through his first taste of the Rotten Apple in celebration of his Jesus year. Yet here I was, ritually scarifying my liver with bourbon and buying into the gay conspiracy -- as long as it looks more like "The L Word" than "Ellen." I guess you can take the "boy" out of the "good ol'" but not all of the good ol' out of the boy. Not that I'm really that good of a boy, but I am one hell of a tour guide and, evidently, apt to drink in as many suds as sights. And along the way, I'm amazed by how many sly Southerners I encounter above the Mason-Dixon Line.
For instance, never in my deep-fried fantasies could I imagine I'd end up at a 15th-floor holiday party where, instead of people merely working for peanuts, successful Southerners were enjoying canned boiled peanuts. At the Editional Effects post-production house, I kicked it with my weekend host -- former ATLien Josephine "Brooklyn" Butterscotch -- and found myself emboiled in some Southern hospitality, Southern Comfort and some make-the-South-proud booty shake with a potted plant.
Later in the weekend, I kicked it with an Atlanta ex-pat/innkeeper to the ATL's indie-rock diaspora whom we'll call Bom-Boy, catching a show by our fair city's Snowden at the Mercury Lounge. The skulking Southern Gothic-meets-Gotham glide quartet randomly happened to be showcasing self-produced songs for boutique labels on the one weekend I'm in New York. And Bom-Boy remarked how the band's confidence off stage is finally transferred on stage, where the members now move feverishly while once they were more stoic.
On my return to Atlanta, I got to thinking how the holidays move at the type of crisp clip that makes me appreciate an unhurried amber-lit niche, like Sweet Auburn's Harlem Bar. With its exposed bricks, backlit bar and canoodling silhouettes, it reminds me of long-closed Trinity/Formosa. Speaking of those defunct lounges, rumor has it an as-of-yet-unnamed deep velvet and black lacquer lair is being prepared in that Castleberry Hill space, to feature glamour and groove from DJs like Kai Alce. Hell yeah, I'm ready to ring in the New Year with some new nooks; with a stiff nip, I don't have a problem keeping it merry and (yuletide?) gay at the holidays.
RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to email@example.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.
come on man you know you got a bromance. you probably still rock that OutKast…
Yes, 14 is the correct answer. I'll pass your info along to the group's manager,…
That was January of 2007, and they are 21 now, so I'm guessing 14?