Waffles and Hypothetical Racial TensionsPosted on October 16th, 2007 after 10006 miles by Dean Croshere.
After spending most of my life OTP, I went ITP.
Did you catch that? It was Atlanta Lingo. (The pictures of fish are distributed through this because I took them in Atlanta and they look better not concentrated).
I guess all the cool people live inside the perimeter highway, including my host for this past weekend. Shortly after arriving on Saturday evening, we prepared to go check out the clubbing scene. The first place we went, it was the, erm… wrong night. Here is a situation you won’t find most other places in the world.
We drove (very slowly: traffic was not kind) past the front of the club. Pretty much everyone in really long line was black. I think we counted six white people and couple of Latinos. Each of these representations of multiculturalism was obviously there with someone who was black.
I feel like I should defend myself here. I’m not sure if it will do any good, or if it is necessary. First, there were only 3 or 4 black people in any school I have ever been to. I have never really interacted with the issues that arise with minorities. Second, there were plenty of black people in the clubs of Saint Louis (the only other place I went clubbing), and I had no trouble dancing with or talking to them. Third, I realize that such defenses are irrelevant as racial issues do exist and I have no idea how to handle them.
It wasn’t like there was anything going on in the line of the that would have been occurring had everyone in the line been white, but it was also apparent that we shouldn’t go in.
“It just isn’t a good idea to tempt things.” My host told me.
I agreed. We went somewhere else.
We found a different club, if you want to call it a club. I suppose the most politically correct way to describe it is to mention it’s name, the “Pink Pony.”
The clientele for this place was nearly entirely white.
While we were standing in line at this club (a line at a place like this?) we did find something that entertained us greatly. A car pulled up bearing an official “medical inspector” license plate and a few stickers displaying the same. The guys inside had brutally unhappy faces that looked like they couldn’t impossibly this establishment, much less anything else. They sat in their car for a while before parking it in a VIP place.
They were both wearing stuffy suits. One of the guys had a bow tie. The other, the far more interesting and unhappy looking, was using a golf club as a cane. It actually looked like he had stolen it from the local Hap-E!-Put miniature golf course. They walked in, skipping the line.
We were all wondering what he could possibly be there for. One person noted that he once saw on CSI that the medical inspector checks out the body after a murder.
We never did find out why he was there, but we did end up sitting not far from him at one of the bars. He had a British accent and enjoyed scotch.
The next day we headed to a Waffle House. These things are all over the place in the south. Nearly every exit has one. Further, everyone knows the joke.
“What has four arms, four legs, four tits, and three teeth?”
“The night crew at the Waffle House.”
They serve the normal breakfast stuff, a couple of burgers, and hash browns 7 different ways. I had mine “peppered” and “diced,” meaning they came with jalapenos and tomatoes. There was a special where you could get them smothered in cheese.
In fact, there was a special where you could get everything smothered in cheese.
I decided against it. It was already all starch soaked in oil then fried and covered in syrup. I decided to go with the healthy option and forgo the cheese.
Following our trip to the southern breakfast special, we headed to the aquarium.
The lady asked if I was a student. I told her yes. I suppose I used to be, and I still have my old ID card. I’m glad she didn’t ask me how I managed to be in Atlanta with an Oregon student ID during the school year. It made the trip quite a bit more affordable.
I haven’t been to an aquarium in quite some time. Fish don’t really interest me. Luckily, taking pictures of fish does interest me. I love the depth they provide. Plus, it becomes incredibly frustrating to try to get them to line up the perfect shot when you have no control over where they go.
“Hey, you, red fish, move to the left. A little more. A little more. Damnit. Blue fish moved.”
I also snapped some pictures of the 6 month old kittens. They were almost cats, but they still had that curiosity that makes them so endearing. I love that look they get.
“What’s over there? This is interesting. Let me hit it with my paw. Is it edible? No? Oh hey something over there? I gotta check it out. Time to sleep.”
That, and they are fuzzy. Everybody loves fuzzy things.