"Jello shots. If you make them, I will take them."
"I have a hunch that there is no such thing as too much rum punch."
My main market would be Panama City Beach spring breakers.
I'm doing this.
May 11, 2012
December 15, 2011
Kryptonite
No, not that stupid 3 Doors Down song.
Kryptonite. As in Superman's ultimate physical weakness. By the way, did you know that there are 18 different types of Superman Kryponite? Yeah. Me neither. There's also Krypto the Superdog cartoon that "features 'purple-spotted kryptonite', which causes Superdog to compulsively chase his tail." Thank you, Wikipedia.
Don't know about you, but I'm encouraged to know that Superman (and Superdog, I guess) had 18 different Kryptonites to deal with.
A friend on Facebook posted a picture of what I like to call Corn Flake Peanut Butter Balls I Could Eat One Million Of You, You Little Balls Of Heaven And Goodness, And Then I Will Eat One Million More And When I'm Done With That Million, I'll Polish Off 8,000 More. The abbreviated version of this is known as PeyPey's Kryptonite #1. Superman had 18? I have 1,800. Maybe more. Definitely more.
So, since I've been absent for way too long from this here blog, I thought I'd do what I do best and give you a list. A list of Kryptonites, my ultimate physical weaknesses. Ok, let's do this.
1. Corn Flake Peanut Butter Balls I Could Eat One Million Of You, You Little Balls Of Heaven And Goodness, And Then I Will Eat One Million More And When I'm Done With That Million, I'll Polish Off 8,000 More
2. Sauvignon Blanc (obvs.)
3. Plain glazed donuts
4. Booty music (if it's playing, I'm dancing. Weakness? Eh, maybe not. I haven't quite figured this one out, but I feel right about it being on this list.)
5. Pinot Grigio (obvs.)
6. Chubby baby cheeks (It's almost a compulsion. Once I start kissing chubby cheeks, I can't stop.)
7. Creamy pasta sauce (I would drink it with a straw if that was socially acceptable.)
8. Real Housewives of anywhere (I've done some polling, spoken to some women about this. It's kind of a phenomenon. I am not alone in this weakness. Whether or not you have seen an episode of RHO, you WILL watch it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Laundry gets ignored. Cleaning doesn't happen. Spending time with the hubs gets pushed aside all so I can hear Kim sing "Don't be tardy for the party" One. More. Time.)
8. Cabernet Sauvignon (obvs.)
9. Facebook
10. Target popcorn (Is no one else plagued by the delicious smell every time they walk into Target?) (I think it should bementioned confessed that I go to Target at least four times a week.)
11. Pinot Noir (obvs.)
12. Our couch (It has magnetic force, I swear.)
That's all you get right now. You'll have to come back in 6 months when I decide to put down the wine glass, stop watching RHO on the couch while facebook stalking you, dreaming of my neice's chubby cheeks with a pitcher of creamy pasta sauce with a straw in it, smelling the corn flake crack I just made while Mark goes to get me some Krispy Kreme's, all while...booty dancing?? (Still not sure where that one fits on the list.)
Kryptonite. As in Superman's ultimate physical weakness. By the way, did you know that there are 18 different types of Superman Kryponite? Yeah. Me neither. There's also Krypto the Superdog cartoon that "features 'purple-spotted kryptonite', which causes Superdog to compulsively chase his tail." Thank you, Wikipedia.
Don't know about you, but I'm encouraged to know that Superman (and Superdog, I guess) had 18 different Kryptonites to deal with.
A friend on Facebook posted a picture of what I like to call Corn Flake Peanut Butter Balls I Could Eat One Million Of You, You Little Balls Of Heaven And Goodness, And Then I Will Eat One Million More And When I'm Done With That Million, I'll Polish Off 8,000 More. The abbreviated version of this is known as PeyPey's Kryptonite #1. Superman had 18? I have 1,800. Maybe more. Definitely more.
So, since I've been absent for way too long from this here blog, I thought I'd do what I do best and give you a list. A list of Kryptonites, my ultimate physical weaknesses. Ok, let's do this.
1. Corn Flake Peanut Butter Balls I Could Eat One Million Of You, You Little Balls Of Heaven And Goodness, And Then I Will Eat One Million More And When I'm Done With That Million, I'll Polish Off 8,000 More
2. Sauvignon Blanc (obvs.)
3. Plain glazed donuts
4. Booty music (if it's playing, I'm dancing. Weakness? Eh, maybe not. I haven't quite figured this one out, but I feel right about it being on this list.)
