A Year and a Half in the Motel Hell

Considering living in a motel for a year and a half? Here is everything you need to know.

It was not my intention to spend a year and a half living in an extended stay (i.e., a motel) across the street from the Swinging Richards strip club, but life has a funny way of working out, or not.

The Atlanta, Georgia Northside Drive InTown Suites currently enjoys a composite 2.5 out of 5 stars after five Google reviews. Three Yelp reviewers bestowed a less generous 1.5 out of 5 stars. A few choice quotes from the Yelp reviews:

"This is, undoubtedly, the shadiest place I've ever stayed."

"the $40 cleaning deposit was not returned in full even though the promised house keeping never made an appearance during out [sic] entire stay."

"A guy got murdered while we were there, and the staff lied to us about it, even though there was caution tape, police officers, and blood stained furniture removed from the room and thrown into the dumpster."

(To be fair, as any long-term InTown Suites resident knows, caution tape, police, and bloodstained furniture does not always indicate a murder.)

The Google reviews were a little less interesting, but they had a ring of truth to them. "Bed sheets were dirty and stained and smelled bad," wrote one customer, and I can corroborate the observation as apparent blood stains and cigarette burns appeared on my "fresh" white sheets more than a few times during my stay.

The official web page for the Suites' "Atlanta Central (ZAG)" location features a flattering photograph of the three-story building taken on a cheerful, sunny day. Indeed, in the daytime, InTown Suites looks sturdy and inviting. It resembles a decent budget hotel.

For the most part, it looks like one on the inside, too. Neatly-framed abstract art prints hang on the walls. The floor is carpeted with a dark green material, similar in texture to a pool table top. If you're in a single, a square table and two metal chairs are your only furniture; no sofa could fit in there. Although housekeeping sometimes failed to appear on some weeks, as the Yelp reviewer noted, on most weeks they did, and the powerful smell of their cleaning detergent was reassuring. There were regular insect fumigations (I only saw one roach during my stay, and after bug-bombing my room I never saw another one). The full-sized fridge and two-burner range (one burner of which worked) were handy. There was basic cable on the flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.

I also presume there were semen stains throughout, but you can’t avoid semen stains. Consider that amazing footnote in the official Recommendation for Dismissal for the Dominique Strauss-Kahn case regarding the ritzy Sofitel hotel. In addition to the semen stains found in Strauss-Kahn’s room that were proven to be his, "Three other stains on the carpet contained the semen and DNA of three different unknown males, and one other stain contained amylase and a mixture of DNA from three additional unknown individuals. The stain on the wallpaper contained the semen and DNA of a fourth unknown male." If the high-class Sofitel is filled with semen stains, I would have to assume that InTown Suites has a remarkable DNA collection of its own—and probably exceeds the Sofitel for quantities of other bodily fluids.

(Of course, I contributed my own semen stains. If you find that nauseating, then I am deeply offended.)

Its being next door to the Northside Drive Liquor Store is either sketchy or convenient depending upon your fondness for alcohol (the staff at the liquor store was very friendly, and a cool employee there named Natalie enjoyed my nickname for the establishment—"Sin"—since every vice [except sex] was catered to there [and the rumored prostitutes nearby even took care of the sex]).

Across the street from the Northside InTown Suites is Swinging Richard's, a gay male strip club. People who are suspicious of my middle-aged bachelorhood may be surprised by what I’m about to say, but I have never been in there. I did see one particularly buff neighbor of mine crossing the street one evening on his way over there, presumably reporting to work. It makes sense that Northside's InTown Suites would be the top place for a male stripper to stay during a weeklong engagement at Swinging Richard's.

I wound up at InTown Suites after I had returned from a three month European adventure. In order to travel for three months in 2010 in the first place, I broke the lease at my previous apartment, and so I had no place to return to. I wasn't eager to rent again, because the experience of breaking that lease was like being force-fed a log of dog shit. Which reminds me: I also learned from my apartment days that your dog is too damn loud, and you’re never going to do anything about it, even after I complain. No dogs are allowed at InTown Suites.

My original goal was to spend a few months at the Suites, and then return to Europe in order to continue pursuing my writing career (which had been working out a little bit during my 2010 odyssey) and my DJ'ing career (which hadn't worked out so well, so encourage me by listening to my Euro sets here). Unfortunately, due to money issues, six months turned into a year and a half.

The weekly rate is currently $209.99 (a bit more with tax, but the tax is dropped after a few months, at which point you are seen in the eyes of the law as a resident). This rate might seem high for a place where—it is rumored—prostitutes work their magic in the rooms around you, and where—it appears from my admittedly limited powers of observation—drugs are obviously being sold in the parking lot, but consider that the price includes all utilities, cable and wireless internet, and the aforementioned somewhat reliable cleaning service. OK, the Internet speed was the slowest I've experienced since 1995, but it usually worked. When I did the math, I concluded that I was saving a few hundred bucks each month by living there.

