Crib Notes

BIRD'S EYE VIEW: Above the urinal at the Rusty Nail.

A Bar Crawl Down Buford Highway

Grown men have tried to steal it, if only to hang in their own romper rooms, over their bachelor pad mantle, or maybe even as an heirloom to pass down to their own flesh and blood son.

I’m standing eye to ass, eye to class, eye to all that is the motivation of the bubbling blood of heterosexuality — and it’s one of the sexiest things these eyes have ever peeked. A warm rush comes over me. It’s probably the free Jager kicking in. It has to be. But whatever it is, it’s just as Slay told me, “Instant success.” I never knew standing at the urinal inside the Rusty Nail could make a man feel this way.

Last spring I assembled an adventurous bunch for a bar crawl up the seedy section of Moreland Avenue. It proved more clever than courageous. We were welcomed with open arms, bar tabs, and well, legs at such establishments as the Foxy Lady and Club Blaze. The only colors that most factored in were the brown of Evan Williams and the green of Alexander Hamilton. Everyone got liquored up and everyone got cordial. It was a magnificent thing. Alcohol tearing down race relations one shot at a time.

We tend to make this city smaller than it is. I see it as an international small town. A Mayberry of Olympic cities. We get stuck in our patterns and cling to what we know. I have friends who haven’t even been to the King Center, much less ventured into a hole-in-the wall juke joint with questionable riff-raff lingering about.

Sad, sad, sad.

Jon Slay, my co-captain of Team Danger, along with a cutie pie/designated get-a-way driver decide to take in the sights and smut of one of Atlanta’s most enchanting thoroughfares — Buford Highway. Or, “the Buff” as we dubbed it. A bar crawl uniting nations. An olive branch soaked in whiskey. Black, white, yellow, Asian, or Haitian … let’s get cordial.

The Best Revenge is Living Well

Nothing says “class joint” more than getting patted down by an intimidating black man with an eye patch.

Call it great foreshadowing, call it dumb luck, but we call it Follies, and it is the perfect name for this strip club. We’re at the top end of Buford and we might as well be on another planet, because our waitress doesn’t have clue. “I think it’s her first day — not at Follies — in this country,” cracks Slay.

After much confusion and broken (what I think is) English, we get our beers. Now more confusion, apparently we have to pay as we go. We settle up and she then sets a pack of Lance crackers on the table and walks away. Now we’re really fucking confused. I look around and every table has a pack of crackers. Is this Follies’ currency? Should I tip the girl with a Lance cracker?? Slide it right there next to her entertainment center. Maybe each variety represents a different denomination.

“Do you have a light?” asks one shoe model.

“Naw, baby. But I got a cheese on wheat.”

The girls at Follies really are beautiful. Some busted, but definitely something for everyone. White girls, black ones, señoritas, Asian persuasion, and even some tatted-up trouble. It’s a Crayola box of ass. Just pick your flavor.

It’s 10:15 p.m. and it’s time to get some gasoline in these veins. I order an empty shot glass (much to my dismay, this causes no confusion) and throw back a berry flavored 5 hour energy shot I snuck past ol’ buddy’s one good eye. We’re on the clock now —3:15, here we come!

After getting classed up with some ‘Michael Jordan’ cologne by some old hustler bathroom attendant, I figure there’s only one way to make this experience more regal. The Trump card of class. I order the prime rib. And there’s nothing funnier than the audacity of ordering a steak in such an arena. Like my daddy told me, “You can’t hide money.”

I’m not sure what cut of meat it was, but it was tougher than Cool Hand Luke. Tougher than the meatheads in the UFC fight blaring in the background. And the best part is, it’s the first steak I’ve ever eaten that I had to pay for when it arrived. C.O.D. And I’m the one getting strange looks from the strippers. What nerve, that thing was paid for. But I must admit, the Lance crackers really did set a nice pallet.

We try to get a to-go box as a joke, but no dice. Slay wants me to just put it in my pocket for the next time I get patted down.

I take my last bite, give Slay a smirk, and take it all in… Ahh, the best revenge is living well.

Stay tuned for part 2 of Viva Señor Selleck — a bar crawl down Buford Highway

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Tags: Follies, Mayor of Ponce, The Rusty Nail.