5. Pinot Grigio (obvs.)
6. Chubby baby cheeks (It's almost a compulsion. Once I start kissing chubby cheeks, I can't stop.)
7. Creamy pasta sauce (I would drink it with a straw if that was socially acceptable.)
8. Real Housewives of anywhere (I've done some polling, spoken to some women about this. It's kind of a phenomenon. I am not alone in this weakness. Whether or not you have seen an episode of RHO, you WILL watch it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. Laundry gets ignored. Cleaning doesn't happen. Spending time with the hubs gets pushed aside all so I can hear Kim sing "Don't be tardy for the party" One. More. Time.)
8. Cabernet Sauvignon (obvs.)
9. Facebook
10. Target popcorn (Is no one else plagued by the delicious smell every time they walk into Target?) (I think it should be
11. Pinot Noir (obvs.)
12. Our couch (It has magnetic force, I swear.)
That's all you get right now. You'll have to come back in 6 months when I decide to put down the wine glass, stop watching RHO on the couch while facebook stalking you, dreaming of my neice's chubby cheeks with a pitcher of creamy pasta sauce with a straw in it, smelling the corn flake crack I just made while Mark goes to get me some Krispy Kreme's, all while...booty dancing?? (Still not sure where that one fits on the list.)
April 22, 2011
I can't put a title on this one because then you might not even read the post.
For those of you who don't know, I moved across the "border" as we like to call it here in the Deep South - the border being the Chattahoochee River, from Georgia to Alabama. Us Georgians have relentlessly made fun of Alabamians for quite some time. We've always kidded around saying "Oh, you got your passport ready?" to someone who says they're going over to Alabama for something.
See, my hometown is on the western border of Georgia, with the Chattahoochee River dividing my home state from good ole' Alabama. People who live in my hometown may go to work across the river and vice versa. But somehow, us Georgians have always thought of ourselves as a little higher and mightier than our neighbors in Alabama. We joke, right along with the rest of the nation, among other things, that married people's family trees in Alabama are pretty closely related, if you know what I mean.
And funny that I should mention this because Mark and I, who are getting married in t-minus 36 days, are related. Woah. Whammie. Yep. Both his and my ancestors made their homes in the great state of Alabama, so I guess there's some truth to the teasing. The relation is over four generations from us, but still. I won't lie and tell you that this fact does not bother me, because I've had nightmares of the possibility of having water head babies. Nonetheless, we're plugging right along with wedding plans.
But this is not the main topic of this post. I'll go ahead and tell you what is so that you may prepare yourself. Douche. Douche is the topic of this post. (But not in the way you may be thinking. Good lord, not in that way.)
Another thing we Georgians like to harp on about Alabama residents is their driving skills. Or rather, their lack of driving skills. My road rage has gotten a little Out. Of. Control. since moving across the border. I have no shame in making fun of Alabamians driving skills because THEY SUCK. I'm not sure what sort of driving test they have to pass, but it is certainly not up to par with the one I agonized over when I was sixteen. To put this all into perspective, the last time Mark had to renew his driver's license, it was at the Alabama Department of Motor Vehicles IN A MOTHER EFFING DOUBLE WIDE TRAILOR. No joke. So now that you have some perspective, let's move on to our main topic.
I'm not much of a cuss-er. I'll drop an eff bomb every once in awhile for dramatic flair, and I'll employ the use of a holy sh*t or two when I stub my toe, but I've never been one to use four letter words to attack an actual human being. Because of this, I've had to resort, in my validated times of road rage driving into Alabama everyday, to some other type of verbal vindication to assault these idiot drivers who can't hear me. For me? That verbal vindication is the use of the word douche.
There are so many amazing ways to use that word; so many perfect nouns one can use to follow that word. A few of them are (and this list is certainly not exhaustive, so please feel free to leave a comment with your favorite douchetastic noun):
-Bag (Duh.)
-Bucket
-Dropping (I'm afraid I may have lost some of you on that one. Hello? Still here?)
-Cake
-Bunny (This one I'm not sure about. It just slips out of my mouth sometimes and I have no control over it. Please don't judge.)
