I'm only a little proud of myself but in my defense, I told 2 people I was going to steal the poster.
People never believe me.
It's a shame really.
But I go way, way back with Jon Bender and TBC and there was no way in hell I was gonna leave that poster locked in the display at Rosebud!
No, Sir!
Not me, NOT NOW!!!
Ed. Note:
It started with the bomb scare at Coldwell Bankers in VaHi, so really you can't blame me.
I mean, I couldn't get home b/c of the police diverting traffic and all, so I did the only logical thing and went to The Family Dog and had a "Car Bomb" with Martin.
It just fel right.
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And, since I stole the poster from Rosebud across the street, it just seemed fair to do a shot of Jameson with the bartenders there.
I mean, if you're gonna get all "sticky fingers" and what not, you've gotta do the right thing and buy the folks behind the bar a drink, right?
It's just plain ol' good "bar etiquette" - just like momma taught you.
When I got home I was feelin' pretty tight, so I got Mikey out to take him for a walk and the neighbors were having a drink on the porch and I didn't want to be rude.
It would be insulting if I had just walked past and was all,
" Sorry guys. Can't have a beer with you 'cause I'm way too busy on a Friday night to stop and chat and socialize. I'm very important and currently my calendar is just too full to sit and talk but I'd be glad to put you down sometime in the next week or two. Let's get together soon!"
Jeez!
What am I?
Some kinda dick, or what?
So I sat and chatted with Rich and Tara and Peter and Diana, and Mikey was running around in the front yard not being too big a nuisance, and I was comparing notes on The Black Crowes concert at The Tabernacle with Rich, and DonnaDonna from Highland Tap walked up with her friend Danielle and, well, the night just started to run away from me.
And the next thing I know, I'm at The Clermont Lounge doing tequila shots with an Outlaw biker and talking to a sassy overweight woman of color who happens to be running her fingers thru my hair and telling me how she'd really like to "show me her tattoo" and just having a grand ol' time.
That's the thing about The Clermont.
It's very egalitarian in it's very own dive bar sort of way.
In a world that has morphed into a quasi-Disneyland, corporate, plastic-fantastic, "Brave New World" of nothingness, where the priorities are being safe and being a beautiful snowflake just like everyone else, The Clermont Lounge is the last bastion of the old neighborhood bars and a home, a safe haven to the unruly characters that used to inhabit Atlanta before gentrification.
A place where a handsome, young, go-getter with an eyepatch can socialize with a true old school biker and a woman of color, or anyone else who can pony up the 8 bucks to get past "D" at the door without fear of recrimination.
A living sculpture of "flying your freak flag", a monument to individualism, a cathedral of chaos, scars, and tattoos, keeping it real 24/7.
Fighting the good fight against "the man", all day, every day.
Across this line, you do not cross.
One second you're tucking singles into the G-string of a woman who is roughly your mother's age and the next you're waking up on the couch at 4:30 in the morning wondering what the heck just happened.
Bam!
You've been "Clermont-ed"!!!
And you're a better person for it.
Again: The only rule you need to know when you go to The Clermont Lounge is never, NEVER, nevernevernever drink anything that doesn't come in a sealed container.
NEVER.
I can not over emphasize this enough.
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