The Vortex of Arterial Doom

Blues Traveler and I set out for Atlanta last Friday evening. No, I’m not on tour with John Popper and his 10,000 harmonicas, but “Blues Traveler” is the name I’ve given my car until something better comes along (honorable mentions: Blue’s Clues; Blue Man Group; You My Boy, Blue; One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish). After picking up Aaron, our first stop was The Vortex in Little Five Points.

Little Five Points is a lot like Birmingham’s Five Points if you took everything that makes the area unique and cranked it to eleven. Little Five Points’ shops are more eclectic, its hipsters are hipsterier, and its hobos are hoboier. It is a melting pot of fringe cultures, and I love it. It’s hard to walk through Little Five Points without strangers talking to you, though. The last time I was there, I was attacked by a hippie. Not a physical attack, mind you. He was trying to get me to donate to some worthy cause I wasn’t interested in. As he heaped on the guilt, no doubt noticing the Futurama action figure I had just purchased instead of donating to his non-profit, I kept thinking “Darn, how do I get away from this hippie without feeling like a terrible person?” Then I realized that we looked very similar, right down to the hair and beard. Apparently the only things that separate me from a hippie are sandals and a petition clipboard. I walked away feeling like a terrible person.

Anyway, back to The Vortex. It’s a very chic/grungy/hip/trendy restaurant and bar that specializes in giant hamburgers designed to mock the plight of third world countries. They serve something they call The Triple Coronary Bypass, which is also the name I’m going to give my horse if I ever enter the Kentucky Derby. It consists of two half-pound beef patties, two fried eggs, eight slices of cheese, ten slices of bacon, a half-gallon of Crisco, and a small suckling pig. I only made up those last two. But the kicker – and this part I’m not making up – is that instead of buns, they use grilled cheese sandwiches! Three in total. I opted for something more health conscious and ordered the regular Coronary Bypass.

You don't just eat at The Vortex, The Vortex eats you.

The next day Aaron and I went to Underground Atlanta to do some loitering before our scheduled tour of Atlanta’s old rail system. The shops in Underground Atlanta mostly sell Obama t-shirts and fake jewelry, so we passed the majority of our time in a dollar store that sells items deemed too cheap and poorly made for shanty town flea markets. Every toy had packaging with hilariously awkward sentences and misspelled words.

Laser Soung Gun with real laser soungs! It make happy play time!

Our tour started in the early afternoon, and we walked all over downtown Atlanta learning about old buildings and how the railroad industry shaped the city. The tour guide was bursting with bits of Atlanta trivia. The most interesting story was how Atlanta got its name. It was originally called Terminus, but then citizens adopted the name Marthasville. Realizing that this name sounded like a borough of San Francisco, a train engineer hung up a sign by the rail station that said “Atlanta”. Just like that, the name stuck. Now that I know all you have to do to change a city’s name is hang a sign up on the edge of town, I plan on getting some poster board and Sharpies and renaming Birmingham as New Nathantown. The original Nathantown was created in SimCity back in 1994, but was ultimately destroyed by my brutal tax oppression and Bowser.

When the tour ended we headed over to Turner field and watched the Braves beat the Mets. After the game there was a special concert by Styx, best known for their 1977 hit “That One Song” and also “That Other Song They Sing”. I was actually impressed by their performance. All the members of Styx are about 60 years old, but they are still spry and rocking out on stage. The keyboardist was especially mobile, jumping up on his piano and gyrating wildly. I can only hope I’m doing the same thing when I’m his age. I also hope no one says, “Sir, please get down from there. This is your granddaughter’s piano recital, and you are scaring the children.”

"Buzzkill."

We met up with Aaron’s girlfriend, Caitlin, after the concert and went to a restaurant to play trivia. Aaron and Caitlin are both very good at trivia, and I really only contributed to questions concerning my two specialties - Lay’s Potato Chips and the television series 7^th Heaven. I’ve played Aaron in trivial pursuit dozens of times, and I’ve never won. Since he’s older than me, my plan is to play him again when he goes senile first.

"Eat it, Aaron!"