-Nugget
-Tard (I may be going to hell for that one.)
I mean, I can go on and on.
Today's selection was Douche Cookie. And really, it's just kind of whatever flows out of my mouth in my time of need. So if you're ever driving through Alabama and an idiot driver does something douche-y, just know that I've probably already let him know just how much of a Douche River he is.
Did I lose ya'll? I hope not. I've always promised full disclosure, so that's what you get and I make no apologies.
See, my hometown is on the western border of Georgia, with the Chattahoochee River dividing my home state from good ole' Alabama. People who live in my hometown may go to work across the river and vice versa. But somehow, us Georgians have always thought of ourselves as a little higher and mightier than our neighbors in Alabama. We joke, right along with the rest of the nation, among other things, that married people's family trees in Alabama are pretty closely related, if you know what I mean.
And funny that I should mention this because Mark and I, who are getting married in t-minus 36 days, are related. Woah. Whammie. Yep. Both his and my ancestors made their homes in the great state of Alabama, so I guess there's some truth to the teasing. The relation is over four generations from us, but still. I won't lie and tell you that this fact does not bother me, because I've had nightmares of the possibility of having water head babies. Nonetheless, we're plugging right along with wedding plans.
But this is not the main topic of this post. I'll go ahead and tell you what is so that you may prepare yourself. Douche. Douche is the topic of this post. (But not in the way you may be thinking. Good lord, not in that way.)
Another thing we Georgians like to harp on about Alabama residents is their driving skills. Or rather, their lack of driving skills. My road rage has gotten a little Out. Of. Control. since moving across the border. I have no shame in making fun of Alabamians driving skills because THEY SUCK. I'm not sure what sort of driving test they have to pass, but it is certainly not up to par with the one I agonized over when I was sixteen. To put this all into perspective, the last time Mark had to renew his driver's license, it was at the Alabama Department of Motor Vehicles IN A MOTHER EFFING DOUBLE WIDE TRAILOR. No joke. So now that you have some perspective, let's move on to our main topic.
I'm not much of a cuss-er. I'll drop an eff bomb every once in awhile for dramatic flair, and I'll employ the use of a holy sh*t or two when I stub my toe, but I've never been one to use four letter words to attack an actual human being. Because of this, I've had to resort, in my validated times of road rage driving into Alabama everyday, to some other type of verbal vindication to assault these idiot drivers who can't hear me. For me? That verbal vindication is the use of the word douche.
There are so many amazing ways to use that word; so many perfect nouns one can use to follow that word. A few of them are (and this list is certainly not exhaustive, so please feel free to leave a comment with your favorite douchetastic noun):
-Bag (Duh.)
-Bucket
-Dropping (I'm afraid I may have lost some of you on that one. Hello? Still here?)
-Cake
-Bunny (This one I'm not sure about. It just slips out of my mouth sometimes and I have no control over it. Please don't judge.)
-Nugget
-Tard (I may be going to hell for that one.)
I mean, I can go on and on.
Today's selection was Douche Cookie. And really, it's just kind of whatever flows out of my mouth in my time of need. So if you're ever driving through Alabama and an idiot driver does something douche-y, just know that I've probably already let him know just how much of a Douche River he is.
Did I lose ya'll? I hope not. I've always promised full disclosure, so that's what you get and I make no apologies.
January 11, 2011
Roasted Potato & Onion Soup
It's soup weather here in the deep South. Friends, that doesn't happen very often. I took full advantage of that tonight and whipped up some potato soup. Regretfully, I didn't take any pictures because my camera was all the way out in my car, 20 long feet away. Yeah, I'm lazy. But just try to picture it in your mind. I mean, you know what potatoes look like, don't you? Good. Then picture potatoes.
Cut about 5 medium sized potatoes in half lengthwise. Then cut them again lengthwise so that each long strip looks like a triangle. Ok, I really should've taken pictures. Did that make any sense? Basically, just cut the potatoes to create wedges. Not thick wedges, just normal sized wedges. No! Not wedgies! WEDGES! Come on!
Once you've got the wedgies all cut up, spread them out on a baking sheet or roasting pan that's been thoroughly sprayed with Pam or olive oil.
