Story by Angie Faunce
Atlanta.
Birthplace of Coca-Cola. Land of all roads named Peachtree.
Home of the Braves.
Okay, so an 8 hour drive is not your typical road trip, but it can be done.
For the lead of foot, not the faint of heart.
We arrived at Tower Records around dinner time, after an eight-hour drive. Thank <<insert your favorite deity here>> for radar detectors!
Between the two of us, we dropped way too much money on CDs, breezed through the Neiman-Marcus next door just to see what the big deal is (I’m still not sure), and then hit a restaurant called The Upper Crust for dinner. Here they put the sauce on top of the pizza, so it hides the cheese and toppings underneath. Definitely rivals Bottoms Up for best pizza on the East Coast!
It was evening, and we were tired and full. The Lenox Square Days Inn had rooms on the cheap, so we checked in. Mark, my partner in crime, napped furiously, while I revitalized in the pool and jacuzzi until it was time to hit the town.
First stop, IHOP. I don’t think there are any International Houses of Pancakes in Richmond, but they are far superior to Waffle Houses. We loaded up on banana-nut pancakes and lots of coffee, and had a lengthy conversation with the hostess about why Doc Marten boots are so expensive. (In case you didn’t already know, you pay the most for that little tag that you pull them on with, the one that says Air Wair on it.) People stared at my hat.
Dance-a-rama
Energized and caffeinated, we headed out to club #1—Berlin. The crowd was not what we had hoped. Too many women in tight black clothes, and it smelled like a frat party. We observed a little, we danced a little, we left a little early.
Velvet was club #2, and we happened to hit it on disco hell night. The clothes were much more colorful than at Berlin. (This would not be a good target for a firebomb; polyester melts instead of burns.) A Smart Bar served up fibrous, fruity shakes that tasted like I would imagine Metamucil tastes, buy hey, if it makes you smarter and regular, then perhaps it’s worth 4 bucks a pop. A small counter sold fun items like t-shirts, jewelry and the requisite condoms. The girl behind the counter wore nipple tassels and hot pants; suddenly I felt very small-town. This place is decadent and fun, and the fashion show was a trip. Anyone could participate, and it was easy to spot those who had come here to parade themselves in the show from those who had come to dance and to watch, like us.
At Velvet, bellbottoms and center parts were ubiquitous.
Okay, enough of the 70s. It was 2 a.m. now, and we headed for Mad House, which was just getting started. We were early. Mad House (also known as Weekends) is not in a safe area; as soon as you pull into the parking lot, panhandlers come running from all directions to accost you as you get out of the car, like buzzards on road kill. But this was the place. The atmosphere was understated, and dark. Most were there for the music, not to look at each other. Sitting at the bar, I noticed a Barbie doll, wearing aluminum foil, hanging by her hair from a pipe in the ceiling. The DJ cut it up on the turntables, and the bouncer we recognized as having been in Tower earlier that night. By 4 a.m. the place was packed with writhing bodies, and we were ready to crash. Sweaty and exhausted once more, we headed out into bum-land, dashing to the car to avoid being accosted.
Doing the town
Checking out of the hotel, vague directions were obtained from the manager to a part of town called Little Five Points. We groped our way to the other side of town, to hunt down some lunch.
Little Five Points is a cross between Carytown and Grace Street, a little heavier on the Grace Street action. Lunch was at the Bridgetown Grill, which served up the best Jamaican food I’ve ever had with the best reggae I’ve ever heard, complemented by ice-cold Coke in eight-ounce bottles. For about 10 bucks I scarfed down some bread with guava butter, a Jamaican beef patty, a jerk chicken sandwich, island salad, black beans and rice and two bottles of Coke. Wow. I wouldn’t have to eat again for a week!
From my side of the booth I watched a guy come in whose t-shirt read “Please don’t feed or tease the straight people.” He sat down in the booth in front of us, and I noticed that upon his shaved head he had tattooed a large loosely-coiled snake enclosed by a circle with a Greek key design. The nose ring was non-traditional as well; it was a chain like the kind you put keys on. Ten minutes later he was joined by two friends who were very J. Crew, and their lunchtime conversation solely consisted of worshipping RuPaul’s existence. Whatever.
The Bridgetown Grill is located between a futon store and an S&M store. Guess where we went next. The S&M store is called Throb, and a mother was in there shopping with her two small children. Luckily the children overlooked the display case where they had the new and improved “Butt Plugs” that were the size of Idaho potatoes. More of Barbie in the back, this time with Ken. They were dressed in nifty latex outfits and were hanging by collars over the display counter. In case you were wondering, all sales are final on latex wear. (What about the butt plugs, I wonder?)
There are a ton of record stores in Little Five Points, which we mostly overlooked, having maxed out at Tower the night before. Some stores worth a visit are Wax-n-Facts and Q:burn records. Q:burn is located underneath Paragon, a very hip clothing store. You can pretty much conduct your life from the confines of Little Five Points, as merchants sell clothes, shoes, food, records, books, furniture, new age crystals, dominatrix gear and other essentials.
Heading back to the car, we walked past a guy hanging out with his pit bull. They looked a lot alike, except the guy had a nail through his nose, while the dog only had on a spiked collar.
Going, ugh, Underground
We got on the highway and headed through midtown, en route downtown to the Atlanta Underground, passing Fulton County Stadium on the way. The Underground used to be a subway system, but now it is full of shops, restaurants and bars. Don’t come with high expectations; it’s really just a fancified mall with brick floors and subdued lighting. It even has a Food Court about as big as Regency’s, except you can drink beer here.
Right across the street from the Underground is the huge Coca-Cola museum. This was the fourth time I’ve been to Atlanta and I’ve still never gotten inside the durn thing, because the line is usually hours long! I was disappointed, but hey, it’s another excuse to go back sometime.
It was getting late, so we grabbed some food court food, got a box of Mrs. Field’s cookies to keep us company, and headed back up Interstate 85. We really needed another day. Atlanta is a huge city, but with the exception of the 47 roads all named Peachtree, it’s easy to get around, and it is not too overwhelming. Definitely worth the drive, but better for a long weekend. Next time, I thought, I’ll have to try the Coke museum again, and perhaps hit CNN as well. And of course, stop in Throb and see what’s new in the world of S&M.