I bid adieu to Atlanta after attending sacrament service at the North Point YSA Ward on Sunday. Blues Traveler and I made the drive back home while listening to Atlanta’s awesome 80’s and 90’s radio station. Like the chorus to my favorite songs, I’m eagerly awaiting my next trip to Atlanta. Because the hook brings you back.

Rock of Ages 18 - 30

"Everyday I'm shufflin'."

That monotone voice and the beat behind it will not leave my brain. I went to a YSA (Young Single Adult, in Mormon lingo) conference this weekend in Huntsville, and the theme was Rock: A Sure Foundation. The theme song was LMFAO's "Party Rock Anthem". If you are unfamiliar with that song, for the love of all things holy don't click on that link, unless you want to be shuffle dancing to that tune in your head all week while your co-workers stare at you in horror. If you feel even the slightest compulsion to click on it, I suggest shutting your computer off right now and backing away slowly.

I did have a really good time at this conference, though. It started Friday night with a dance at the church. It's hard to explain a YSA dance to those who haven't been to one before, but it's very similar to the dances you went to in middle school, except that most everyone is in their twenties. The awkwardness, punch made with Sprite, dancing very far apart, Cotton Eye Joe - they're all there. I imagine to an outsider that it would be very surreal, like dances or clubs in the movies where the background characters are gently swaying and rocking with room for several football games between them, and not at all like real life clubs that are a free-for-all wrestling match where you can only use your hips.

After the dance a few of us went to IHOP, where we made friends with a drunken, homeless man who was eating people's leftovers. He never said his name, but he looked like a Dwayne. Anyway, a high school kid saw that Dwayne was eating scraps, and gave the waitress $10 to buy him a real dinner, but he refused and said he was okay with what he had scrounged. He had been talking to us intermittently throughout his dinner, and at one point he turned serious and asked us, "Right before you die, what would make you the happiest?" I was caught off guard by the depth of Dwayne's query. Here was this man, liquored up and contently eating Brett's hashbrowns, and he was searching for answers. In my mind I created a backstory for what lead him to this discussion. Maybe he had a wife and several little Dwaynelets somewhere. Maybe he wanted off the streets but was caught in a vicious cycle of hard living that he could not escape. He motioned for me to answer first, and after a moment of thinking I replied, "Family and friends." He asked each person at the table the same question, and most gave the same answer as I did. Finally, we turned the question on him.

"You know what would make me the happiest?"

I waited for his sad story, for some insight to how he got where he was in life.

"A giant rainbow," he said, his hands cupped and his arms outlining an arch, " and Nickelback playing like a #$@%!*(expletive redacted)!"

We all burst out laughing. Dwayne might have his deep days where he longs for a better life and for friends to be by his side, but that night at IHOP all he wanted was to see his favorite band playing underneath a rainbow.

For you, Dwayne. For you.

That would not be my last encounter with drunken homeless people this weekend, though. The next morning we gathered for a service project with this organization, and we drove out into the outskirts of Huntsville to a small building on a dillapidated street. A man came out and told us we would be cleaning up camps. "Ooo like a scout camp!" I thought. 

Nope. Hobo camps.

Over 100 homeless people live in tents underneath the interstates in Huntsville. We helped clean up the sites that had been abandoned as groups of homeless people watched and chatted with each other. Again, I felt bad and wondered what had led them here to live in squallor. I'm sure everyone has their own unique story, but as we cleaned out bottle after bottle of whiskey I began to understand. 

On a lighter and yet more terrifying note, while walking to another camp site I saw the absolute biggest spider I have ever seen in real life. It was just walking down the street, probably hungry and looking for stray dogs or unattended toddlers. I'm serious, this spider was friggin' huge. I would have tried to squish it, but if I succeeded I would've drowned in the resultant tide of spider guts, and if I failed I would have been punished with eight roundhouse kicks to the face. If Hannibal had known about these spiders, he would have used them instead of elephants to cross the Alps. Partially out of fear and partially out of respect, I tossed it my wallet and car keys.

Ok, so now that you've seen the photo you may think I was over-exaggerating. But what if I told you that the hand in the picture belongs to a giant who can palm bowling balls like a bunch of grapes? Well it's not, it's Art's hand, and he's of average height and hand size. The point is - that spider was big, and I don't like spiders.