Next, cut an onion in half and cut one half into wedges. Or wedgies. Whichever you prefer. (Also, go ahead and dice the other half of the onion.) Toss the onion wedges on the baking sheet along with the potatoes. Spray all of the wedgies generously with more Pam or olive oil. I used my Misto but Pam works fine too. Sprinkle some salt, pepper, and garlic powder on top and stick them in a 450 degree oven for about 35-45 minutes.
Now go watch an episode of the Office, or wash your panties, or eat icecream, or replace your air filters, or drop the kids off at the pool (good lord, who am i? SHAMELESS, that's who.) About 30 minutes into baking the wedgies, saute the diced onion in a tablespoon or two of butter (I use Smart Balane Olive Oil) and sweat the onions for a few minutes. Add in a tablespoon of minced garlic, but make sure your heat isn't too high (needs to be medium) because you don't want your garlic to burn. Hot. Mess.
It's probably time to pick your wedgie...........s up out of the oven. Just let them cool for a sec.
Here's where you can get creative. I added some mini turkey pepperoni to my sauteed onions and garlic, but I bet bacon would be better. Or pancetta. Mmmmm. But all I had was half a bag of mini turkey pepperoni that I bought because it was so gyot dang cute. So I threw it in. And know what? It was delicious. But if you have bacon, you should use bacon.
Throw in another spoonful of butter and a handful of flour to the sauteed pan of goodness. The flour will help thicken the soup and will marry all that goodness that's in the pan together. You could also use a packet of ranch dressing mix that I bet would be slammin', but I ain't had none of that, so I just used flour. Let that keep sauteeing on medium-low heat.
Now spoon about 3/4 of your pan of wedgies into a food processor. Blend until smooth.
While your wedgies are pureeing, add a can of cream of mushroom soup into the pan with your sauteed junk. Add a little bit of milk.
Your wedgies should be smooth by now. Add the smooth wedgies to the pan and whisk together with the milk and cream of mushroom soup. Add more milk as needed.
Now take the reserved amount of roasted wedgies and add to the soup to make it a little chunky. Taste it to see if it needs some salt. It shouldn't need much since you put salt on the roasted wedgies. I added a little hot sauce too but that's only because I like things spicy. Just ask Mark. I bet a dollop of sour cream or some chives would be awesome. But I ain't had none of that so I added some cheese. It was slammin'.
Make this when your insides are cold. Make this when it's dreary outside. Make this if you have a wedgie. You'll be able to identify. Just make it, okay? I'm going to get another bowl...
Cut about 5 medium sized potatoes in half lengthwise. Then cut them again lengthwise so that each long strip looks like a triangle. Ok, I really should've taken pictures. Did that make any sense? Basically, just cut the potatoes to create wedges. Not thick wedges, just normal sized wedges. No! Not wedgies! WEDGES! Come on!
Once you've got the wedgies all cut up, spread them out on a baking sheet or roasting pan that's been thoroughly sprayed with Pam or olive oil.
Next, cut an onion in half and cut one half into wedges. Or wedgies. Whichever you prefer. (Also, go ahead and dice the other half of the onion.) Toss the onion wedges on the baking sheet along with the potatoes. Spray all of the wedgies generously with more Pam or olive oil. I used my Misto but Pam works fine too. Sprinkle some salt, pepper, and garlic powder on top and stick them in a 450 degree oven for about 35-45 minutes.
Now go watch an episode of the Office, or wash your panties, or eat icecream, or replace your air filters, or drop the kids off at the pool (good lord, who am i? SHAMELESS, that's who.) About 30 minutes into baking the wedgies, saute the diced onion in a tablespoon or two of butter (I use Smart Balane Olive Oil) and sweat the onions for a few minutes. Add in a tablespoon of minced garlic, but make sure your heat isn't too high (needs to be medium) because you don't want your garlic to burn. Hot. Mess.
It's probably time to pick your wedgie...........s up out of the oven. Just let them cool for a sec.
Here's where you can get creative. I added some mini turkey pepperoni to my sauteed onions and garlic, but I bet bacon would be better. Or pancetta. Mmmmm. But all I had was half a bag of mini turkey pepperoni that I bought because it was so gyot dang cute. So I threw it in. And know what? It was delicious. But if you have bacon, you should use bacon.
