 I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I haven’t updated this site in weeks. I’m a jerk. I know. I’ve been busy marinating my penis in my wife’s guts in hopes of making baby Chrises. I think it worked. She doesn’t think so. But she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I went to school for this kind of stuff. We’ll know who’s right (ME) and who’s wrong (HER) on September 1st, on her birthday, when she pees on the stick. Or if she starts bleeding on the sheets before then. But she won’t bleed. Because I’m right. I’ll keep you posted. Keep your fingys crossed.
So what were we talking about last? The book tour? After my first slide show at S.P.O.T. I knew I had to practice my “set” and work some of the kinks out. So after Tampa I kissed my wife goodbye and flew to Atlanta for two appearances: one at Indie Coffee & Books in Decatur and the other at my pal Thomas Taylor’s skateshop, Stratosphere, in the Little Five Points section of The A.
On their website Indie books called me “One of the most entertaining writers of our time.” I can’t argue with that. Well, I could. But I won’t. I enjoy handjobs. The owner of the shop, Ivy, was a nice lady and it’s her niceness that made feel bad that NO ONE showed up for the signing. Well, one person did. But he was the interviewer from Pine Magazine. I did manage to accidentally sell ONE book. Two pretty ladies came in for coffee and ended up leaving with a copy of Skinema. One lady was from London, the other from New York and I shucked and jived until they felt obligated to buy a book. It was without a doubt a pity purchase. I asked, “Do you want me to sign it for you?”
“It’s not necessary,” They responded. I watched them walk out and then throw the book in the trash bin outside. Oh well. A sale is a sale for old Gil. Despite the piss poor turn out, the Indie Books appearance may be one of my favorites of the entire tour simply because some guy accused me of being an Iraqi assassin. Seriously.
What had happened was I took a photo of the inside of the bookstore. In that photo was a Middle Eastern man who took umbrage with being photographed. We got into a heated argument over the photo.
“Why did you take my picture? I demand to know why you took my photo!”
I thought he was kidding so I laughed in his brown, mustachioed face. That only incensed him.
“I want you to delete that photo of me!” he said.
“Get over yourself, Apu,” I said, “I wasn’t taking a photo of you, I was taking a photo of the bookstore.”
“How do I know…” he started, “How do I know you are not an Iraqi Assassin or part of the government sent to kill me?”
“Are you shitting me? Do I look like an Iraqi?”
“Yes, you do.”
“Seriously? Is that what you are saying, you retard? I’M AS GODDAMN AMERICAN AS THEY COME!”
“YOU ARE AN IRAQI SPY!” he shouted.
“Listen, pal. You’re acting pretty suspicious. You want me to call the FEDS so they can crawl up your ass?”
“Are you threatening me?”
Before I could say another word the tall, handsome, gay counter clerk chimed in and told the customer that his dialogue was inappropriate, that I was an author and that his words were not welcomed and he asked the man to leave. And so he packed up his things and walked out. I told him to have a nice day. He said the same to me. Then I said, “May God bless you.” That stopped him dead in his tracks and he gave me a malicious look. With that he stormed off mumbling jihads at me under his breath.
The rest of my time at Indie Books was spent looking out the window, waiting for him to come back to shoot me in the face.
Luckily he did not and I still have a face. A rather dashing one, if I might add.
But I’d have to say being accused of being an Iraqi assassin and being rescued by a gay man was rather invigorating; mostly because I’ve been getting fat again as of late and the idea that a fat man could get work as an assassin was reassuring, you know, if ever I get too fat to write some day.
 After my war on terror I shot over to Stratosphere Skateshop to learn that they never received their copies of Skinema. Good thing nobody at HQ bothered to look into that in advance. Thomas Taylor was good enough to drive back over to Indie Books and buy all of their unsold copies. I felt bad and promised to buy back all the copies he bought if they didn’t sell. But I didn’t have to bother. All the copies were scooped up by the 50+ folks that turned out. It was rather heartwarming to see so many people after two low turnouts. I was about to start worrying that maybe I should have stayed in Jersey.
I love Atlanta and have a long-standing relationship with the city. I’ve managed to swindle an Atlanta article into every magazine I’ve worked for. Years before I ever started writing me and my buddies rented a van and drove to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, stopping in Atlanta. Thomas Taylor opened up his home and warehouse with ramps to us; a group of random skaters he’d never met before. He is a true gentleman with a big heart for skateboarding and I’m proud to count him as a friend.
Like I mentioned, it was a packed house for the Stratosphere slide show. And I was on my A-Game. At first I thought, ‘Maybe everyone just came out for the free malt beer,’ but then I saw person after person rolling in with their own sixers or brown-bagged 22s, completely unaware that there would be free beer. All the friendly faces and hecklers made it easy to put on a fun show. I think I spoke for an hour, with the crowd yelling and talking to me throughout the whole thing making it more of a relaxed, drunken conversation than a “performance.” I loved every minute of it. Especially when a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in ten years made an appearance with his brother. Nick Weidenfeld and his brother Dan were going to rent a DVD and saw my name in Creative Loafing and dropped what they were doing and rushed over. It was great seeing him, just because it had been so long but we were both giddy about our encounter for other reasons as well. Years ago I asked Nick to film an interview I did with the D.I.T.C crew where I brought them a porn star and two cases of beer. Things got very awkward quickly with that many rappers and only one semi-clad, uninterested lady in the room. Eventually someone grabbed Nick and pulled him into the corner and forced him to erase all the footage. It was one of the most tense interview situations I've ever created and I loved it. As a result of that Nick and I became friends and I tried to help him in his writing career. Ten years later he came to thank me for that experience and somehow attributes me for helping his life snowball into his current career as creative director of Adult Swim. I don’t really see how I helped him get to where he is today but I was happy to see him nevertheless because in my slide show I have a photo of Fat Joe with a lot of food in front of him and a Diet Coke, from that D.I.T.C. interview. I was able to tell those gathered, “A lot of people are doubtful that the crazy situations I write about are true. Well, here’s an old friend of mine who witnessed this craziness first hand,” and Nick was able to share his account of that day. It lent a lot of credibility to my stories, which, understandably, are hard to believe.
