Home!
Joey amazingly drove the entire way from Savannah to Indy.
We stopped for dinner in Knoxville at a sushi place called (I think) Nama. It was fabulous, in the snooty metrosexual way. I had some incredibly tasty sushi, all conjured up by a sushi chef that looked like Colin Ferrel.
I was super excited to see little Walter again. He turned one while we were gone.
After we got back to Lafayette on Friday I checked myself in at St. Elizabeth's ER.
I'd been having some intense stabbing side pains throughout the day and figured I should have someone look at me.
The final diagnosis was that I had an ovarian cyst and that another one may or may not have burst. They weren't too sure what was going on.
I'm not too thrilled with the treatment there. Sure, they gyno-ed me up, down and sideways, so to speak, and they had a lovely, "more-fun-than-a-carnival" catheter in me, but they didn't draw blood or check my appendix as I'd requested. Plus, the ultrasound they performed didn't show any ovarian cysts, yet that was my "final" diagnosis. That seems a little sketchy. I think I'm going to go back home and have this checked out.
They gave me some painkillers, so at very least I can't feel the pain any more...I just know it's still there, which is a bizarre sensation.
Um, so that's my update.
I made it back in one piece and then started to fall apart. Joey's taking amazing care of me, though. We snuggled and he listened to me babble incoherently through the Percocets.
The two posts directly below are the random ramblings I had while Joey and I drove back.
x's and o's!
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Ten: Road Rambling pt. 2
Sitting in a rock & roll bar in downtown Savannah, I was approached by a hulking lumberjack of a bartender who looked straight out of any movie that has the scary ax-yielding redneck standing alongside the road.
He would’ve rightly scared away a hearty portion of clientele, should he have worked anywhere else in quaint little Savannah, but this was a rock & roll bar. People here liked whiskey shots and tattoos—and this guy had one heck of a tattoo on his arm.
It was supposed to be a horse’s leg, I think. It may have extended past his sleeveless flannel button-up onto his chest: a whole equine scene, complete with bales of hay and a trough. I never got around to asking because I was so captivated by the uncanny resemblance that the horse’s leg had to a penis.
With throbbing veins and a turned-out horseshoe, this galloping stallion had a full-on erection.
I spent a few minutes pondering my options. In all of my social inappropriateness, I really wanted to pointedly mention this to the guy.
“It’s interesting that a burly fellow like you has a massive Johnson inked on his arm,” I would’ve said.
I like my teeth, though, and I would’ve hated to provoke anything that would have me returning to school without a few.
It got me thinking, though. Tattoos are great. Unless they’re bad.
Is there any way to tell someone that they’ve got something absurdly awful embedded into them? I’m not sure there is, which is a shame. There are a lot of bad tattoos floating around out there.
I’m a snob about such things, I suppose. Not everything has to be a divine work of art, but is it that hard to get something that doesn’t look like it was drawn up by a fourth-grader on a caffeine binge? Bad tattoos scream ‘Cheap.’ Or worse—‘Jail.’
If someone is that adamant about forever donning, I don’t know, let’s say a tree frog, on their ankle, they should treat it like the investment it is.
Tattoos are art. Good art costs more.
Nobody goes out looking for an authentic Warhol print expecting to pay $17 for it, and similarly, nobody should go out looking for a genuinely good-looking tattoo expecting it to be super cheap. You get what you pay for, typically, be it food, wine, clothes or art. The difference here is that most of the above aren’t needled into the epidermis. They are enjoyed and then they’re over. Not so much with the tattoo thing. That tree frog will stay on that ankle until a doctor with a laser beams it off.
I’m pleading: don’t be that guy. If you’re getting a tattoo, shell out the cash necessary for a good one so I don’t end up sitting across the bar trying to find a way to tell you that you have a giant penis on your arm.
He would’ve rightly scared away a hearty portion of clientele, should he have worked anywhere else in quaint little Savannah, but this was a rock & roll bar. People here liked whiskey shots and tattoos—and this guy had one heck of a tattoo on his arm.