Throw in another spoonful of butter and a handful of flour to the sauteed pan of goodness. The flour will help thicken the soup and will marry all that goodness that's in the pan together. You could also use a packet of ranch dressing mix that I bet would be slammin', but I ain't had none of that, so I just used flour. Let that keep sauteeing on medium-low heat.
Now spoon about 3/4 of your pan of wedgies into a food processor. Blend until smooth.
While your wedgies are pureeing, add a can of cream of mushroom soup into the pan with your sauteed junk. Add a little bit of milk.
Your wedgies should be smooth by now. Add the smooth wedgies to the pan and whisk together with the milk and cream of mushroom soup. Add more milk as needed.
Now take the reserved amount of roasted wedgies and add to the soup to make it a little chunky. Taste it to see if it needs some salt. It shouldn't need much since you put salt on the roasted wedgies. I added a little hot sauce too but that's only because I like things spicy. Just ask Mark. I bet a dollop of sour cream or some chives would be awesome. But I ain't had none of that so I added some cheese. It was slammin'.
Make this when your insides are cold. Make this when it's dreary outside. Make this if you have a wedgie. You'll be able to identify. Just make it, okay? I'm going to get another bowl...
January 9, 2011
The Proposal (Only with less Ryan Reynolds and more PeyPey)
The day was Sunday, November 28. The week of Thanksgiving had passed by in a blur of cornbread dressing and pecan pie. No really, I'm pretty sure I ate 18 pounds of dressing. Dressing or stuffing? My mom's always done dressing. That's the stuff with the wet cornbread and celery and magic in it. Delicious, delicious magic. Ahem. Where was I? The Sunday after Thanksgiving when Mark had to head back to school out of town had rolled around. Mark and I had had good times together with family and friends during the week but the reality of him leaving town had set in and I was kind of sad. I couldn't help letting my mind go to the location where it entertains the fantasies of being Mark's wife and spending the holidays as a family, not just as boyfriend and girlfriend.
That Sunday, my friends, will not only be the Sunday when those fantasies became tangible, but it will also be The Sunday Mark Saw My Dad In His Whitey-Tighties.
Mark woke up that morning knowing that he would soon ask me to be his wife, but he had a mission to complete first. That mission? To ask my dad, Ricky, for permission to marry me. Early that Sunday, Mark headed over to my parents house, hoping to find Ricky and find the permission he sought.
He arrived at their house to find my mom and brother and sister already gone to church. Knowing that my dad prefers to individually, instead of collectively and with a congregation, worship God, Mark knocked on the door expecting a quick answer. A few minutes later, after no answer, Mark went down the mental checklist of other things (well, honestly the ONLY other thing) my dad worships (coffee) and headed to the Waffle House. After doing a quick walk-around and finding no Ricky, Mark thought, "well, maybe he's an IHOP man." Um, no. I don't think my dad even knows that IHOP's exist. He's committed. He's committed to the Awful Waffle.
No Rickey at IHOP.
Mark was getting desperate. He wanted to ask me that day but really wanted my dad's permission first. He decided his best bet was to head back to the house and wait for him there.
Back at my parents, Mark decided to knock on the door again, just in case. After several knocks, he finally hears a "Hello? Hello? Come on in." Mark turned the knob then heard, "Come on in, I'm in the den." Confident and happy, Mark headed towards the sound of my dad's voice.
He swung the door to the den open and saw a sight I'm sure he never imagined, in his whole life, that he would see. My dad was standing there in just his whitey-tighties, reaching for his jeans, saying, "Man, I'm glad you banged on the door because I fell asleep in the bathtub. Your knocks woke me up!"
Yeah, that really happened.
After that awkward encounter and with permission having been granted, Mark took me to Dowdell's Knob, a place in Pine Mountain, GA, where five years earlier, Mark had asked me to be his girlfriend. He got down on one knee, told me he could never imagine his life without me, and asked me to be his wife.
It was perfect. And awesome. And so sweet. And we're getting married this May!
-----------------------------------
For the second, pretty much unrelated portion of this post, you'll have to email me at
peypeybaker[at]gmail[dot]com.
Please sign the consent form stating that you will never sue me for slander, libel, or defamation of character.
-----------------------------------
You're pretty freaking intrigued now, aren't you?
That Sunday, my friends, will not only be the Sunday when those fantasies became tangible, but it will also be The Sunday Mark Saw My Dad In His Whitey-Tighties.
