Blondie Revisited

This is the way the world works.

In 1997, I travel to Atlanta to give a speech to up-and-coming ad students. That night, my first ever in the Peach State, I'm escorted to an unofficial city landmark called the Clermont Lounge, where I am treated to an unusual cocktail of kitschy humor and bad erotica.

15 years later, I am reminded of that bacchanalia by an email from one of the students, who generously penned me a detail account of a night I thought I had lost to Jack Daniels.

Two months ago, I shared this tale in a posting here on roundseventeen, entitled Blondie Fondly.

And last week, as if by providence, I caught the last half of Anthony Bourdain's Layover, in which he visits all the best that Atlanta has to offer. Naturally, including his eventful stop at the Clermont.

With this posting I've already violated the unofficial man code that states, "Thou shalt not recount any activities that might occur on a visit to a strip club."

Though one could legitimately argue the Clermont Lounge is hardly a strip club.

But it is safe to say I will not be writing about gentlemen's clubs anytime soon. Not because I'm worried about tarnishing my reputation, such as it is. But  because I stopped frequenting these establishments a long, long time ago.

Frankly, they feel like stationary bikes. You get all worked up and in the end, you haven't gone anywhere.