But problems with InTown Suites became apparent after a few months. The floors are flimsy, and so if you wind up living underneath an upstairs neighbor, which of course happens often, you are fated to hear every footstep, every drunken stumble, every body slam. I imagined that one of my upstairs neighbors had only one leg, and that she literally rolled out of bed every morning onto the floor with a crash before beginning an interminable series of hops to move about the place (she never left her room, presumably because the stairs were too dangerous for her to navigate). The walls are thin and hollow, so when an overturned dresser hits the floor of the room above during some domestic dispute, the crash literally shakes everything in the room below: ceiling, walls, floor. Because the bed’s backboard is attached to the wall, reading there forces you to concentrate while attempting to ignore a sensation like that of a child striking the back of your head repeatedly with a mallet. Thus, it’s not just the noise that keeps you awake at night (earplugs and noise reduction headphones can shield some of that); it’s the earthquake shocks that rattle your body. Some people are active by day, and others by night, and if your schedules don't overlap then you are fated to experience at least one week of poor sleep. Even if you and your neighbors are synchronized, there is no relief from the constant noise during literally every waking moment spent in the room. It’s awful.

One couple I lived under smashed things until 3 AM on most nights. I know they were fighting, because one time I stood outside their room and listened to their angry voices. I would have said something to them then if they hadn’t already been engaged in a violent, drunken rampage.

So I waited a few nights, then knocked on their door, fearful that I might be shot in the face, because—hey, it’s the InTown Suites, the place where a Yelp reviewer thinks a guy got murdered.

The door opened a crack, and an eye regarded me suspiciously.

"Hello?" a young, sinewy black guy said to me.

"Hey," this middle-aged, beer-gutted white guy replied. "I'm your downstairs neighbor, and I'm really sorry to complain, but there's a lot of noise coming from your room, and I know you probably don't even realize you're making it, because you wouldn't know that unless somebody actually told you. So here I am, and I’m telling you, and I just wondered if you could keep it down a little bit?”

He looked warily around him. His girlfriend, a young woman whose large girth implied guilt in the noise-making, lay on the bed behind him. She regarded me with vague amusement.

"Are you sure it's us?" the fellow said.

"Yeah, pretty sure. I mean, the ceiling is vibrating right over me. I actually put my hands on the ceiling, like this [I raised my arms into the air with palms facing the heavens], and, like, I can feel the ceiling shaking.”

"I don't think it's us. I think it must be the guy living behind us."

This was going nowhere, so I apologized for wasting his time and returned to my room.

A few minutes later there was knocking on my door. I looked through the peephole. It was the guy and his girlfriend. Do I open the door?

"Hey," I said, opening the door.

"That thing about the noise,” the fellow said, shaking his head. “I’m just…confused. Are you sure it's us? Because I don’t think it is."

"Well, I'm not sure-sure. I'm pretty sure, but—"

"I don't think it's us."

"It probably isn't you. The floors here are thin, acoustics do weird things. Sorry to bother you."

“Did you hear the sounds two days ago?”

I couldn’t remember if I had or hadn’t, but I said, “I think I did.”

“Well, then, it can’t be us, because I wasn’t here two nights ago. I was working.”

“Oh, OK,” I said.

Unfortunately, as the weeks rolled by, it became obvious that the smashing and crashing was indeed coming from the couple upstairs. The truth came out one night when a dramatic fight between them spilled out of their room, down the stairs adjacent to my room, and concluded right outside my door, where I carefully observed their yelling match through the peephole.

They moved out eventually. But I didn't. I stayed on.

When times were good, I referred to the Suites as the “Motel Paradise.” When they were bad, I referred to them as the “Motel Hell.” As the months crawled on, the words “Motel Hell” fell more and more frequently from my lips.

Sure, many residents were benign. I think of the foreign families that stayed for a few weeks at a time (I was told some were probably the families of fresh professors transitioning to Atlanta's universities). Sometimes, a group of Mexican laborers would crash in a few rooms; I'd see them hopping into their trucks en masse, presumably toward some construction job. And there were the Lenox cab drivers who have adopted the Suites as their sleeping headquarters. (Never did I see a Checker Cab parked there overnight. I wonder if Checker Cab has its own turf? Also, if a Checker Cab cabbie dared to sleep at InTown Suites Northside, would angry Lenox cabbies destroy his car with hammers?)

But more and more I grew afraid of my neighbors. One time I heard a guy on his cell phone outside my room roaring, "Ain't no way I'm gonna plead guilty to those charges!" And there was the time a woman screamed to a hastily departing man, “Don’t you ever fucking touch my kids again!”

Several residents had a habit of leaning over the railing outside their room, where they surveyed the parking lot for what seemed like hours at a time, no matter how hot the summer day and despite the fact that air conditioning was included in the price of their room. What were they doing? Were they keeping track of who was leaving his room unattended? Hopes of my own blending in were trounced by my vehicle of choice: a black SmartCar with a Romanian license plate affixed to the front. My watchful neighbors always knew when I was in or out. It made me paranoid.