Mark woke up that morning knowing that he would soon ask me to be his wife, but he had a mission to complete first. That mission? To ask my dad, Ricky, for permission to marry me. Early that Sunday, Mark headed over to my parents house, hoping to find Ricky and find the permission he sought.
He arrived at their house to find my mom and brother and sister already gone to church. Knowing that my dad prefers to individually, instead of collectively and with a congregation, worship God, Mark knocked on the door expecting a quick answer. A few minutes later, after no answer, Mark went down the mental checklist of other things (well, honestly the ONLY other thing) my dad worships (coffee) and headed to the Waffle House. After doing a quick walk-around and finding no Ricky, Mark thought, "well, maybe he's an IHOP man." Um, no. I don't think my dad even knows that IHOP's exist. He's committed. He's committed to the Awful Waffle.
No Rickey at IHOP.
Mark was getting desperate. He wanted to ask me that day but really wanted my dad's permission first. He decided his best bet was to head back to the house and wait for him there.
Back at my parents, Mark decided to knock on the door again, just in case. After several knocks, he finally hears a "Hello? Hello? Come on in." Mark turned the knob then heard, "Come on in, I'm in the den." Confident and happy, Mark headed towards the sound of my dad's voice.
He swung the door to the den open and saw a sight I'm sure he never imagined, in his whole life, that he would see. My dad was standing there in just his whitey-tighties, reaching for his jeans, saying, "Man, I'm glad you banged on the door because I fell asleep in the bathtub. Your knocks woke me up!"
Yeah, that really happened.
After that awkward encounter and with permission having been granted, Mark took me to Dowdell's Knob, a place in Pine Mountain, GA, where five years earlier, Mark had asked me to be his girlfriend. He got down on one knee, told me he could never imagine his life without me, and asked me to be his wife.
It was perfect. And awesome. And so sweet. And we're getting married this May!
-----------------------------------
For the second, pretty much unrelated portion of this post, you'll have to email me at
peypeybaker[at]gmail[dot]com.
Please sign the consent form stating that you will never sue me for slander, libel, or defamation of character.
-----------------------------------
You're pretty freaking intrigued now, aren't you?
November 22, 2010
Gone Fishin'
I was contacted not long ago about doing an article for an online publication called Bloodknot Magazine. If you click on that link, it will take you to website about fishing - fly fishing to be exact. Now you're probably thinking, "Wait a minute. Fishing? But Peyton likes throwing dinner parties and drinking wine and eating donuts. Fishing?"
Yes, fishing.
A lot of my childhood was spent with a pole in my hand (and usually a bare hook at the end of my line). Fishing connected me with something my dad loved to do, and because he loved it, I loved it too. I wouldn't say I'm a great fisherwoman; but I love the practice of it, I love hooking one, I love eating them.
So although I'm certainly no master at fishing, I did have a story to tell about it. And you can find it in the Bitch Creek section of this online publication here.
Now I'm off to see if I can find a recipe for donut hushpuppies.
Yes, fishing.
A lot of my childhood was spent with a pole in my hand (and usually a bare hook at the end of my line). Fishing connected me with something my dad loved to do, and because he loved it, I loved it too. I wouldn't say I'm a great fisherwoman; but I love the practice of it, I love hooking one, I love eating them.
So although I'm certainly no master at fishing, I did have a story to tell about it. And you can find it in the Bitch Creek section of this online publication here.
Now I'm off to see if I can find a recipe for donut hushpuppies.
November 20, 2010
Physics makes us all its bitches [Alternate title: Where's a time machine when you need one?]
It has been a whirlwind 48 hours for me.
48 hours ago, I was psyching myself out for the Harry Potter: Deathly Hallows, Part 1 midnight premier. WHICH WAS AWESOME. This movie was exceptional, people. But that's not what this post is about.
After staying up until 3 a.m. on Thursday night, I got up at 7:30 a.m. the next morning to get ready to head up to Atlanta with the bff you all know and love, Jeannie.
30 hours ago, we were perusing the fashion delights in Anthropologie at Lenox, not yet aware of the romping merriment that awaited us that night.
24 hours ago, we were sharing a bottle of sauv blanc at Park Tavern. Jeannie uncharacteristically ordered a cheeseburger and fries and me, sushi. After dinner, wanting to be first in line when they opened the doors at Variety Playhouse for the concert we were going to, we hailed a cab with Walter Kirkland, best darn cab driver in the ATL.