It was supposed to be a horse’s leg, I think. It may have extended past his sleeveless flannel button-up onto his chest: a whole equine scene, complete with bales of hay and a trough. I never got around to asking because I was so captivated by the uncanny resemblance that the horse’s leg had to a penis.
With throbbing veins and a turned-out horseshoe, this galloping stallion had a full-on erection.
I spent a few minutes pondering my options. In all of my social inappropriateness, I really wanted to pointedly mention this to the guy.
“It’s interesting that a burly fellow like you has a massive Johnson inked on his arm,” I would’ve said.
I like my teeth, though, and I would’ve hated to provoke anything that would have me returning to school without a few.
It got me thinking, though. Tattoos are great. Unless they’re bad.
Is there any way to tell someone that they’ve got something absurdly awful embedded into them? I’m not sure there is, which is a shame. There are a lot of bad tattoos floating around out there.
I’m a snob about such things, I suppose. Not everything has to be a divine work of art, but is it that hard to get something that doesn’t look like it was drawn up by a fourth-grader on a caffeine binge? Bad tattoos scream ‘Cheap.’ Or worse—‘Jail.’
If someone is that adamant about forever donning, I don’t know, let’s say a tree frog, on their ankle, they should treat it like the investment it is.
Tattoos are art. Good art costs more.
Nobody goes out looking for an authentic Warhol print expecting to pay $17 for it, and similarly, nobody should go out looking for a genuinely good-looking tattoo expecting it to be super cheap. You get what you pay for, typically, be it food, wine, clothes or art. The difference here is that most of the above aren’t needled into the epidermis. They are enjoyed and then they’re over. Not so much with the tattoo thing. That tree frog will stay on that ankle until a doctor with a laser beams it off.
I’m pleading: don’t be that guy. If you’re getting a tattoo, shell out the cash necessary for a good one so I don’t end up sitting across the bar trying to find a way to tell you that you have a giant penis on your arm.
Nine: Road Rambling pt. 1
So, yet another of my digital cameras has unfurled it’s zoom lens for the last time. That’s number four, if anyone’s keeping track.
I think the cameras are competing with the cell phones. It’s getting to be an all-out brawl.
A few years back I started to think that technology was conspiring against me, a horrid revolt led by the evil czar Lawn Mower, reaching as far as Television Remote and Electric Toothbrush.
Put any of them in my dainty little clutches and they will cease to function nearly instantly.
I thought that getting away from home base, ducking off Lawn Mower’s radar for a bit, would give me a few minutes of bliss. Nope.
Even in Georgia he found me. His minions are everywhere. He has recruited my standard, necessary, personal belongings: Cell Phone is his voice; Camera his eyes.
They crap out on me leaving me desperately rummaging through the annals for an alternative. They are out to make me bow town to their grand master overlord, the invisible, ever-present force that surrounds us all.
I’ve deluded myself, shrugging off Electric Can Opener and Navigation System as convenience items, not representatives of the gross demigod I’ve been unintentionally thumbing my nose at.
Lawn Mower isn’t leading a revolt, it’s beating me into submission: I will worship—not him, not Navigation System—but the chips and bits and bytes and binary omnipresent force that pulses through them. They’re going to win. I will be Technology’s humble servant or I will continue to suffer the flaccid life of one who has not embraced the power.
All this time I was ignorant. I conjured curses, tossing the empty shells of Cameras and Phones into drawers and blaming faulty Technology.
Technology isn’t at fault: I am.
I kneel at your feet, Great and Powerful Technology.
Keep me from blackouts and shutdowns, error messages and shoddy pop-up windows.
I think the cameras are competing with the cell phones. It’s getting to be an all-out brawl.
A few years back I started to think that technology was conspiring against me, a horrid revolt led by the evil czar Lawn Mower, reaching as far as Television Remote and Electric Toothbrush.
Put any of them in my dainty little clutches and they will cease to function nearly instantly.
