MORE PUNCH AND COOKIES

What the hell did we call this thing? The Helen Blogtoberfest? The 2005 Jawja Blodgers Fest? The Southeast Writers’ Conference? The Degeneracy in the Confederacy? The Southron Bloggimus Tea Party and Ice Cream Social?

What do you call three days of peace and love schmoozing and boozing on the Banks of the Mighty Chattahoochee? Words fail me. Or was that my much put-upon liver?

She Who Must Be Obeyed and I arrived in Helen late Friday evening. Well, not that late, but late enough so that most everybody had already run off to dinner. Thus, we wandered about the town, in search of (1) beer, and (2) clots of unruly degenerates. Found (1), but the (2)’s were mostly local kids hopped up on Tom’s salt peanuts and RC Cola. Nice music over at the Festhalle, though. It ain’t Little Bavaria without a Chicken Dance.

Upon returning to the Chalet Kristy, we immediately saw that Something had Changed. A horde of Very Happy People were hanging all off the first-floor railing...and they greeted us like Long-Lost Brethren. And Sistren.

Frenzied introductions followed...for the most part, familiar names, but (as yet) less-familar faces. I’ve catalogued those names elsewhere, but what I will say is that Chatham Artillery Punch is a wonderful and highly effective Social Lubricant. And all of us, every Man-Jack and Woman-Jill, were Well-Lubricated.

A few Unforgettable Moments:

• Being greeted by Georgia in the Chateau Kristy parking lot, complete with 16-foot bullwhip...
• Seeing Zonker in Full Mullet & Tat Regalia...
• Finding out that the one thing that can move Faster Than The Speed Of Light is Sam, trying to avoid being penetrated by V-Man... [Brings a whole new meaning to the term “Tain’t Fitting.”]
• The first words I heard upon leaving the room Saturday morning: Sam calling out to Velociman from the second-story balcony, “I’ve got your cowbell, your laptop, and the fucking monkey. Georgia has the bullwhip.” [You can’t make this shit up. It makes itself up.]
• Watching V-Man nearly getting his ass kicked by a twelve-year-old River Tuber who did not appreciate the splash from flying rocks [“Incoming!”] or Half-Rubber Weaponry...
• Seeing Eric open bottles of Shiner Bock with his Big-Ass Swiss Army (Nuclear Regiment) Letter-Opener and Church-Key...
• Hearing someone ask the Rhetorical Question of the Day: “Who the hell brings a pen to a blogger’s convention?”
• Watching the Velocimissus try to drink a Sazerac Cocktail without completely losing her shit...
• Seeing the expression on the face of the Acidic One when Flouncy Brian (think Sean Hayes’s character on Will and Grace) came to prep him for his 90-minute massage. [That one had both me and Leslie laughing fit to pee ourselves.]
• Listening to Eric recite (most of) The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill - entirely from memory, whilst under the influence of The Famous Grouse and Gawd knows what else...

Great times, people. And there are pictures. I’ve made the Presumptuous Assumption that it’s okay to post these, seeing as how they don’t portray anyone engaged in Illegal Activity, in Flagrante Delicto, or with Hanging Boogers Unfortunately Displayed. If you don’t want a particular shot posted here and you’re in it, send me an e-mail [at elisson1 (at) aol (dot) com] and I’ll take it down. [If you don’t want a particular shot posted here and you’re not in it, fuck off.]


The proper way to drink Chatham Artillery Punch:
note the extended pinky.


Blight and Brier.


The fabled White Fedora finds a new home.


Returning from lunch at The Troll.
Perfect place for blodgers to eat, innit?


My sweetie!


“Anybody see my mullet anywhere?”


Testing the waters.


The Princess and the Poet.


Whodat? Max Idaho?


Modeling a prior year’s souvenir.


Not looking especially old or grouchy.


“Beulah, peel me a grape.”


Massages is da best medicine.


Pimpin’ with the P.I.