And then there was the night I heard a floor-shaking crash, and when I went outside to look and see what had happened I saw three men stroll into a room—one of them slinging a battering ram. Uh, do you have a license to do that? Is that…normal? Is someone going to use a battering ram on my door tonight?

Every night, in the parking lot, men sat in cars with their engines idling. A Yelp writer says he has been told these are the men who deliver prostitutes to the rooms. I have no way of safely verifying this, but…yeah…why are you idling in the InTown Suites parking lot, sirs?

And good God, after sharing all this, what must readers think about me? What is Andrew up to in those InTown Suites? Is he fucking hookers? Is he doing heroin?

(It should be said that InTown Suites has an impressive security camera network, but all that did was guarantee that my murder would become a potential future viral video.)

Some of the residents were simply crazy. One day I stood in the laundry room near a scruffy, salt and pepper-haired man. I had to unload somebody else's too-long abandoned clothes from a washing machine in order to put mine in. As I plucked out such items as oversized black and green zebra-patterned thongs, I muttered, "Man, I wish people would be a little more considerate about moving their laundry along.”

"SOME FUCKING BLACK BITCH WELFARE QUEEN WITH FIFTEEN FUCKING KIDS PROBABLY LEFT THAT!” roared the man. “TOTALLY DOESN'T GIVE A SHIT AND THINKS THE GOVERNMENT IS GOING TO TAKE CARE OF HER!"

Gee!

Random horror film observation: The awful ring of the room’s telephone sounded even worse when it went off in the middle of the night. Upon my answering it, the person on the other end always hung up, leaving me with only the sound of the dial tone to keep me company. I unplugged the phone after my first week.

And then there was the ice cream truck, with its creepy carnival music regularly cut off by the canned, tinny recorded sounds of laughing children, which drifted eerily through the parking lot seeking under-aged customers. Make the driver of that truck a circus clown and you’d have a movie rated Too Scary for Anyone.

More and more I slept at my office, or at a friend's place. I began to drink more, reckoning that by being drunk I might be able to tune out my horrible reality and get a decent night of sleep despite the banging, the shrieking, the crying of babies, the shouts of warring couples. But getting drunk only meant I felt worse when I was awakened at 3 AM by some sickening thud, and so I found myself in sorrier and sorrier shape sitting in my office cubicle the next day. I was irritable with co-workers. I frequently trembled with rage and terror. I was falling apart.

Here is how I celebrated my 39th birthday at InTown Suites. While preparing to go to bed, I was startled by a thunderous BANG-BANG-BANG! on my door, followed by another BANG-BANG-BANG! on my window, followed by the sounds of somebody running away. This was followed by another BANG-BANG-BANG! on my window, and another BANG-BANG-BANG! on my door, and more running away. It went on a while.

When the mysterious knocker finally held still long enough outside my door, I opened it.

The woman standing before me looked like a perfectly ordinary young, African-American college student, with nice clothes, hair, and a pleasant smile.

"Hello," I said.

"Oh, sorry, I got the wrong room," she said. Then she ran away.

I shrugged, crawled into bed, and went to sleep.

4 AM. BANG-BANG-BANG! on the window! BANG-BANG-BANG! on the door! And then, a strange whining sound outside, a pleading, "Help me! Please let me in!"

I stumbled in the darkness over to the door and peered through the peephole. The young woman stood there, an eerie silhouette against the harsh backlighting of InTown Suite's bright exterior lights, her face hovering a few inches from the peephole. She had what appeared to be a dark trash bag slung over her shoulder.

"What do you want?" I shouted through the door.

"Please let me in!"

"What do you want?"

"I need to use your telephone!"

"No!" I said.

She made another whining sound to signal her disappointment, and then ran off.

The next morning I dropped by the front desk of the InTown Suites. Two employees in their regulation uniforms of Navy blue InTown Suite polo shirts greeted me. (I would like to take a moment to compliment the InTown Suites staff. They were courteous, responsible, responsive, and surprisingly good-natured considering the weirdness and dysfunctionality they must endure at their jobs every day.)

"Last night this chick was banging on my doors and windows," I said to them. Which sounds vaguely sexual.

"She was arrested."

"Ah," I said.

"Anything else?"

"No. That's it. Thanks."

In truth, the InTown Suites are a good concept. There is a growing need for more affordable, no-strings-attached housing, not just because of our troubled economic climate, but also because of our increasingly mobile lifestyles. If InTown Suites could guarantee a good night of sleep (which would require a substantial architectural re-think), and keep rates around their current $200 a week, business travelers who work multiple days in a location far from home might be more tempted to become regulars, holding onto their rooms for half the price of, say, four nights in a hotel—and enjoying the ability to stock their refrigerators in order to create a place that feels a little more like home.