I thought that getting away from home base, ducking off Lawn Mower’s radar for a bit, would give me a few minutes of bliss. Nope.
Even in Georgia he found me. His minions are everywhere. He has recruited my standard, necessary, personal belongings: Cell Phone is his voice; Camera his eyes.
They crap out on me leaving me desperately rummaging through the annals for an alternative. They are out to make me bow town to their grand master overlord, the invisible, ever-present force that surrounds us all.
I’ve deluded myself, shrugging off Electric Can Opener and Navigation System as convenience items, not representatives of the gross demigod I’ve been unintentionally thumbing my nose at.
Lawn Mower isn’t leading a revolt, it’s beating me into submission: I will worship—not him, not Navigation System—but the chips and bits and bytes and binary omnipresent force that pulses through them. They’re going to win. I will be Technology’s humble servant or I will continue to suffer the flaccid life of one who has not embraced the power.
All this time I was ignorant. I conjured curses, tossing the empty shells of Cameras and Phones into drawers and blaming faulty Technology.
Technology isn’t at fault: I am.
I kneel at your feet, Great and Powerful Technology.
Keep me from blackouts and shutdowns, error messages and shoddy pop-up windows.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Seven: the short post
Waitress @ Dinner Tonight: Here are your pear ciders, ladies. (Pause.) Oh! Oh! Sorry. Um, lady and um, um, okay. Don't hate me.
Yep. Joey got mistaken for a chick.
Yep. Joey got mistaken for a chick.
Six: Savannah, Georgia, Georgia, Georgia.
I have sand stuck in my ears.
Joey and I rocked the beach today, heading over to Tybee Island. In 20 minutes we went from historic Savannah to the slightly more tropical-looking Tybee, that features summer beach homes painted teal.
We visited the lighthouse, climbing all 17,382 steps to the top. It's a really big lighthouse.
After climbing down, we ducked into some of the historic homes around the lighthouse and I saw the smallest bathtub I've ever seen and a really creepy set of old stairs.
Joey and I would both be yellow little wussies if we'd lived back in the 1830's.
We took off for some lunch at a joint called Sting Ray's that had a ton of outdoor seating. I had some grouper--the "local favorite" on the menu. It wasn't jaw-dropping, but it was still pretty good. The breading was perfectly browned but a little too bland for my taste. The hush puppies were the golden tickets.
"These hush puppies put Long John Silver's to shame," Joey declared, his mouth gaping open in awe.
Post-lunch we lounged on the beach for a while, taking pictures and chilling out.
Now we're back at the hotel, getting ready for dinner and a crazy night of Rock & Roll Bingo.
(Why is it Rock & Roll Bingo? Because they give you a lot of booze with the Bingo card. Time to party like a sub-par middle-aged rock star!)
X's and O's!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Five: Savannah
So...
Joey and I just got back to our hotel from our first rap battle.
If you've ever seen Eight Mile (the crappy-but-not-so-crappy Eminem movie) you know what I'm talkin' about.
The entire way back we started silly raps...examples include:
1) kids, i'm from 'round Gary, you think yo' rhymes gonna threaten, gon' scare me? You got yo' hats, all flat 'round the brim, the oversized shirts, you got words you got rhyth-Eeeem...
2) Hey dude you look like Alf, may as well keep them words in yo' mouth.
Well, obviously you like food; yah just got schooled by a white dude.
...
We went to go see The 300 tonight. Interesting movie. Awesome cinematography, if nothing else. There was a great blend of old-style dialogue with modern-time wit.
Joey and I are about to run down the hall clad in sheets so we can re-enact the epic moments.
(He just doesn't know about it yet.)
The Tapas dinner we had after the movie doesn't seem to be agreeing with either of us.
It was delicious on the way down...
X's and O's
Joey and I just got back to our hotel from our first rap battle.
If you've ever seen Eight Mile (the crappy-but-not-so-crappy Eminem movie) you know what I'm talkin' about.
