Mr. Lion posted a message on facebook about the Flux night event. He wanted to attend, but didn’t have anyone to go with. PG saw this, and realized that he needed to get out of Brookhaven. Messages were sent, phone calls made, and an agreement reached to meet at a midtown parking lot at 9:00 pm. In a bit of murphy’s law denial, a vehicle left Piedmont Avenue, heading south, at 9:15.
PG is a nervous suburbanite, and had no clue where to park. Turning past the dome, the barricades and crowds were evident, as were the lines of cars going nowhere. An illegal one eighty turn later, PG gave up, and parked at the dome.
The two men were soon in another world. Castleberry Hill is a downtown neighborhood, reclaimed by the trendy and prosperous. The old brick buildings were swarming with culture vultures of all persuasions. PG wondered more than once where these mobs of bug eyed youth came from.
The first stop was an elderly brick building. For this night, it was crawling with murals, music, and machines that shot out cannonballs of smoke. People were posing in front of the well lit murals, which made it easy for PG to cop a leftover image or two. Mr. Lion got into a chat with a director of the collective, while PG dealt with the heat by photographing unsuspecting young ladies.
Mr. Lion is an elitist, but not a snob. PG is an anti semanticist, with an aversion to labelism. It was noted that calling yourself an non labelist was an act of labelism. But, as they say in Alabama, hypocrisy is usually the cheapest argument. Despite this existential eggshell walking, the Mr. Lion managed to keep up with PG, who was up to his usual mischief. With few dogs to photograph, the focus was on humans. There was lots of barking and tail wagging.
“Can I have a picture of your makeup” ” Sure” ” Can I have some attitude” ” What” “You call that attitude” “How can I have attitude if I am having a good time”
The streets were often crowded. In best Atlanta tradition, it was tough to know if you were going north, south, to heaven, or to hell. In an effort to not miss anything, several streets were covered twice. Finally, enough was enough. Mr. Lion managed to remember the side street that led back to the dome. It is part of elitism to always know where to go. A rat should always have a hole to crawl into.