Mantiquing

The bartender had not expected the words to come out of my mouth, and he struggled to refrain from looking over at me as I sat there on my bar stool, friends on either side.   The gang laughed.  Not necessarily at me, but rather, at the unexpectedness of the statement.

“Sometimes when I’m hungover, I like to go antiquing,”  I had confessed.

It was a true statement.  I’m not ashamed.  I do, indeed, enjoy wandering through the quiet halls of an antique shop, browsing the dusty bric-a-brac as the prior night’s leftover alcohol crawls out through my pores.  It’s a wonderful bittersweet feeling to stumble upon a certain useless artifact that brings sudden pangs of nostalgia to the forefront of my currently over-sensitive consciousness.  Or to spot a piece of old unwanted retro furniture that induces that momentary brilliant epiphany of “Hey, maybe I could turn my empty guest room into an old 50s diner” or a tiki hut, or an old-time cinema, or a run-down side-of-the-highway motel room complete with creepy faded brown floral paintings and suspicious stains on the comforter.  There’s something about seeing all that old shit scattered about a room when your hangover has put your nerves on high alert and set your emotions to hyper-sensitive.  When the site of a battered alarm clock can make you pine for those innocent middle school days, or a box of cassette tapes invites you to revisit the simple memories of family car trips.  Or that creepy mannequin lurking in your peripheral stirs up another one those “Wouldn’t it be terrifying if…” inspirations.

Yes, antiquing can be a wonderful way to spend a hangover.  And if you haven’t tried it yet, let me be the first to recommend it.  Truth be told, when I blurted out my statement at the bar, the primary motivation was to illicit an awkward response from the bartender, who wasn’t expecting this kind of discussion from his current crop of day drinkers.  And I was pleased with the results.

Since then, I’ve offered up the suggestion to “get your ‘tique on” to more than one person.  Specifically to visit Kudzu, the massive warehouse not far from my house, with its sprawling floor space sectioned off to various dealers, each displaying a different collection of goods often laid out in a particular theme.   It was here at Kudzu where I stumbled upon the 50s German foosball table that now resides in the room in the back of my house.  And it was here where I found the old wooden globe that now rests atop my bar.  And the Hemingway cigar box that serves as the centerpiece to my pub table.  And it was here where I discovered the huge ostrich with the saddle and the golden metal pole that extended from its back – an old carousel piece from a long-forgotten carnival.  I deliberated over forking over the $400 for this thing for weeks.  Called my brother for his opinion (“Sounds kinda pedophile,” was the response, if I recall).  Even brought my pal Doug out to see it, to tell me if it would fit in my barroom.  And more importantly, if it would be a cool thing to have back there, or if it would make me all the more creepy.  We decided on the latter, and so I kept my four hundred bucks.

This past weekend a buddy expressed that he was in the market for a liquor cabinet.  I suggested that he give Kudzu a try.  The next afternoon I received the following text from the guy:

“I left Kudzu with a liquor cabinet, a ships wheel, and a spear gun. WTF?”

It seems my buddy had been Kudzu’d.  Had walked in there with the intention of browsing for a liquor cabinet, and not only walked out with one, but with an entire nautical wall theme to go with it!  Extraordinary!

But as delightful as Kudzu is, I believe that there was another factor that led to my pal’s successful foray into antiquing and his resultant spear gun.  My friend was hungover.  I know this, you see, because we had met up for beers the night before, and as sure as I were feeling the effects the next day, I can only assume that he suffered similarly.   And that’s a good thing, for I imagine that it was that liberating brain slippage that pulls one free from the bondage of the daily ritual and opens the mind up to new artistic ideas that encouraged him to go nautical instead of  consuming the mass produced department store wall art (or “Marshall Art,” as my friends The Z’s call it).  My pal had just experienced the joys and benefits of hungover antiquing.

It was this latest success that got me thinking.  Perhaps it was time to extol the virtues of hungover antiquing to the larger populace.  Spread the word.  Maybe an organization was in order.  A way to get all the interested, or even just curious, parties together to experience this wonderful phenomena.

I was thinking we could call it the Antiques and Alcohol Association.   AAA.  Hmm, well, there’s already a triple A organization, isn’t there?  So maybe we should add the “and” into the acronym.  AAAA.  Better.   But then, maybe it should be localized. At least in the early phases.  Atlanta Antiques and Alcohol Association.  AAAAA.  Nice.   But why stop with five A’s?  Atlanta Area Antiques and Alcohol Association.  AAAAAA.  Awesome.   Or what about AAAAAA, A?, which is the acronym for my asking my older brother about the club.  Atlanta Area Antiques and Alcohol Association, Andy?    Naah, perhaps a bit much.  Let’s stick with AAAAAA.  Wonderfully awkward.

“Hello everybody, and welcome to the A…A…A…A…A…A.  We have a new member this evening, Timothy Needles.  Let’s all give Timothy our warmest A…A…A…A…A…A welcome!   And with that, let’s get started.  Who wants to read the A…A…A…A…A…A… minutes from last week’s A…A…A…A…A…A meeting?  Oh, and don’t forget, we’re having our first annual A…A…A…A…A…A sockhop next Thursday! “

I think it works.   But you’re probably wondering exactly how the AAAAAA would work, right?  Fret not, I’ve thought it out.  AAAAAA members would all meet up on a Friday night and proceed to get completely and totally drunk.  Full on, uninhibited binging, I mean.  But all for a very necessary reason.  For the next morning, we’d all wake, drag our miserable hungover selves out of bed and meet up at a nearby coffee shop.  From there, we would head out for a day long tour of the local antique shops, buying any and every crazy knick knack that should happen to appeal to our respective soggy, yet open, moods.   And then, after a wonderful day of slumbering around the town, allowing our emotions to spill out unapologetically at the most random of things, allowing our wallets to spill out for the most random of things, we’d then retire at a nearby pub where we’d drink beers and display our newly acquired treasures.  We would then spend the rest of the night in joyous debauchery, celebrating the wonder of hungover antiquing.  On Sunday, we would all wake up in our own homes, feeling like shit, and wondering,  “Hmmm, maybe I didn’t need this Spiro Agnew placard after all.”

And a month or two later, we’d all meet up again, and the hunt would once again commence.

The Atlanta Area Antiques and Alcohol Association (AAAAAA).  I think I’ve got something here.

And I think that same bartender who once overheard some weird bearded dude’s random confession on a drunken afternoon,  is going to be in for quite a surprise when a crowd of thousands all announces in unison that, “Sometimes when we’re hungover, we like to go antiquing.”