The entire way back we started silly raps...examples include:
1) kids, i'm from 'round Gary, you think yo' rhymes gonna threaten, gon' scare me? You got yo' hats, all flat 'round the brim, the oversized shirts, you got words you got rhyth-Eeeem...
2) Hey dude you look like Alf, may as well keep them words in yo' mouth.
Well, obviously you like food; yah just got schooled by a white dude.
...
We went to go see The 300 tonight. Interesting movie. Awesome cinematography, if nothing else. There was a great blend of old-style dialogue with modern-time wit.
Joey and I are about to run down the hall clad in sheets so we can re-enact the epic moments.
(He just doesn't know about it yet.)
The Tapas dinner we had after the movie doesn't seem to be agreeing with either of us.
It was delicious on the way down...
X's and O's
styri: Savannah
Dear Beloved Friends and Family,
I regret to inform you that I'm never coming back from Savannah.
I've discovered an intense addiction to Southern-Style crack, better known as collard greens.
We've had an amazing day, but before I delve into that, I promised a better recount of last night...
Before we even got to Savannah, we stopped at the most ...um... preciously quaint little gas station I've ever seen. They still had the old-style pumps, where each pump was one sort of gasoline and all the numbers just kind of spun around on casino-style rollers. I was astounded. A gas pump that doesn't take a credit card?! The south is bewildering.
Once we got in, we found our hotel with little difficulty. We're right on the river, smack-dab in the middle of Savannah's historic district.
The hotel was, as I said earlier, overbooked, requiring us to stay in a hospitality room. I'm not going to lie: it was awesome.
Maybe I didn't get to sleep in a bed, but I could watch CNN while peeing! (There was a small flat-screen TV in the bathroom.) It's the simple things, you know?
We set out right after check-in, deciding that since it was about 10:30ish and we'd been driving all day, we deserved some grub and a beverage.
We successfully located the latter directly across the street at a little English-style pub. The bartender there was a small, portable library of Savannah-related information, including the best places to get food and drinks. He seemed more in-the-know about nightlife for the 35+ crowd, but he managed to direct us to Mercury Lounge, an interesting-looking bar with the most mentally incapacitated doorman I've ever encountered. He tried to turn us away on account of Joey being less than two years old.
Yes, I said two. Less than two.
(The guy had, apparently, looked at the "issue" date on his license instead of the "date of birth.")
After settling in to some comfortable animal-print bar stools, Joey took off to play some assorted songs on the juke box and I chatted up the bartender, finding out his take on the food and drink scene.
This guy seemed a little more in tune with the college nighttime hot spots, and he confirmed bartender #1's food recommendations.
We finished our drinks and headed back to our enormous, bed-less, spectacular room-with-a-view.
This morning I woke up to the sun shining across the river.
From the window, I could see a happy-looking tug boat tootin' and groovin' with a flock of seagulls (the birds, not the early 80's pop group) flying around it.
Not an entirely bad way to wake up.
We got dressed quickly-ish, changing rooms into one that had proper pillows and such, and then decided to set out for the BBQ smokehouse that had been recommended by both bartenders.
Sweet Leaf Smokery is a "crap-almost-missed-it" sort of establishment.
It's stuck in the middle of a series of buildings where nothing is going on and the entire restaurant only has about 20 tables--if that.
Joey and I started off with most interesting Georgia beer they had available: Sweet Water Blue. Our waitress didn't tell us anything about the beer, aside from the fact that it was not a dark beer.
It was blueberry beer! Oh sweet surprises!
I've submitted a formal request to fill the entire back seat with bottles of this deliciousness before leaving Georgia.
Um...the food.
Oh, oh, oh, the food.
(Grandpa, cover your eyes.)
It was foodgasmic.
That's the only way I can even begin to describe it.
(Okay, Papa, you can read again.)
Joey got some pulled pork, with smokey baked beans and Granny Smith apple coleslaw on the side. I had the chipped BBQ beef with some collard greens and the Granny Smith coleslaw.
And thus, we're never coming back.