The last activity of the conference was a tour of Cathedral Caverns in Woodville. It holds four world records for caves as mentioned on its website here. The caverns are sprawling and beautiful, and they make you feel small and insignificant. Our tour guide had the thickest natural Southern accent, the kind Northerners use when they're making fun of us, and she had something funny to say about each formation and landmark she pointed out. She would make a great female lead in the next Larry the Cable Guy summer blockbuster.

After the cave a few of us drove to Dreamland for some barbecue and to unwind. This was one of the best YSA conferences I've been to in a while. Awkward dancing, gargantuan spiders, and caves - what more could a man ask for? But really, seeing so many people this weekend who were down and in a dark place made me very grateful for a roof over my head and food on my table. And friends to shuffle with.

"Shake that."

Waffle House Party

I love Waffle House, even if Waffle House doesn't love me. I’m usually the first to suggest the ubiquitous diner when I’m in a group trying to decide where to eat, and yet I don’t know how many times I’ve left feeling terrible. I can say I’m never going back, but literally the next day I will be face down in an All-Star Breakfast. I’m currently coming off of a three-night bender, and there’s a chance for a fourth. So what lures me inside those half-glass walls time after time? What siren song does Waffle House sing?

I have written about my love for greasy and loathsome restaurants before. Waffle House has taken this formula, perfectly mimicking the mom-and-pop dining experience, and mass produced it. Wherever you go in the South, there will be a Waffle House smiling at you with its musty, yellow, Scrabble-tile sign. Their business plan is to put a Waffle House on every corner until they run out of space, in which case they will start building Waffle Houses on top of Waffle Houses. 

Until they spring for the Waffle House Hotel, of course.

They are either purposefully cannibalizing their own sales, or the government has plans to convert Waffle Houses into an underground system of safe bunkers to be used as an escape route during a foreign invasion or zombie apocalypse. For instance, the Waffle House closest to my apartment is about 100 yards away from another Waffle House. If my time trials have been accurate, I could easily outrun a horde of zombies from one Waffle House to the next.

I like how Waffle House doesn’t take itself too seriously. The campy Americana on the walls and the Waffle House odes on the jukebox lend to a light atmosphere. I have always wanted to drop some coins into the jukebox and play some ridiculous Waffle House tune, but I have feared retribution from the staff in the form of a hot waffle iron to the face. I also like how you know what to expect from a Waffle House, because the employees and patrons have an unstated contract. The waiters and cooks all know that you’re there because nothing else is open, and the patrons all know that they’re in for a transient case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Everyone’s on the same page.

The food is actually delicious, too. I’ve tried almost everything on the menu, but I haven’t tried the steak. Actually, I’ve never seen anyone order the steak, despite their claims of being the nation’s leading provider. Big fat liars or not, they are the  King of Waffles, no matter what those even bigger, fatter liars Waffle King would have you believe. 

Waffle House is convenient, laid back, and tasty. But so are many other places. The key ingredient to Waffle House’s success, and Bert’s Chili, is consistency.

It's like cottage cheese suspended in half-congealed gelatin.

Whether it was celebrating high school football victories, or going after a dance and piling six YSA into a booth designed for no more than two people ordering toast, Waffle House has always been there. It is always open, and always around the corner. During the ice storm a few months back, Jen and I walked the half mile to Waffle House, because we knew it would be open. The city had shut down, so they must have sent evac choppers to their employees’ homes. And I'm grateful for that level of insane, dangerous dedication.

I’ve made many fond memories inside Waffle Houses, like the time I convinced Drew to order his hashbrowns “scattered, smothered, covered, and spanked” (the waitress obliged with a spatula tap), or the time Cam and I got into a bizarre conversation with a waitress’s awkward son who told me how lucky I was to be wearing his favorite color (green, for those who desperately want to know). But really, Waffle House has been the setting for many nights with my friends where we’ve just enjoyed each other’s company. It was a place to hang out after all the respectable establishments had closed and we didn't feel like going home and falling asleep.

So thanks, Waffle House! You're often full of belligerent drunks, but just know that there are some people who appreciate your tireless work. I look forward to many more nights spent chatting idly away into the wee hours, many more waffles, and many more regret-filled mornings.