Walkabout in Atlanta

I go walkabout most every day. 

But what exactly is a walkabout? In Australia, when an Aboriginal male turns 16, he is sent out to live off the land for a few months. Sleeping in the rough and killing wild animals for food, that's what Aborigines mean by "walkabout". Not me. Fortunately, a walkabout in Atlanta only lasts a few hours.

Where to begin? Under the dirty whip of rain, I stumble down the Atlanta BeltLine looking for a fix of the city.  Thank heavens for foul weather. It keeps the grockles off the path. In the Fall and Winter months, the BeltLine's not teeming with power walkers, gutsy runners, scooters (ELECTRIC!) bikes; fat cops on bikes (NO SIREN?!?), nuclear families on bikes (TANDEMS!), pushy Aryan mothers with strollers and their screaming brood... Yes, it's best to step-off the concrete paving, and navigate the bushy trail. Off road... doesn't that kind of defeat the pedestrian experience of walking the Atlanta BeltLine? Yes-it-does. Is the BeltLine a cycle path more than a pedestrian byway? It certainly seems the case in the Spring and Summer months. 

So, I'm back in "the City too Busy to Hate", no less alienated from the mainstream and disenfranchised from the norm (Ed. Note: you have been using that bit of Marxism Lite ever since 1992)  Had to shake the formula up because the last twelve months have been distinctly unsettling. Had a delayed reaction to grief (TYPICAL MAN!), and briefly experimented with booze after seven years abstinence (SO WEAK!). On nighttime walkabout, around the local boozers, discovered that I'm unable to quaff plonk (makes me NARKY), nor cheap American beers (SPLITTING HEADACHE). As for spirits... well, they give me a Polonium-210 reaction worthy of a Russian spy on his death bed. The only thing I can stomach - just about - is American-style IPAs. But, after a measly six-pack, the gut begins to ache. Suffice to say, NO MORE days (and nights) of wine and roses for me.  

Familiarity, after all, does breed contempt. I rediscovered this fact at the local "hipster dive bar", 97 Estoria. However, the great thing about Yank boozers is "getting hit on" (chatted up), and hearing the latest on what's-what in the world of dating. The kids in Atlanta are just plum crazy for "poly" relationships. That's poly as in polyamorous (I.E. FUCKING AROUND). One spiky-haired, blonde, twenty-something nymph was extolling the virtues of such whilst vaping high strength ganja, and eating food leftover by other patrons in the beer garden. New prospects go for an AIDS test ("IT'S LIKE A DATE!"), once clear, it's full screw ahead with the tater-tot thief. Sordid. Filthy. Dis-GUS-ting. Our man made his excuses and left. 

Actor Nicolas Cage at 97 Estoria in "Vengeance: A Love Story" 

But not, dear reader, for long. There I was, propped up on the long wooden bar, getting drunk and disorderly, when up pops another young filly eager to share her sexual shenanigans. After four Sierra Nevada beers, and forty-five mins of 'wonk-wonk-wonk' from the Southern Belle about her bold lifestyle choices, I said "the Devil is you", adding, shortly after, that he could be "released via flogging". The polyamorous young thing made her excuses and left me to cry in my IPA. HURRAH!

Another swinging basket case latched on soon after. A horndog by the enticing name of "Annalise". Can't say that she made a good impression on a Monday night. She gestured to the black cashmere scarf and asked if I was gay. No one ever believes the truth. So, I pretended to be homosexual, and extolled the virtues of cruising Holland Walk in London. For about 10 minutes, I was Annalise's gay best friend from England UNTIL I declared, "Luv, I'm like the least gay dude in this rub-a-dub" (pub). "Oh," she sighed, not wanting to be wrong, "I meant camp". Stupidly,  the Male Trailing Spouse gave his contact details and conversed the following day via text. But how to bin Pollyanna without mind games or messing with her head? Simple: tell-the-truth. Or, at least, slip it into conversation at the first convenience. "I was down River Edge on Boulevard yesterday." "What's that?" she asked. "The Doctor. Getting a mental health evaluation," I responded. "Excellent," she said. But then the quack in her came out, "If you aren't feeling well, you should go to the doctor or the hospital. Got to run!" And that was the last I ever heard of her. HIP HIP HOORAY! 

Now I'm back on the Atlanta BeltLine, ignoring the lash of rain, taking in the sights of the day's journey. There's 97 Estoria on the corner of Wylie. No time for whining ladies today. And I almost decked an impetuous barfly on Saturday afternoon (TEMPER!). Exit left down the asphalt path to the Krog Street Tunnel and mucho graffiti. At the other end, it's a straight line down the hill for the gym in Inman Park.  Fast forward six years from Bangkok, I'm adjusting well to the sentence here. It's not all ball-busting and mind screwing with me on the receiving end. With a shit-eating grin on my chops, I'm still a class act. Yes, even in exile, even in repose, I'm not too ready to play nice. 

Brain flickering with life, it's time to go full-action-hero and walkabout home. As the thick fog swirls down the BeltLine, there are no life threatening vampires or slow-mo zombies to tip-toe around. Just pouting kidults and loud buffoons zooming by on motorized scooters. Good thing I left the telescopic baton indoors (TEMPER! PEACE! MERCY!) Spaces fraught with peril. The horror remains. Fade to black.