Since you pay each week in advance, you can leave the Suites whenever you'd like. You don’t even have to tell anyone. No one will call you after your departure to complain that you didn't clean the oven to their specifications. Considering that it's the sort of place where a body with a heroin needle dangling from an arm must occasionally be disposed of, a ketchup stain in the refrigerator is always forgiven. Breaking off relations with InTown Suites is as simple as parting with a prostitute after a night at…InTown Suites. It's an ideal arrangement.

And so I spent last week gathering all my possessions from my home for the last 1.5 years.

I have headed off to Zagreb, Croatia, which is why I invited all my black readers to join me there earlier in this narrative. It’s a crazy venture. I’ll be pursuing that writing and DJ'ing thing. It's a big move. Yeah, it might sound like a scary gamble, but for some reason I'm not so terrified by the thought of living there.

A Congregation of Creatures Great and Small

Another non-Euro blog entry. I'll be back on theme soon enough, but for now, enjoy another report from Atlanta, Georgia, USA.


"During my sermon I ask that there be no talking or barking," joked Pastor Jeff Meyers to an audience of about 50 humans seated on folding chairs, who in turn were surrounded by about 30 dogs (plus at least one cat and a stunningly colorful parrot named "Hector"). All had gathered that Saturday morning on the North Avenue Presbyterian Church parking deck for the Blessing of the Pets, an activity that will also take place Sunday in many other churches here in Atlanta and across the country.

The sight of a pastor crouched on the ground as he pets and prays for dog after dog might strike some as unusual, but the pastors exuded a self-aware cheeriness that prevented the scene from inviting any "Daily Show"-type irreverence. And it's a scene that may become increasingly normal to witness; the Blessing of the Pets has been growing rapidly in popularity, says Pastor Meyers.

The origins of the event extend back to the activities of a 13th century friar and animal lover, St. Francis of Assisi, explained Tim Rogers-Martin, Executive Associate Pastor for Equipping Ministries, who chatted while he cradled his own dog, "Sunday," a stray who had been found at a church on that day of the week over 15 years ago. St. Francis's feast day falls on October 4, and so the first weekend of that month is a natural time to celebrate the value of animals.

Explained Pastor Meyers, "These services developed out of Roman Catholic tradition, especially the Anglican and the Episcopalian tradition…Four or five years ago we started doing our own at North Avenue."

In the five years that Pastor Meyers has been employed at North Avenue, he has seen attendance at the blessings swell. "I think it was All Saints [Episcopal] that first did the blessing of the animals [in Midtown Atlanta]," he says, gesturing in the direction of that church. "Then, we started doing it, and then the Lutheran church down the street started doing it. A lot of different churches are doing it--not only for the congregation members, but for the community. And in five years…that's a lot of blessing of the animals!"

Some animals in attendance could use a little hope. Scott and Solange Han-Barthelemy arrived with their "torby" (part tabby, part tortoiseshell) cat, Penny, in a carrier. Penny is 12 years old and faces surgery for cancer in the coming days.

The sermon began with Psalm 148, which makes much mention of animals as part of the creation, including "Creeping things and flying birds." Pastor Meyers then said, "We have caused the animal kingdom needless suffering."

In an interview afterward, he expatiated on that theme. "I wouldn't say this as an employee at North Avenue," he explained, "but for me, personally, I'm a vegetarian. I believe people need to take into consideration the sentience of animals--the fact that animals can feel suffering." He explains that as animals are a part of God's creation, and that our treatment of the natural world comes back around to impact us, essentially a "Blessing of the Animals" is a blessing for all of creation.

The issue of whether or not animals have souls, and therefore whether or not pets and their human owners will be reunited in Heaven, is one that has been debated for centuries. Does the bestowing of blessings on pets suggest belief in an afterlife for Fido?

"God has not given us access to these answers," Pastor Meyers says. "We do know that in the eschatological vision of the end of all things, there seem to be animals there symbolizing peace. Now is that just metaphorical, or is that literal? I don't know. But I know that it's there, and that God does care about animals a lot. They are part of his creation. I am more concerned about the ethical treatment of animals here, and I leave the questions of the afterlife to faith."

Faith has already guided Charlotte Carmichael to an answer. While her border collie, Sada, played energetically around her feet, she said, "I believe all dogs go to heaven. And cats. All of them." She paused. "Except maybe snakes," she concluded with a laugh.

Football Has Arrived in America

At last, the World Cup is huge in the USA. Eight years ago, at the Brewhouse Cafe in Atlanta (perhaps the premier soccer-watching venue in this city), only a small and devoted group of nerds showed up to watch the finals (I among them). Today the place was a madhouse. Standing room-only, packed like sardines, sweating so much in the rowdy crowd that MY FINGERS PRUNED as we cheered ourselves hoarse to England vs. USA. Spectrum of race and gender represented, hundreds on the premises--maybe a thousand--all screaming themselves silly when Robert Green made an error for the ages.