It's inevitable: we're going to be sitting back in Indiana craving this stuff within two weeks. We're going to be miserable, knowing nowhere within 17 hours can compare.
The meat literally dissolved in my mouth. It came topped with a light, sweet BBQ sauce that complimented the woodsy, smoked flavor of the meat.
I could go into painful details here, but I'm probably going to read through this when I get back...and I'm not that much of a masochist.
We hit the streets, spending some quality time in the several lovely, flower-strewn parks downtown, ducking around some shops. We stopped for ice cream at the Savannah Candy Kitchen, home of Tubby's ice cream. With a name like that, you have to expect it's worth eating until you're roughly the size of a freight liner...and it was.
We're setting out now for dinner and a movie.
x's and o's!
I regret to inform you that I'm never coming back from Savannah.
I've discovered an intense addiction to Southern-Style crack, better known as collard greens.
We've had an amazing day, but before I delve into that, I promised a better recount of last night...
Before we even got to Savannah, we stopped at the most ...um... preciously quaint little gas station I've ever seen. They still had the old-style pumps, where each pump was one sort of gasoline and all the numbers just kind of spun around on casino-style rollers. I was astounded. A gas pump that doesn't take a credit card?! The south is bewildering.
Once we got in, we found our hotel with little difficulty. We're right on the river, smack-dab in the middle of Savannah's historic district.
The hotel was, as I said earlier, overbooked, requiring us to stay in a hospitality room. I'm not going to lie: it was awesome.
Maybe I didn't get to sleep in a bed, but I could watch CNN while peeing! (There was a small flat-screen TV in the bathroom.) It's the simple things, you know?
We set out right after check-in, deciding that since it was about 10:30ish and we'd been driving all day, we deserved some grub and a beverage.
We successfully located the latter directly across the street at a little English-style pub. The bartender there was a small, portable library of Savannah-related information, including the best places to get food and drinks. He seemed more in-the-know about nightlife for the 35+ crowd, but he managed to direct us to Mercury Lounge, an interesting-looking bar with the most mentally incapacitated doorman I've ever encountered. He tried to turn us away on account of Joey being less than two years old.
Yes, I said two. Less than two.
(The guy had, apparently, looked at the "issue" date on his license instead of the "date of birth.")
After settling in to some comfortable animal-print bar stools, Joey took off to play some assorted songs on the juke box and I chatted up the bartender, finding out his take on the food and drink scene.
This guy seemed a little more in tune with the college nighttime hot spots, and he confirmed bartender #1's food recommendations.
We finished our drinks and headed back to our enormous, bed-less, spectacular room-with-a-view.
This morning I woke up to the sun shining across the river.
From the window, I could see a happy-looking tug boat tootin' and groovin' with a flock of seagulls (the birds, not the early 80's pop group) flying around it.
Not an entirely bad way to wake up.
We got dressed quickly-ish, changing rooms into one that had proper pillows and such, and then decided to set out for the BBQ smokehouse that had been recommended by both bartenders.
Sweet Leaf Smokery is a "crap-almost-missed-it" sort of establishment.
It's stuck in the middle of a series of buildings where nothing is going on and the entire restaurant only has about 20 tables--if that.
Joey and I started off with most interesting Georgia beer they had available: Sweet Water Blue. Our waitress didn't tell us anything about the beer, aside from the fact that it was not a dark beer.
It was blueberry beer! Oh sweet surprises!
I've submitted a formal request to fill the entire back seat with bottles of this deliciousness before leaving Georgia.
Um...the food.
Oh, oh, oh, the food.
(Grandpa, cover your eyes.)
It was foodgasmic.
That's the only way I can even begin to describe it.
(Okay, Papa, you can read again.)
Joey got some pulled pork, with smokey baked beans and Granny Smith apple coleslaw on the side. I had the chipped BBQ beef with some collard greens and the Granny Smith coleslaw.
And thus, we're never coming back.
It's inevitable: we're going to be sitting back in Indiana craving this stuff within two weeks. We're going to be miserable, knowing nowhere within 17 hours can compare.