Walter dropped us off at the Variety, where a line was already forming. We, of course, started acting silly. I have proof of it:
After admitting to fellow concert-goers that the last time we were at the Variety was two years ago to see Hanson, we were finally let inside.
Being some of the first people in line, we pretty much had the choice of any seat in the house to see, for the second time, The Punch Brothers, we chose to stand at the front of the house, elbows resting on stage, purses sitting on top of it. Best. "Seats". Ever.
Up first was Dappled Grays, a local Atlanta blue-grass band, who were the perfect intro to Punch Bros. They were like the edemame to your sushi dinner. The Wheel of Fortune to your Jeopardy. The first glass of wine to your eighth glass of wine.
But if you're going to eat edemame, you're going to want some sushi. And if you watch Wheel of Fortune, you'll probably stay tuned for Jeopardy up next. And if you have one glass of wine, you know you'll have an eighth glass. (Wait, just me on that last one?) So, much anticipated, The Punch Brothers presented themselves FIVE FEET FROM OUR FACES.
20 hours ago, Chris Thile spat on me. More than once. That was how close we were.
Here's some photos in which the zoom function on my camera was not used. Keep that in mind, ok?
Chris Thile, lead singer, mandolin player.
Gabe Witcher, fiddle. Chris Eldridge, guitar.Chris Thile.
Noam Pikelny, banjo.
Paul Kowert, bass.
Y'all. This show is phenomenal. These guys are so freaking talented. They have plenty of original music, but some of my favorite songs from last night were covers that they, in my opinion, perform better than the originals. Here's a few examples:
Here's a mash-up of a Radiohead song, "Kid A", and "Wayside", an old, traditional bluegrass song by Gillian Welch (Please listen to all 10 minutes. Pretty please? It's truly wonderful.)
The encore song last night was a cover of Of Montreal's "Gronlandic Edit". Click here to listen to the original. (Pretty sure there was some reefer involved in the making of that music video, by the way.) Now click here to listen to Punch Bro's version.
Jeannie and I had the best time ever, staying to meet them after the show. This was, like I said, the second time we've seen them in concert. I've blogged about it before. This was also the second time we stuck around to meet them after the show. The first time, the only words that escaped my mouth as I passed down the line, they seated behind the table, casual, friendly; me standing, sweating bullets and trying to figure out what to say, were to the bass player, Paul Kowert. "You look like a Hanson brother." Epic fail, PeyPey.
This time, we got in the back of the line, trying to be sly, thinking "they'll talk to us more because we're the last in line!" We were the last in line, until, at the very last minute, two floosies walked up. Blond floosie to the other blond floosie (loudly): "But wait! I don't have anything for them to sign." Other blond floosie: "Um, hello! Your boob!" Yeah. So we really didn't get the face time with the guys we wanted.
The next part of this post is going to be very difficult for me to get through, so I'm writing the rest in third person. I'm hoping that by doing so, I can remove myself from the reality of what actually happened and will be able to consider that it actually was not our reality. So just keep reading and then offer your apologies to me and Jeannie when you get to the end, ok?
Chapter 1
Jeannie and PeyPey exited the theater onto the streets of Five Points and, not being so sure of their surroundings and having already been approached by a man wearing a Members Only jacket and carrying a briefcase, while almost simultaneously being pummelled over on the sidewalk by a drunk kid, they called on the safety of Walter's taxi services who had picked them up from the restaurant and taken them to the concert.
"Walter, this is Caitlyn and Samantha, we're in Five Points, can you come get us?" Okay, I'm taking a break to explain to you that I, after entering Walter's cab and being asked by him what our names were, immediately replied, "This is Samantha and I'm Caitlyn." Because, you know, I couldn't be normal or anything. Clarification, done. Back to the story. After securing a confirmation from Walter of a pick up, Jeannie and PeyPey discussed what to do next.
"What do you want to do, go out? Go chill at the hotel?" PeyPey asked Jeannie. "Ehh, we may as well go out since we're already, you know, out." Jeannie replied. "Okay, sounds good. Let's head over to Virginia Highlands and find somewhere to grab a drink."