Deafening chants of "The queen is a slut" and "Fuck BP" induced tears of joy as I realized that America had finally produced its first real football hooligans. Thrown ice cubes and splashes of ice water delivered by whirling towels and cupped hands were greeted by all with pleasure as each drop of water seemed to lower our soaring body temperatures by 10 degrees in the sweltering tent.

Brewhouse was not ready for the massive crowd; some serving areas ran out of beer half an hour before the match, lines were immobile. So a friend and I bought a six pack across the street and smuggled it in easily. Brewhouse made no money from us, or probably many other patrons today. Tip to Brewhouse: lots of cans, quick and easy to dispense (ditch the pours), no broken glass.

I never had imagined that in my own lifetime I would witness the explosion of football in the states. Absolutely amazing.

Ukraine - Hostel Booked

"Irony" has been the operative word this week here in sunny Atlanta, where temperatures plummeted into the teens (that's in degrees Fahrenheit) and two inches of snow and ice prevented most friends from making it to my Friday "Going to Kiev" get-together. There is a larger party tonight which will make up for some of that.

My friend Nathan, at whose Decatur house I am staying, was not able to drive up the steep and icy hill just outside his front door, so we nixed our last Vortex/Apres Diem night plans and hiked to the James Joyce Pub instead.

The hike was fun. In the early darkness we wandered through a woodsy area where some unknown wild animal crunched around in the leaves by the trail (my wind-up power flashlight failed to flush it out, but I'm sure it was a wolf ;-)). As we crossed a small bridge a MARTA train gracefully swung by underneath, its amber windows glowing and a few passengers visible as it glided towards Atlanta.

Once at the James Joyce bar counter, an older woman walked up behind Nathan and put her hands over his eyes saying, "I hope you're who I think you are." He wasn't, and she laughed and apologized and went on about how she had met somebody at the bar before who wore a sweater similar to Nathan's. It was all terribly awkward. I suspect this was her version of a pick-up line; that her story was fiction. This being my last Friday night in Atlanta for at least a few months, I was not interested in having a kooky woman invite herself into the conversation so that she could awkwardly hit on married Nathan.

Fortunately, friends Bryan and Laura arrived. Conversation was delightful. Laura flushed out plans to pursue freelance writing, we speculated about what the best bar in America is (and what qualities a great bar should have in the first place), and we weighed the merits of Def Leppard versus Poison. Bryan and Laura gave us a lift back to the top of Nathan's hill, we hiked down it, and after going to bed at 11 PM I awoke refreshed enough to be penning this blog entry.

Today I booked three nights at a hostel in Kiev, so I now have a place to go when I arrive. Picking one was tough; many highly-rated hostels can be found on the hostelworld.com website. I told myself I could sample several during my visit if I so desire, so if I'm unhappy with the first one I'll just move on to another.

Tours to Chernobyl were advertised on the web site as costing "a small fee," but the confirmation email revealed that small fee to be 120 euro per person, which is not a small fee at all. Will likely have to do this, though; it's a rare opportunity.

Back of my heel is injured, but Nathan, who leads a very active lifestyle, quickly diagnosed the condition and recommended stretching exercises that will, over time, solve the problem. I already sense improvement.

Prison Break: Nothing Will Ever Be the Same Again

The plan was to visit Eastern and Central Europe for at least a few months to write and to DJ. The biggest question regarded how to disentangle myself from my office here in the states. Ultimately, the best case scenario would have been one that would have allowed me to hold all my cards for as long as possible.

The best case scenario came true yesterday.

I had two aces up my sleeve that, until this week, I had been completely unaware of. The first was the vehement support of my co-workers, who demanded that I be able to continue working for the organization even while overseas. Their sincere testimony to my importance—instanteous and unprompted—showed that I had a bedrock of support hitherto unknown to me. This support made the thought that I be allowed to work remotely from Eastern Europe more palatable to upper management, and strengthened the case for granting me a leave of absence instead of pursuing termination.

Lessons learned: it pays not to suck at your job, and it pays to have people like you.

The second ace was a bit more comical; until Monday I had been unaware that I had accrued 9 weeks of vacation time. This, according to my supervisor, made everything much easier to arrange.

After many hours spent mentally running in the hamster wheel Monday and Tuesday (coupled with physically running around campus and, on a cold and rainy Tuesday, the fifth level of the parking deck), my supervisor and I concluded that there were two ways things could have gone:

1) Termination from my job in January, me becoming a contractor to the organization, and my vacation time being dolled out to me in one lump sum in the form of a physical check mailed two months after departure.

This was an undesirable scenario. Since I won't have a permanent address in two months, the check would have to go to somebody else to cash. That introduces too many variables for my comfort. And, of course, having no guarantee of employment upon returning means I've lost a card in my hand.

