When mrs. smantix informed me that her Valentine’s Day present to me was a trip to Atlanta to see one of my favorite obscenity-laced bands, it was not without some trepidation of a city I primarily associate with the Atlanta Urinal-Constipation, The Commie News Network, Cynthia “The Joooos” McKinney and Wayne Williams.

Sure, the recalcitrant Defeatocrat leftist in me has a hard time separating myself with the events of the day. With all the bad news in Iraq, naturally my thoughts turned towards the cradle of a civilization. A once proud city burned to the ground by war criminals, occupied by a cruel foreign army and forced to take part in an imperialist power’s democracy at the end of the barrel of a gun.

But enough about Atlanta’s history.

Where the Night Takes Us

I was reminded of another reason not like Georgia upon entering the state as all roads lead to The Carter Center. Georgia’s omnipresent paean to Preznint Planters. While the rest of the country has tried to apply some electoral Resolve to the stain of Jimmeh Peanut’s Reign of Error, Georgia has immortalized Arafat’s speechwriter, dottering enabler of dictators and history’s greatest monster.

Back to the hotel.

Uniquely decorated rooms include personalized touches such as delicately scented toiletries made in the north Georgia mountains. The eclectic Virginia-Highland area surrounds this lodging with lots of restaurants, cafes, antique stores and art galleries. A leisurely walk through the neighborhood offers pretty views of Craftsman-style architecture and gardens. This location appeals to artsy types and business travelers avoiding a generic downtown hotel experience.

Aside from an inviting facade, this generic dump was unarguably the most delicate and eclectic shitbox it’s been my displeasure to darken. Hallways as narrow as my mind and a room with a myopic view to match. Radiators are for cars, not hotel rooms in the year 2006. An anachronism on par with Harrison Ford tracking down a renegade Pentium II Compaq Presario in Blade Runner. On this balmy Feburary evening, we were blasted out of a room so hot that our skin would fall off the bone if marinated in garlic butter and kept behind a locked door for 25 to 30 minutes per pound.

I asked the desk clerk if he could turn it down as the dial on it seemed to have no effect at all and was told that it could be turned down but that one thermostat sat the temperature for all of the rooms and some of the residents get cold.

Fair enough. I just needed it turned down a little. But it’s dinner time for a stranger in a strange land.

Me: What’s good around here? I thought I read that there’s a steakhouse right down from here…is it any good?

Clerk: It’s mediocre but I’m going next door to the Eclipse di Sol.

It surely couldn’t be worse than the Veggie Burger/Tofurkey joint across the street.

Candles Mean “Class”

Unlike most trips, this time I didn’t meticulously plan one day from the next. Where would the night take us? A disarming jewel, a discerning dive – either fine by me.

On to Eclipse di Sol. What is it about $9 martinis that is so impressive?

“Can I start you off with some drinks?”, asked our capable attendant.

“I’ll have a Stella draught. and mrs. smantix, the tea.”

An ambitious menu left more question marks than curiosities. Eclipse boasted an “eclectic” crowd as well. The only thing more shocking than the draped-in-black, hipster doofus clientele was the absence of a tv. Even at the bar. The menu couldn’t have announced the target demographic any better if it boasted Baby Brokeback Ribs. Braised in a loving man’s milk demi-glaze.

Me: You want an appetizer? The calamari? What looks good to you?

mrs. smantix: How about bail?

me: Bail?

mrs. smantix: Bail.

me: They’ve got a roasted chicken. You like roasted chick-

mrs. smantix: Not with smashed root beets.

me: They’ve got a pan-seared salm-

mrs. smantix: With root bee-

me: Gotcha.

mrs.smantix: Bail.

Back On The Street Like I Never Missed a Beat, Yea

After wandering the Highland Avenues for about a half hour, it suddenly dawned on this townhouse cracker that me and my Children of The Corn Bride stuck out on Atlanta’s streets like the spots on a domino. The neon beer signs and clanking of what appeared to be a run-down dive caught our attention as we shook off the rain and grabbed a bench in what could have passed for a Waffle House with a full bar and bad lighting.

Something was odd about this bird though. The litany of drunks looked like they had something on their minds. That thought did not appear to be hygiene. The walls were adorned with large portraits of Franklin Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. A bookshelf beside a bar with nothing but top shelf showing. Though I didn’t know it at the time, I had just walked into the most famous Democrat controlled bar in Atlanta’s history. The “Godfather” of Atlanta politics no less.

There was certainly nothing on the menu to indicate Manuel’s Tavern as anything other than a Robert-Orr Sysco clearinghouse where boxes of frozen food could be unthawed and deep-fried for your self-inflicted gastric terrorism. But people kept coming in. Parties of 20. Parties of 15. People with Boston accents. I had no idea that I was farting into the same bench the lying, shitbag journalists, politicians and gadflies of Georgia’s Democratic disgrace had been farting into for decades.

But I did not learn all of this until I got home and looked it up. Unencumbered by expectations, I feel like I got to see a piece of Atlanta’s history without having The Anointed telling me how I should have been looking at it.

Had I known, I could’ve gone to flood the bathroom where once pictures hung of one of Manuel’s hated Republican rivals in the stalls. Maybe next time.

But it was 30 minutes to show time and I had to wash some of the funk off before the concert.

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