Greetings Messians, It’s your old pal Mr. Thoughtful again. Tom is still Spring Break raging in the Himalayas right now, most likely getting catfished by lonely goat herders cruising the Nepal Backpages. And telling the local talent on Tinder that he knows Bert from The Bert Show. I’m cool with all this, I just know he’s letting his Farmville go to ruins and we’re not gonna hear the end of it when he gets back. So frightfully, you’re still stuck with me- the responsible one.
Is anyone still reading? Cool. Spring time in Atlanta, Georgia is one of the most magnificent wonders in all of God’s green earth. The tulips, the azalea blooms, they pop like a Saturday night Westend gun fight. The girls in wayfarers and yoga pants are roaming like wild dogs in heat. The pheromones are stirred up like a Hal’s martini. And the blood… well the blood, sir, gets boiling.
So let’s talk turkey about other things that Boil (This is called a conversation segue. No, not that kind of Segway). Our besties are throwing a little sun soaked afternoon soirée this Saturday knowns as The Beltline Boil. In honor of Tom’s ex-fiancé/professional blogger/Taste Maker/boner hoarder Ashley Hesseltine, lets blog! (Blogs are basically just really long Facebook status updates, right?)
Useless Facts & Other Useless Narcissistic Anecdotes about The Beltline
By: Mayor of Ponce
- Yoga Pants.
- Should it not be called “The BeltLoop”? No? Can this please be a thing. You know, like “Hotlanta”! J.k.-ing
- How has some heroic gentleman, i.e. read: creep, not started an Instagram account called @BaesoftheBeltline?? This would be panty-line voyeurism worthy of museums. Get on this, @brosbeingbasic.
- There’s this weird water tower thingy on the south end that’s really interesting. If I were to ever capture a princess, this is where she would be kept. Take note, GBI.
- I used to live in the corner Loft of the Ford Factory right at the Ponce bridge. This was long before the “Beltloop” was ever a twinkle of Ryan Gravels eye. We referred to it as “The Crack Track”- and it was lovely entertainment for the whole fam. Hobo’s and miscreants alike would use it for sex, shitting, liquor hiding from other hobos, bum fights, bum trails, and of course partaking in crack cocaine- thus it’s pet moniker.
- I’m utterly baffled Fitness with Jeff hasn’t littered this thing with his hilarious bullshit. It would tickle me senseless to see a teal 94 Pontiac Grand Prix with his insignia posted up in some highly visible shrubbery like its artwork. Someone commission this for the sake of prosperity and people needing to get fit!
- Yoga Pants.
- One morning I was so over-served from the night before that I walked the wrong way for 15 minutes. Still in costume.
- Segway’s (No, not that kind of segue) aren’t allowed. Which is a damn crime within itself.
- There are d-bag dudes who ride in full on Greg Lemond spandex gear, doing 40mph on their $5k road bikes. Hey fuqboi, maybe training for the Gerardmer Mountain Stage of the Tour de France shouldn’t be done in an intensely packed path of soccer moms, baby stollers, and Shih Tzus. But you look cool in your breathable nut huggers, though. Get a real hobby- Like drinking. And wearing spandex nuthuggers as a joke.
- There’s a lady who walks and plays a fiddle. Which is actually pretty cool. Great cities have buskers and oddballs. I’m all for more Baton Bob’s and Dong de Leon’s.
- I used to live in the Sampson Street Lofts for a couple years right next door to what is now Ladybird. These buildings, for those who are unfamiliar, are magical, seedy lofts seemingly only held together by spray paint and hash residue. This lawless shelter is owned by a burnt out deadhead who is a dead ringer for Doc Brown. I was once evicted from one loft and simply moved 5 feet to the next space over. Which of course made perfect sense to Doc Brown.
So there we have it. The Atlanta Beltline in a nut shell- or nut huggers, if that’s your thing. We shall frolic this Saturday, and in all seriousness, lets join in and raise a glass to Wallace Hume Carrothers (1896-1937)- the man who invented nylon. Or let me put this in a more relatable reference- Here’s to Sir Wallace Carrothers, the man who invented Yoga Pants!
Peace in da Middle East! *mic drop*
PS- Pray from Treys Farmville.
PPS- ASM needs a private G-5 jet. We just need 65 million dollars. So, if only 65 of you donated a million dollars each, we will have meet our goal. Ante thy tithes, Messians! We need to go find Trey.