2) A three month vacation/leave of absence combination, padded by hours spent working for the organization remotely as needed, allowing me to continue to receive regular monthly direct deposit payments for the first 2 to 3 months with the guarantee of a job to come back to afterward.

Things went the second way.

The journey will be stressful, my world will be a very different place in a few months, and there will be plenty of questions I will need to answer soon (3 months will go by in the blink of an eye). But it is better to depart this way than any other way.

As I walked home from work yesterday I turned my eyes upward to the Biltmore Hotel. It shined in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun against a crisp blue sky. I walk past the Biltmore every single day, but yesterday, and for the first time, it looked gorgeous to me.

Last night at Apres Diem, Seth remembered how it felt when he left his job. "I realized for the first time that I had been living in a bubble."

This hits the nail on the head. Today I see the world crisply. I see it with all its possibilities wide-open to me. Atlanta looks beautiful for the first time in years because it is no longer my prison.

Prison Break: First Missed Deadline

Waiting by the phone
I don't like to be alone
I need a fix of hope
A hint of love in your voice

Shark & Sylvain feat. Lara Love - Call Me

Thanksgiving is on its way once again, and so Atlanta increasingly resembles what the protagonist saw after waking up "28 Days Later."

The Peachtree Street Vortex is closed for three days this week. The Vortex, which prides itself in its rock 'n' roll aesthetic, is the last place in Atlanta one would expect to find shuttered for three days of Thanksgiving. But a waitress at Charlie G's 11th Street Pub (Nathan's and my alternative hang-out choice last night) explained that the reason for the closure is renovations, so Vortex is hereby forgiven.

Although Charlie G's has a good selection of quality beers, I deliberately opted for weak, cheap American beer. Yuengling seems to generate a lot of positive reviews, but to me it tastes little different than Michelob Ultra. The stuff is like water, but that can actually be good if you are trying to pace yourself. Unfortunately, they ran out of cold bottles of Yuengling because I drank them all, so in the end I switched to the higher alcohol Stella. But my Yuengling plan still seemed to work. Despite ostensibly imbibing too much, the bar tab was small and my head feels perfectly fine today.

But I'm tired. I nodded off before midnight last night only to awake at 3:30 this morning in a state of panic over the Eurotrip plans. I spent an hour struggling to get back to sleep, but anxiety wouldn't allow me to. So I gave up on sleep entirely. From 4:30 until 5:15 I sat on the floor of my bedroom sorting through my Very Important Papers in an effort to find my original lease so that I could be clear on the terms of breaking it. I could not find the original lease on account of my being a disorganized idiot, so at 6 AM I wrote my landlord for a new copy.

Going through my old papers reminded me of how long I have actually been in Atlanta. Despite the feelings of life paralysis I've felt so acutely, by many measures my world has changed dramatically. One would hope that would be the case after 14 years. Still, I look around me and see that other people's lives changed much more than mine, and more positively as well, and that's the whole problem.

D-Day is effectively here; I ought to be mailing my rent check today in order to ensure that it gets to the landlord on 1 December, and it ought to include two months of rent, the extra month's being my punishment for breaking my lease. In other words, today should have seen my first major commitment to the Big Plan. But I balked on account of not having the lease to review and will likely send the rent check on Friday instead.

In addition to paying an extra month's rent, I will forfeit my deposit. This is how life puts manacles on you. But that only makes me more determined to break out of here.

From 6 to 7 I shredded old financial documents at the office. If nothing else, making plans to head to Europe has gotten me to do some necessary housecleaning.

The lyrics that open this blog entry are insipid, as most lyrics are when transcribed, but they work well within the context of this particular song. The inspiration for quoting them comes from the fact that I continue to look for a sign from somebody that I would be welcome to participate in the party overseas. So far my emails to various clubs have failed to garner any replies, though admittedly I haven't been sending out nearly as many as I should. Every message I do send seems to disappear into a black void, and considering how big my plans are, the lack of encouragement is...well...the word would be "discouraging," wouldn't it?

A review of my finances suggests that I will arrive in Europe with about $5000 to my name. I will have to roll my savings account (which has a pesky minimum balance) and my CD (which has turned out to be the most useless investment I made in the last calendar year) into my checking account so that I can actually access that money.

Prison Break: Drinking and Talking Part 897

It's Thanksgiving week, and I am thankful for the fact that there are very few people in my office today to see what I look like the morning after a night spent with my enablers at the Park Tavern. The Park has a "if it rains, all draft beers are $1 each" rule. It rained yesterday, and so in this manner the weather has had an adverse affect on my health.

Carson and I met up at the Carroll Street Cafe at 3 PM yesterday where we studied satellite maps of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania in an effort to determine an ideal base of operations for me. In each of those countries one has easy access to Scandinavia, where conceivably there would be more money to be made as a DJ. The ferry from Tallinn to Helsinki costs around 30 euros. The trip from Estonia to Scandinavia can be full of surprises.