The meat literally dissolved in my mouth. It came topped with a light, sweet BBQ sauce that complimented the woodsy, smoked flavor of the meat.
I could go into painful details here, but I'm probably going to read through this when I get back...and I'm not that much of a masochist.
We hit the streets, spending some quality time in the several lovely, flower-strewn parks downtown, ducking around some shops. We stopped for ice cream at the Savannah Candy Kitchen, home of Tubby's ice cream. With a name like that, you have to expect it's worth eating until you're roughly the size of a freight liner...and it was.
We're setting out now for dinner and a movie.
x's and o's!
Three: Savannah
Quick update. It's BBQ time.
Got into Savannah late-ish last night, after Joey drove straight through from Nashville.
Our hotel is pretty fantastic...except our room doesn't have beds in it. Seriously.
We booked our room through Orbitz, and when we got here the guy at the desk informed us that they'd overbooked...and so he upgraded us to what he called something along the lines of "like a deluxe suite." He made sure to tell us that they had roll-away beds available.
In short, we're in a hospitality room.
Pictures of all sorts (including the room) can be found here.
Enjoy.
Last night we headed to a couple of pubs. They were awesome. The bartenders gave us some great info on places to eat/drink. I will recount them with more detail later, when we're not answering the calls of our starving stomachs.
xo!
Got into Savannah late-ish last night, after Joey drove straight through from Nashville.
Our hotel is pretty fantastic...except our room doesn't have beds in it. Seriously.
We booked our room through Orbitz, and when we got here the guy at the desk informed us that they'd overbooked...and so he upgraded us to what he called something along the lines of "like a deluxe suite." He made sure to tell us that they had roll-away beds available.
In short, we're in a hospitality room.
Pictures of all sorts (including the room) can be found here.
Enjoy.
Last night we headed to a couple of pubs. They were awesome. The bartenders gave us some great info on places to eat/drink. I will recount them with more detail later, when we're not answering the calls of our starving stomachs.
xo!
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Dos: Nashville
We just got to hotel #2.
You know it's good when the dude at the front desk tells you that Little Richard is staying here, too.
I'm going after his curls. A long night in the lobby awaits.
The Maker's Mark distillery was pretty rockin'.
Joey and I got to sign and date a couple of bottles of bourbon whisky and hand-dip 'em in the wax. I took a ton of pictures; I'll be sure to post them soon.
Here's a link to Joey's blog, in case y'all are curious. It's essentially the same stuff, but from the hairy-chested, manly man point of view.
Entertainment for the evening partially consisted of watching a 173 year-old woman line dance the pants off a troop of preteen girls in purple vests. (That's an estimate on her age. Those are not her god-given hips, I can tell you that.)
Tonight's dinner made me realize that in terms of quality BBQ, the place with the most fake animals hanging upside down from the ceiling is probably going to have the best grub.
(Dinner of the night: Half slab Jack Daniel's ribs, bleu cheese coleslaw, 1 local pale ale--all from Wildhorse Saloon.)
As far as Nashville goes: On the whole I'm not impressed just yet. It's more of a commercial town than anything else. Every other shop is a memorabilia outlet. The scenery is great and there's a lot of live music, which is awesome, but Nashville itself seems to be trying a bit to hard to have a hootnanny.
Tidbit of the Night:
Me: How the hell did line dancing start? I mean, who thought that was a good idea?
Joey: I think it was one drunk cowboy...he started randomly stomping and clapping and figured he looked good... because he was drunk. And then the guy next to him, also drunk, decided to follow him because, well, ...he was drunk. And so after a bit there was just a whole line of drunk cowboys, clapping and stomping randomly, and since they were all drunk it just ...kept on going.
I looked it up a little bit ago. Turns out, it was not drunk cowboys. It was disco. Country stole it.
xo!
You know it's good when the dude at the front desk tells you that Little Richard is staying here, too.
I'm going after his curls. A long night in the lobby awaits.
The Maker's Mark distillery was pretty rockin'.
