The Braves are following up NASCAR night at Turner Field, with an event called Braves Go Green.
The specifics for Braves Go Green were explained to the fans fans as the sweet smell of gasoline permeated through the air. A train of authentic race cars circled the field, revving their engines and sending up plumes of smoke, while the same fans were encouraged to bring a bottle to recycle.
The McDonalds on Ponce has a traffic cop that stops traffic from approximately 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. However, he isn't doing a public service. Instead he's giving every McDonalds customer preferential treatment.
As a result, every person travelling up and down this road is delayed. I'm a pretty big fan of free markets, and such, but a cop standing in the middle of a six-lane road for 15 hours a week during high traffic times just isn't right, and I'm guessing breaking some sort of law.
Hundreds of thousands of fans have watched me apply my trade on the largest HD television in the country.
Young women (12 and under) have screamed my name, I've received cash with older women's phone numbers on it, and at the end of it all ... I've taken a bow.
It took a mockumentary commercial (based on the coors light series "we salute you beer man" played on the big screen at Turner Field) to realize that I'd reached the pinnacle of my career.
Like most ascents to greatness, there were times of struggle.
I've climbed to the top of section 409 after being hailed by a excitable teenage boys just to hear a them ask me where the popcorn guy is, and as I trudge back down it hurts to listen to them snicker.
I've looked at former classmates redfaced, and told them that this is what I was doing to hold me over.
And I've been berated by drunken rednecks, too impatient to wait for the beer vendor, calling me derogatory female terms.
At first this bothered me. Now I can sense who's ready to buy, I embrace my craft, and I sell them.
Instead of getting as close as possible to my customers, I pass my cotton candy down a long aisle of seats, attracting the attention of every kid on the way. I ignore people when I'm going down the stairs, and sell to twice as many on the way up. I give you your change before you have time to complain about the ounces of product that I've just sold to you for $5. I smile, I run, I linger, but most importantly I sell.
For three hours I get paid like a stripper. I'm the Brett Favre of cotton candy vending. I don't really want to continue, but I'm still too good to quite.
For the last year or so I’ve tried to write thought provoking, entertaining entries. I’ve thrown away things that made little sense, and focused on providing fleeting insight from my 25-year-old mind.
Why I thought this was a suitable plan, I don’t know – but it stops today.
From now on I won’t concern myself with such sillyness. I’ll post when I’m drunk, and mope when I’m sad. I’ve been bombarded by no less than four people, semi-enthusiastically requesting my return to the blogosphere. I couldn’t let them down.
I apologize for my absence, but with or without your help, I can get back on track.
And so it begins …
Today I had a single drop of sweat from my forhead run down my nose, drip onto my right shoulder, proceed just to the left of my belly button, accelerate through the hairless part of my upper thigh, and get within 18 inches of the ground. A total distance travelled of nearly five feet.
At one point I had to lay on my side, but I’m proud to say it made it below my knee before getting obscured by my leg hairs.