Of all the emails I sent to Estonian clubs last week there have been zero replies. This puts a serious crimp in my confidence. I feel this is the week I have to buy the plane ticket, so where will I go? Should I just go to Estonia and see if I can make something happen?

The better idea is probably to go to Romania. I have many friends there. I'm comfortable there. I spent several months this year studying the language, and while I am by no means proficient I should be able to do OK once immersed in it. The country is centrally located in Eastern Europe. And there's one cute girl I want to date there as well.

Seems like a no-brainer, but the problem with Romania is that I've been there so many times already that I'm not especially motivated in the same way I would be if I were visiting a "new" country. I'm not especially fond of the club and music scene there lately, either. Romanian pop has changed significantly since I started listening to it in 2000 (I wrote a little editorial about this a while back for BalkanInsight). While it would be sensible to go to Romania, I feel a green light from Estonia would give me more of an adrenaline rush, since their pop scene is so much more exciting to me right now and there would be the shock of the new to motivate me.

But considering the stress I am putting myself under, beginning my adventure in relatively cozy Romania might be the smartest way to go.

Carson told me that, as a DJ, my biggest downfall was my sincerity. What's the opposite of a backhanded compliment? A fronthanded criticism? Anyway, he has a point. I'm quite averse to spinning in many different club environments, as yesterday's Slovenia blog entry demonstrates, and it would be more beneficial to me if I were willing to play the trendier genres. I shut too many doors before I am willing to give things a try, and that inflexibility is not the best way to survive as a DJ in Eastern Europe. "You've got to become Mr. Lava," he said, referring to my fictional alter-ego.

Planning Stage: Slovenia (Pt. 1 - Ljubljana)

Last night's merriment was had at the Book House Pub (the photo is from that, and I am the handsome blonde guy in the middle of it). I imbibed less last night, got to bed relatively early, and so awoke without the usual bloodshot eyes and headache of recent days. I turned down the temptation to hit MJQ Concourse after the pub because I'd punished myself enough Thursday and Friday night and I needed to sharpen myself in order to get stuff done today.

A couple days ago I wrote about Estonia. I thought it would be fun to a play a sort of six degrees of separation game today, so here goes. Caater, a Eurodance group from Estonia, frequently partners with the Finnish Eurotrasher K-System. Finland recently stepped messily into Slovenia's elections when a Finnish TV station accused the Slovenian Prime Minister of accepting bribes. And so we find ourselves in Slovenia today. How was that?

Balkan Slovenia has a lot in common with Baltic Estonia. Both are tiny countries with small populations (2 million people live in Slovenia). Both are relatively well-managed and are doing very well financially for formerly communist states, in part due to their luck in geographic placement (Estonia is tied to the ultra-wealthy Scandinavian region, and Slovenia shares a border with Italy and Austria). Slovenia is currently the only former communist state on the euro currency; Estonia will likely adopt the euro in 2011. Both countries have their share of regional and cultural tensions, but overall these are not so bad.

A big difference between the two lies in their music scenes. Much of Estonia views itself culturally as Scandinavian, and Scandinavia loves its pop and dance (think ABBA). Neighbor Russia has a love for the tawdry and trashy, and these worlds intersect in Estonia to create some really stellar pop music that manages to move the feet while also giving a little bit more to the brain.

Slovenia, on the other hand, tends to be mellower. Their music gravitates towards the live. They love their jazz. Their RTV Big Band spits out tons of high-quality recordings. Maribor hosts a jazz festival as well as a more general music festival. Tolmin hosts a metal festival each year.

Turbo folk does not seem to be popular in Slovenia, but turbo polka is. Turbo polka sounds exactly as you would imagine.

I have been to Slovenia once before, so I know a little bit about the feel of the country and its nightlife. The trip was fabulous, despite my being chased back to my hotel by two thugs one night in Ljubljana (probably glue-sniffers, the hotel porter reckoned).

My goal is to DJ through Eastern and Central Europe, and since I've already laid eyes on three towns in Slovenia you would think I'd be able to come up with some good ideas for places to spin. You would be wrong.

The "problem" with Slovenia seems to lie in its tastefulness. After spending a chunk of my afternoon today reading up on Ljubljana clubs both new and old to me, I realized that there seem to be two extremes of club taste in that city. One is the exclusive, luxurious club that is staffed by bouncers who will deny you entry if you are wearing the wrong clothes--or might beat you to death if you invoke their ire. Point is, a stuffy or exclusive club is one where the focus is more on the preening, networking, and hooking up, and less on the music.

The other extreme is the ultra-alternative venue. I speak here primarily of Metelkova Mesto, which I partied at on two different nights in Ljubljana. Here you find your hippies, crusties, squatters and travelers, as well as your gay/lesbian/trans-gender community.