After the show Thomas took a crew of us to dinner, then to his crib and we all eventually ended up at the Claremont Lounge. After you’re done with a long day of dog-fighting I urge anyone visiting Hotlanta to visit and fall in love with the Claremont Lounge, the greatest strip club in the history of great strip clubs. The graffiti in the bathroom used to say, “Where strippers go to die,” but I think it’s just the opposite. It’s LA’s Jumbo’s Clown Room times 10 with normous, C-sectioned black strippers crushing beer cans with their tit or by sitting on them. It’s more performance art than it is sensual dancing, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I heard they’re going to be renovating the Claremont Hotel soon and the Lounge will be shut down. I suggest anyone that hasn’t been there yet, get your ass in gear and get down there.
The next day I went over to Adult Swim to discuss possible cartoon ideas with Nick. His brother Dan is in charge of the creative end at Super Deluxe and him and I are looking to work on some online TV shows together as well. They do some really funny stuff over there. Which is not what I’m used to when I think of online TV; it’s usually very dull and boring. Then again, I could give a shit what happens in Iraq or Korea. (Watch the I Am Baby Cakes series. Those make me happy.)
 As I was walking the halls of the Tuner building someone showed me an email exchange from someone at the cool magazine I do a column for. The guy in Atlanta had written this guy at HQ and said, “Great time last night. Sold out crowd. Nieratko was amazing.” And the dude at HQ said, “That’s a first. Generally Nieratko doesn’t do well.” I was blown away by the internal support I was receiving and so began my tension with HQ. Someone at Super Deluxe asked why the magazine had never posted my book tour schedule on their site or promoted the tour. I said, “It’s the same reason they did no advertising for the book until months after it was in stores. And that reason is…I have no idea.” Super Deluxe was kind enough to post my tour schedule on my site immediately. I shot HQ an email after a few beers and said, “I’m at Super Deluxe. They’re real nice guys. And they pay well. Was wondering why you never posted my book tour schedule on your website?” Wouldn’t you know an hour later my schedule popped up on their site. Then I sent an email to the fellow who had those “kind words” saying, “Watch your mouth.” He responded, “You got it,” to which I explained to him that it was in the best interests of his physical well being to not be cute with me. I haven’t heard from him since. Seems like there’s something bad afoot in Brooklyn.
Anyway, after the meeting with Adult Swim and Super Deluxe me and The Brothers Weidenfeld proceeded to drink all the beer in Atlanta. Nick went home and Dan, his buddy, Jason Cobra Walden, from Super Deluxe and I went back to my hotel to drink all their beer. As we sat outside drinking two pretty girls from Boston and their 60 year-old leather handbag they called a mother came and sat at the table next to us. My friends were trying to bed down with the two young ladies so I pretended to show sexual interest in the old lady. I asked her, “Do you have a ring on that finger, sweetheart?” She said yes. “Well, me too,” I told her, “but we can get around all that.”
“No,” She said, “My husband is dead.”
“Oh.” I said and without thinking about what the alcohol was making me say I said, “Well if you like, I can kill my wife so we can be even.” She lost her mind. Started crying. Saying what a good man her husband was and a lot of other stuff I didn’t care much about. I said, “Lady, I was just kidding. Don’t be such a baby.” She took off sobbing. Soon after the two girls lefts us and I found myself on my back on the floor of the hotel bar. I discovered they had some nice paintings hidden on their ceiling. Nick stuck his head into my frame of vision and told me he was leaving and asked if I needed help to my room. I told him I was fine. I must have been because I somehow woke up in my own bed the next morning. To the sound of an asshole bird squawking in the hallway. I opened my door in my underwear and nothing else, with my beer gut hanging all over the place, to see the bird, it’s owner and the owner’s 4-year-old daughter. They apologized for the noise. I said, “No, no, no. It’s fine. Really. Just shut it up or I’m going to snap its little neck.” They looked at me in horror. I shut the door and went back to bed for a few hours before I had to fly to Austin.
Indie books owner Ivy
my two accidental fans
Where's Al (Queda)?
prep-work
Thomas Taylor is the ruler
Colt 45 actually sent the beer
my people
Sarah Silverman stopped by
Nick Weidenfeld
Southern Belles
superdeluxe.com
Dan's private dancer
just a burger please...
Dan works his magic
his magic fails
unity
I love bathroom art
I need a fish like that
I hate this cock
as I laid on the floor...
of my awesomely gay hotel...
I noticed the lovely art on the cieling
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