Joey and I got to sign and date a couple of bottles of bourbon whisky and hand-dip 'em in the wax. I took a ton of pictures; I'll be sure to post them soon.
Here's a link to Joey's blog, in case y'all are curious. It's essentially the same stuff, but from the hairy-chested, manly man point of view.
Entertainment for the evening partially consisted of watching a 173 year-old woman line dance the pants off a troop of preteen girls in purple vests. (That's an estimate on her age. Those are not her god-given hips, I can tell you that.)
Tonight's dinner made me realize that in terms of quality BBQ, the place with the most fake animals hanging upside down from the ceiling is probably going to have the best grub.
(Dinner of the night: Half slab Jack Daniel's ribs, bleu cheese coleslaw, 1 local pale ale--all from Wildhorse Saloon.)
As far as Nashville goes: On the whole I'm not impressed just yet. It's more of a commercial town than anything else. Every other shop is a memorabilia outlet. The scenery is great and there's a lot of live music, which is awesome, but Nashville itself seems to be trying a bit to hard to have a hootnanny.
Tidbit of the Night:
Me: How the hell did line dancing start? I mean, who thought that was a good idea?
Joey: I think it was one drunk cowboy...he started randomly stomping and clapping and figured he looked good... because he was drunk. And then the guy next to him, also drunk, decided to follow him because, well, ...he was drunk. And so after a bit there was just a whole line of drunk cowboys, clapping and stomping randomly, and since they were all drunk it just ...kept on going.
I looked it up a little bit ago. Turns out, it was not drunk cowboys. It was disco. Country stole it.
xo!
Ein: Louisville
Any initial qualms I had about subjecting myself to a hearty batch of southern folk have been soothed.
...Maybe it's the fact that so far Joey and I have found that southern hospitality extends from the twang-blaring gas stations that probably sell rounds of shot to the dark corners of clubs.
We busted in to Louisville yesterday evening, just in time for dinner. We started at the Bluegrass Brewing Co., a comfy little establishment that, according to my partner in crime, seems like a place where a large group of intellectual friends should gather to talk.
The food was great (I had a homemade spinach & walnut burger w/garlic fries); the beer was phenomenal. I had a raspberry meade and some blond ale-ish thing. I could've guzzled a gallon of the raspberry stuff. It was like juice. Beer flavored juice.
After dinner Joey and I set off for some after-dinner drinks and such. We chillaxed at the Maker's Mark lounge where I had my first Mint Julep. Bring on the derby hats and horses, baby!
We hit the streets, stumbling (not literally) upon a crazy little punk band from Florida that was playing at a little hole-in-the-wall that had some slammin' art work, including a painting of Max from Get Smart that I fell in love with. Oohhhh Max!
We're about to head out now; we've got a tour of the Maker's Mark distillery and a visit to Bardstown in the work.
x's and o's!
...Maybe it's the fact that so far Joey and I have found that southern hospitality extends from the twang-blaring gas stations that probably sell rounds of shot to the dark corners of clubs.
We busted in to Louisville yesterday evening, just in time for dinner. We started at the Bluegrass Brewing Co., a comfy little establishment that, according to my partner in crime, seems like a place where a large group of intellectual friends should gather to talk.
The food was great (I had a homemade spinach & walnut burger w/garlic fries); the beer was phenomenal. I had a raspberry meade and some blond ale-ish thing. I could've guzzled a gallon of the raspberry stuff. It was like juice. Beer flavored juice.
After dinner Joey and I set off for some after-dinner drinks and such. We chillaxed at the Maker's Mark lounge where I had my first Mint Julep. Bring on the derby hats and horses, baby!
We hit the streets, stumbling (not literally) upon a crazy little punk band from Florida that was playing at a little hole-in-the-wall that had some slammin' art work, including a painting of Max from Get Smart that I fell in love with. Oohhhh Max!
We're about to head out now; we've got a tour of the Maker's Mark distillery and a visit to Bardstown in the work.
x's and o's!
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