Metelkova totally rocks. But this presents its own strange problem for a Eurotrash DJ like myself. My music is not tasteful enough for that community. It's hard to follow a drum & bass/dancehall set with Cascada's "Fever."

Interestingly, in Ljubljana my best bet would probably be at Metelkova's gay clubs, because only there does a blend of pop, trash, and house find balance. I know this because some friends and I stumbled into a Metelkova gay club on New Year's Eve, and we demanded to be let by skeptical door staff despite not being gay enough because the music was so freaking awesome.

So, maybe gay clubs in Ljubljana are better.

What is missing in Ljubljana that would make DJ King Pigeon's mouth water? It seems there is a lack of student discos catering to the younger, poorer, yet well-educated pop fans out there. This population exists in abundance in Warsaw, Poland, and fuels some awesome nights at places like The Parc. But I haven't seen signs that such a venue exists in Ljubljana.

I might need to turn to Maribor or Celje to find a better fit. I will do that tomorrow, and post part two of my review of Slovenia then.

Prison Break: Two Nights of Drinking and Talking

Between now and my departure I am going to alternate between two types of journal entries. One will deal with the psychological and organizational aspects of what I am attempting. The other will deal more specifically with the countries that I wish to visit and my plans concerning those countries. I wrote a bit about Estonia yesterday, so now it's time to turn back to the psychological issues and the planning.

I'm groggy and hung-over from two nights in a row of pleasurable conversation. At Apres Diem, Vaidas and I talked until 11:30 PM, he drinking whiskey and Coke and me downing five Stellas. The fifth Stella was a bad idea, though I woke up fairly alert the next day and was productive.

Vaidas was born in Lithuania, and as a kid he visited many of the countries that lay behind the Iron Curtain. Romania in the late 1980s, before their 1989 revolution, was a big shithole, he said, a country where people begged visitors for soap and cigarettes. It's little wonder that Ceausescu and his wife wound up being executed by firing squad during the revolution.

Vaidas talked about spending $3 a night for a "hotel" in...I think it was Belarus, but we kept flipping back and forth between countries and we were drunk so I cannot be sure anymore. I will say it was Belarus, because this story fits Belarus. In Belarus he stayed in a cabin, and each room had its own fireplace. A babooshka would come in and tend to the fire. He said he gave her a $3 dollar tip. After that she came into his room to throw logs into the fire all the time.

Belarus remains the most Soviet of all the former Soviet states (George W. Bush called it the "last remaining dictatorship in Europe" back in 2005). Without a good and trustworthy friend to travel with it would likely be too unsafe for me to explore this country on my own. I am hoping to find such a friend, because there aren't many places like Belarus left, so it would be interesting to see the country before change comes. Alexander Lukashenko, their President for 15 years now, is going to have to go someday.

Places like Belarus, Moldova, and Russia are among the places where bribing is most rampant, but Vaidas said $3 was enough to get a cop off his case, again I think in Belarus. (Incidentally, in reviewing this story everything in Vaidas's world appears to cost $3.) The art of the bribe is something I hope I do not have to learn, but in the sink or swim environment I am entering it may become a necessary skill.

After Vaidas and I finished with our conversation, we stumbled out into the night where we discovered a long line of teenaged girls and their mothers spilling out of the movie theater. Vaidas asked a mom and her two daughters what was up, and they replied that they were waiting to see the premiere of the new "Twilight" film.

Last night, Nathan, Seth, and I met up in Little Five Points. At the Brewhouse Seth expressed for the first time some reservations about the risks I was taking, affected in part by the things Vaidas had said the night before (Seth had been there for the first half of that conversation). Nathan also for the first time confessed that he initially thought the idea of running off to Eastern Europe was a bad one, but now admits that if I don't do this I will forever wonder sadly what might have been.

Nathan and I wound up at the Yacht Club after we dropped Seth off by his car, and we had an excellent conversation which was punctuated by the brief appearance of two cute Emo girls, one in a flannel shirt, who sat across from us, but then seemed to think that a poor idea and left to join other friends.

After getting home I watched "Survivor" over the Internet, downloaded some songs I'd been looking for via Shareaza in tandem with Pirate Bay (since Google doesn't offer these particular tracks, which were Esmee Denter's "Admit It" and Daan's utterly superb "Icon"). Then I passed out and regained consciousness around 11:30 this morning.

Because I signed up for Google Adsense, I suspect you will see several ads for alcohol treatment. I saw an ad today for help in finding your gay mate. If this sounds like something you want to click on, please do; it will help me out.

It's strange stepping into the commercial world after running the www.kingpigeon.com site non-commercially for about a decade, now, but I need to think about ways to generate revenue because I am not going to have much money when I arrive in Europe.

I told my sister in an email about my plans for the first time today because I need somebody with a physical address I can trust who can collect and deposit (the likely meager) checks I might receive from advertising revenue.