Normally, I'm a weekend warrior blogger. You get about two posts per weekend from me. But sometimes, on a Sunday evening, something magical happens and I have to post twice. Two times! In one day! That's better than a 10 mile garage sale (I think).
I went to the theater. Remember? I was worried, because I was having a bit of a problem with crowd rage from yesterday's festival and sometimes large crowds deplete me and I need to decompress for a day after being in them?
I will note that this evening's festivities got started on the wrong foot--I arrived two and a half hours before showtime (for dinner) and just as the afternoon matinee was letting out. It was a bit crazy. Have a I mentioned I have traffic jam rage, too? And that I think traffic cops make it far more complicated than it has to be?
So I decided to park about 3 blocks down from the theater. This was Poor Decision #1. I wore the wrong kind of shoes for that type of thing: wedge heels. Four inch wedge heels. (I don't walk in heels very often--I feel gigantic and my bad left foot refuses to speak to me for about a week after.) But I did it, because I figured I'd be sitting for most of the evening after the high heeled hike.
But then my phone's GPS went all wonky on me and took me about 4 blocks AWAY from the restaurant. I was all: Where the hell am I, Midtown Atlanta? All I knew was I was in Georgia Tech territory, and all I also knew was Georgia Tech territory is notorious for muggings and rapings. And probably pillagings too, but the news only reports the beatings and rape.
So I'm lost, trying to figure out where I am by looking at my phone's map. This was Poor Decision #2. I once dated a guy from Hoboken/New York City and he told me that whenever you're lost in a big city, find a wall to lean up against all casually, and just sort of look down at the ground and think about where to go/what to do next. That way you look like you know where you're at; you're just loitering, hanging out.
I did not do this. I did not look casual or like I was hanging out. I was dressed up, in heels, with a bunch of money in my fanciest purse, with my phone out, looking around, going: Where AM I?? You know: basically, I was Red Riding Hood skipping along through the forest, all lost and shit.
Of course, a homeless man decided to try to ask me out. And when I kept ignoring him, he proceeded to follow me for about a block and a half, telling me how hot I was and he just wanted to talk to me. Normally, this would just be annoying and I'd be on Twitter doing that hashtag #YESALLWOMEN thing. But this was slightly terrifying, because I was all alone, and no one was around--the block was deserted save for me and the horny homeless homey.
Friends, it was the closest I've ever come to real violence, I was so scared. I know I said I imagined drop kicking the LL Bean lady at the food truck yesterday, but I just imagined that. From frustration. I wasn't actually going to drop kick anyone. Earlier tonight, I knew: I could drop kick another human being. If that man had run up to me, I was ready--I was formulating, in my brain, how I'd kick him in the nuts and smash his face with my phone. I was scared and I was angry and I was all "Dammit! The News wasn't kidding!! This area is RANK with violence! WTF, Atlanta?!"
But then I got up to Emory U Hospital and there were people around and he went away. And then I stuck to the main street and decided never ever EVER to walk by myself in Atlanta again. Stay in well-lit areas, with lots of other people around.
Did I ever tell you that I once went to a psychic named Marian who told me I have two guardian angels, a purple-aura'd older woman and a yellow-aura'd younger man? Apparently, I have a purple and a yellow angel and the yellow angel is very protective of me and won't let anything bad happen to me. Next time I come here, remind me, and I'll tell you the story about how I was almost gang raped at a pool hall in Mexico when I was 23. I've got loads of fun stories like this, stories that will make you go: How are you still alive, Amy?! (Because I've got a yellow angel, that's why. Duh.)
At any rate, I did have some absinthe and I will not be having absinthe again, thanks. Did it, got the shirt, don't need to do it again. It tastes like incredibly strong black licorice. Like, if you could take all of the black licorice in the entire Universe and pour it into one tiny glass? That's absinthe. I can totally see now why the Prohibitionists made it illegal. It's clearly a gateway drug to any alcohol that doesn't taste like licorice.
I will recommend Publik Draft House next to the Fox Theatre as a most excellent place to eat (and try absinthe for yourself). I had a very tasty falafel burger with sauteed mushrooms and tzatziki sauce and my friends both raved about their meaty burgers. The only complaint I had about this establishment was that, in their women's bathroom, they have gigantic mirrors covering the entire wall directly in front of the toilet. I bet people drunk on absinthe dig that, watching themselves on a toilet. I, however, was not drunk, or drunk on absinthe. I spent about 5 uncomfortable minutes in there with myself, awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact with me.
After dinner we went to the Fox Theatre to see MAMA MIA. Oh, how I love Broadway musicals! They are fun and wonderful to watch. I like to watch the background actors as much as the stars--I think: what fun, not to have to be worried about missing marks and cues and messing up lines and all that, BUT you get to be running around on stage and dress up and act silly and stuff. How much does THAT job pay??
MAMA MIA consists of a really silly plot line, and so you have to suspend belief for a bit, and the end comes up a little hokey and fast. But friends! It's all ABBA songs, the whole show! And that's like pure heaven for me. I laughed, I cried (at the song where the mom sings about the girl growing up too fast), and I got goose pimples. These are all good things--an English teacher in high school told me once that whenever you experience goose pimples from something (a painting, a song, a poem, a sunset, anything), you have experienced Art. And so whenever I'm at a movie or I hear a song or read a sentence in a book or I see a whole group of people dancing around live on stage and while I watch the audience all dances in their seats? And I realize I've got goose pimples? I go: Oh my god! This! This is ART.
I love it when that happens.
Oh, and! At the end, the whole cast comes on stage and sings ABBA songs. The audience gave them a standing ovation and we danced with them. I have Dancing Queen (you can dance, you can jive, having the time of your liiiiife) stuck in my head right now. I hope I dream about it tonight.
I bet I'll dream about the creepy homeless guy though. Maybe we'll dance to ABBA together? I don't know. (Don't walk the streets solo, girlfriends. Listen to your Aunt Amy.) (And stay out of pool halls in Mexico...but that's next weekend's chapter.)