Dateline: All Over, All The Time

I just realized that I haven't posted anything in nearly three weeks. I've been slacking. Actually it's been a relatively dull last few weeks and not a whole lot of excitement on the road. Therefore I'd like to hearken back to a prior post regarding a freak bartender in Alabama and his obsession with Bret Michaels. If you don't remember the story, just scroll down and read the details. A week and a half ago I happen to walk into this same establishment for a beer and some food. And before I can even sit down this guy walks up to me. Instead of asking me what I want to drink from the bar, he asks me,

"Hey man, guess what we're talking about?" - Freak Bartender

" I don't know. Why don't you fill me in." - Me

"We're talking about what we're going as for Halloween. What you dressing up as?" - Freak

" John Wayne Gacy." - Me

"Really? Didn't me murder and sexually molest kids?" - Freak

" Not that I know of. I thought he was a famous clown. Like Marcel Marceau. What are you going as, boss?" - Me

"I'm going as Bret Michaels." - Freak

No shit. Didn't see that one coming. I'm not really going as John Wayne Gacy. I just wanted to scare this freak off. Too bad it didn't work. Once again he broke out his Bret Michaels photo album and started showing all his pictures again. Can't make this stuff up, boys and girls. Read the back story to this below for background. Enjoy your day.

Dateline: Last Tuesday, Birmingham, AL

This hotel I'm staying at is great. The nicest one thus far. Probably because it's not the economy version, but the real live thing. I'm not a huge fan of the neighborhood it's in (Read into this what you will), but it has a legitimate restaurant, bar and more than 3 floors. In fact, seeing as that I'm a Platinum Member of this specific chain I get some perks. At this hotel I get a free drink at the bar, peanuts, water and a King sized suite on the Ninth Floor. Or as in the words of the concierge, "The Ambassador Level." God bless hotel people and their fancy fucking words. I'm not actually sure what separates a suite on the 'Ambassador Level' versus one on the 1st floor other than nine flights of stairs I have to run down in case someone pulls the fire alarm. But I digress. This place also has a full fledged gym allowing me to get in my 30 minutes of daily cardio. This gym in particular has glass windows that peer out onto the pool area. This is prime people watching real estate, boys and girls. As I was hitting the treadmill, there was a man, mid 50's I'd say, swimming by himself. Correction: swimming and talking to himself. I first thought that I couldn't help but wonder what exactly he was saying, but I'm assuming he was repeating a bird call that was designed for small children. And while I'm not a parent, I do possess some protective qualities and a level of common sense that picks out weirdos and degenerates upon sight. After repeating what appeared to be the entire Old Testament, this guys gets out of the pool and proceeds to dry himself for no less than 15 minutes. How long does it take one to dry themselves off? At this point I'm thinking to myself, "This guy is definitely cruising and he's probably cruising for me. Maybe I should have worn a baggier shirt. Hell--Maybe I should have worn a burlap sack." Listen, I don't know what this guys deal was, but it was definitely strange. Where's Chris Hansen when you need him?