Back to Atlanta, 1 year later. Just in time to watch the superbowl, to lose all my Hooters hopes, and to save the day with my driving skills.

Habanero dreams

11 months after my first trip to Atlanta  it was time to go back in the nice Georgia. This time the event was the Imedia8 summit, a nice idea to meet the guys working for the american branch of imedia8, the company whom I offer my sexy services.

Thanks to some very cheap tickets and with some initial disappointment because my idea to spend the weekend traveling to Vegas and back was soon trashed, me, Guy, Simon and Michael, the new addition to the normal crew, met in the Gatwick Airport, full of hopes and smiles in a lovely English Morning.
As soon as we checked in, I realize that my new haircut (very short hair, thanks to my personal barber) was giving me some troubles.
They stopped me at every single checkpoint, from the checkin desk to the airplane. I was the only "lucky" one to be inspected inch by inch.

After finally sitting down, ready for a 8 and something hours trip do the U.S. of A., we soon decided to take advantage of the free drinks, and while Guy was sipping fine french cheap wine, I was tasting that fine cocktail made from Jack, Daniels, Coca and Cola. On the opposite side of the aisle, while Michael was drinking an incredibile amount of vodka with something else, Simon was experimenting Gin and Tonic.
Poor Simon. Such a tall guy, such a pale skin, and such a small tolerance to alcohol. Kiwi, eh!

Obviously, with a digital screen and the usual choice between movies, I spent my long hours just drinking and laughing at Sideways (great movie, by the way) and some other stuff that I can't really remember.

Once in Atlanta my mean look (ehi! It's just short hair guys!) produced more problems, and before breathing fresh and free Pure American Air I was stopped three or four more times. Maybe they just liked me too much.
Johnny and Robert, survivors from the original trip, collected us on the Imedia8 Limo, a big and ugly (but comfortable) wagon on wheels, large enough to fit all the guys and girls.
Splitted between the two houses (Rob and Dana manor's for Guy and the tall kiwi Nick Cave lookalike and Liz and Jonny's for me and Michael) for sorting out the personal stuff, we soon moved to the closest wing place for a quick welcome drink and some nice wings at the local Wild Wings.

Now, I love wings. So many times I forced Ian, my american/italian/londoner friend to make them that probably by now he's sick of it, but I still love them.
Especially the hot ones. You know, tabasco sauce and some chilli.
I've never experimented the habanero pepper before, and even if some companions was trying to convince me to avoid it, I accepted the challenge from the rest of the table. I still can't describe the feeling. 20 minutes later, after finishing the last wings (ehi, a bet is a bet and a real man gotta do what a real man gotta do), I kept my nice smile on my best poker face, probably just because the muscles on my face were all paralyzed as soon as I licked the first wing.

That night I had the weirdest dreams in a long time. I remember talking with Winnie the Pooh, and beating him to death just before being stopped by a pile of dvds fighting against me. I remember dreaming of chickens without wings, of buffalos with wings, of pepsi and Natalie Portman. Of hells and malls and farts. Connections?

Pages: 1  [2]  [3]  [4]