Walter, the faithful cabbie, pulled up and in hopped Jeannie and PeyPey. "Virginia Highlands, please Walter. Alright, so you're sure you want to go out?" PeyPey asked Jeannie. "Yeah, I think so. Or we could always go get a drink at the hotel bar," replied Jeannie. "It is totally up to you. I'm down for whatever!" said PeyPey. "Let's just check out Virgnia Highlands. I mean, we're already out, you know?" Jeannie said.
After Walter dropped the girls off in Virginia Highlands, they walked down the row of bars, smokey and music filled. They enter the first bar, The Dark Horse, and were met by a familiar college party scene. They left after only a few minutes, deciding they had graduated from the scene of dumb drunk girls and eager boys. (Ok, maybe not, but they just weren't feeling it last night.) Their ears led them down the street to a New Orleans blues club, Blind Willie's, where there were some pretty sweet sounds coming from within. Drinks were ordered, small talk was made. But neither Jeannie or PeyPey were having the time of their lives, which they were desperate to have, having had such an awesome time at the concert. Now, don't get the wrong idea, they had fun - the beer was cold, and there was some good people watching; but it just wasn't meeting their expectations. So at about 1:15 a.m., they made the call to Walter to take them back to their hotel.
They ended the night lazily in their Atlanta Hilton hotel beds, drifting off to sleep with the hum of the tv in the background, dreaming sweet dreams of mandolins (and mandolin players).
Chapter 2
Back home from the trip, PeyPey was loading her pictures of the concert onto her computer when she got a text from Jeannie. "OMG. Have you read Chris Thiles tweets??? They were staying in our hotel and went to the bar after the show. I'm not kidding." The words of the text message didn't register in PeyPey's mind until she read it a second time. Wait, what? "Wait, ok, so they were staying at our hotel? They were in the bar last night? The bar that we talked about going to last night?" PeyPey thought to herself. She checked twitter to read Chris Thile's updates. christhile: "The Mai Tai Lounge at our Atlanta Hilton is suspiciously crowded, given the hotel's nearly 100% evangelical conventioneer occupancy." Laughing at his wit, PeyPey confirmed in her mind that it was, in fact, the same hotel that her and Jeannie were staying in because they had been met by some evangelical convention go-ers in the hotel elevator upon their arrival. Damn.
"Shut the f*** up. Shut. The. F***. Up." PeyPey called Jeannie. "Um, yeah. Can you believe this?" Jeannie said. "I'm just kind of speechless." PeyPey said. "Let me call you back. My sister's beeping in," Jeannie replied.
Left alone with her thoughts, PeyPey played back through the events of the night. "There's no way. There's just no way," she thought. Wishing for a time machine, the phone brought her thoughts back to the present. "Hey."
"Hey."
"Well, we can't blame ourselves. I mean, we had no idea that they were going to be staying at our hotel. We just cannot blame ourselves," PeyPey said. "I know. I wish drunk Jeannie would've made a different decision last night in the cab. I seriously can't believe this," Jeannie said. "We can't let this ruin the memory of the great time we had last night," said PeyPey. "Agreed. But it still sucks. Maybe it was God's protection. We would've both ended up doing things we would've regretted with some roofies." replied Jeannie. (Kidding.)
After hanging up, the mournful conversation between PeyPey and Jeannie continued, via text messaging:
PeyPey: "This is difficult news to process. I'm not really sure where to go from here."
Jeannie: "I know. I. KNOW."
(After about 25 minutes) Jeannie: "I'm still having a hard time with this. Just confessing."
PeyPey: "Yeah, me too. We gotta figure out how to move past this..."
(About an hour later) PeyPey: "Hey what's the name of the bar in Virginia Highlands we went to last night? I'm blogging about all of it."
Jeannie: "Blind Willie's. Or as I like to call it, Regret."
So yeah life, touche. Tou. Che. Whatever though, this guy spit on me last night and I haven't taken a shower yet:
All in all, we had a kick-ass time. And 48 hours after all that - Harry Potter, Jeannie eating a cheeseburger (whaaaa?), spending a combined hour and a half in a car with a guy named Walter who thought our names were Samantha and Caitlyn, being spit on by Chris Thile, and finding out we could have realistically (not just in our dreams) had a drink with the Punch Brothers last night - I'm pooped. Peace out y'all.
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