I was asked to chronicle my eating habits over the course of a week, which happened to coincide with a week off from work. I spent that time with my comedian friends: Kyle Kinane, James Fritz, Ian Douglas Terry, Goodrich Gevaart, John-Michael Bond and JMB’s wife, Emily. We traveled from Chattanooga, TN to Gainesville, FL for Fest 11. I still have diarrhea. Let’s do this.
Tuesday, Oct. 23
I’m a waitress and manager at Trappeze. I eat almost every meal there. For breakfast, it’s chicken tacos from the lunch-special menu. They get the job done but pale in comparison to the little taste I get of an Old Rasputin chocolate mousse ice cream that is being prepared for the evening.
I nab my van from the mechanic and rush to Atlanta. JMB drives us to Chattanooga, where we’ll meet up with Kyle and Fritz. I eat caramel popcorn and a Naked Red Machine smoothie on the way up, because SUGAR. When we hit Chatty, we land at Champy’s Chicken, a chicken-and-beer shack of much local renown. I eat a two-piece dark meat snack, and it’s good. I ask for a beer list and am ridiculed. The asshole beside me orders a 40 oz. Bud Light. I am out of my element. Still, they have New Belgium’s Red Hoptober. Everything will be OK.
After a late night rush back to Atlanta so JMB can work in the morning, I enjoy a night pickle at his apartment. Kosher dill. Not the other thing you were thinking, pervert. I fall asleep drunk. Again.
Wednesday, Oct. 24
I wake up swollen and thirsty. Again. Emily and I walk to a juice bar (they still make those?) and each drink what’s called a Grand Slam: wheatgrass, ginger, lemon and cranberry. It makes me feel better. I also want rollerblades now. (Just kidding. I always want rollerblades.)
I disgrace this healthy choice by inhaling a cheeseburger-bite thing from QuikTrip on my drive back to Athens. It’s awful, except for the minute it’s awesome right at first. I speed to my boss’ house to watch a beautiful beer being brewed before all the comics arrive in town.
When we are gathered, I take everyone to Harry’s, which yields unanimous praise from my entourage of ding-dongs. I have a pork plate with green beans and marinated beets, as I usually do. Then we head to the show and have all the beers. As we usually do. The night ends with a stop at Subway (it’s late; deal with it), where I get my usual veggie mountain on top of some ham. Everyone is drunk, and there are cops in said Subway. Fritz asks them if they’re on a “steak-out.” They respond, “Yes.”
Thursday, Oct. 25
We wake up swollen and thirsty. Again. I make an executive decision to load the van full of people-husks and speed to Ike & Jane. “They have homemade donuts!” I exclaim. “Does this place have… food,” Kyle asks? “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine.”
We let Fritz sleep, because we can’t wake him up, because DRINKS. All the Elvis donuts are gone, but there are three lumberjacks left (maple frosting with sausage), and we snatch them up. Kyle inhales his.
“I take back the thing about the donuts,” he says. I respond, “I know.”
At the house, I gently place a biscuit on Fritz’s chest and he wakes, slowly, as though the steamy a.m. sammy has willed him back to life. There is much rejoicing.
On the drive to Gainesville, we stop at Chick-fil-A. I’m told they have stopped donating to whatever hateful garbage they were donating to. I’m still hesitant. I’m also starving. We waste many packets of Polynesian sauce for good measure.
Hours of driving, a surprise Savagist show and many drinks with old and new friends later, I’m in a place called Flaco’s. A nice young man buys me a chicken taco with pineapple chipotle salsa. He’s a friend of Goodrich’s, whom we have finally met up with. I am sleepy. Let’s go to bed.
Friday, Oct. 26
This is where it starts getting harder to eat and easier to drink. In true music festival fashion, I just kinda drink another beer and forget to put food inside. For lunch, I eat an alligator burrito at Boca Fiesta. Later, I vaguely recall it being perfect. I also try “pineapple upside-down snake”—fried rattlesnake with pineapple. Hell, yes.
Later, at The Top, I eat a Good Morning Burger. Fried egg and a pretzel roll. Also, corn nuggets. Fried-up creamed corn bites, basically. These were all amazing and bad for me. I’m on vacation. Shove it.
If I listed every Tecate with a lime that I drank on this day alone, I’d have my own separate Flagpole.
Saturday, Oct. 27
The day starts with waiting in an enormous line to watch Kyle and Fritz do a brunch set. Kyle looks weary, and when we finally talk to him outside, he lifts this little paper to-go coffee cup to eye-level.
“Oh, man. The whiskey is eating through the side of the cup.”
His hand is shaking visibly. Didn’t see much of him yesterday, but it must have been a good night.
In her infinite wisdom, Emily trots off to buy us pizza slices and bottled water. Five Star Pizza, where, last year, I ate at least two whole pies just by myself. This year, this slice was my only one of the week. The mind reels.
This will also be my only nourishment until well past adult dinnertime. I finally pull it together and walk alone to redeem my artist’s meal pass. I gobble down some BBQ brisket tacos at a place. I try to flirt with the waitress but I’m slurring my speech something awful. I nap in the van until I am human again.
Sunday, Oct. 28
Show day, and all our brains are mush. I decide not to drink today. We go to brunch at The Top. Crème brûlée French toast with booze-soaked fruit, vanilla bourbon cream-dredged toast and 100 percent pure maple syrup. Also, bacon. Yes, I had decided not to drink, but there is no stopping me ordering this meal, because SUGAR. I also finish off someone’s corn nuggets (them shits is good) and a few fruit cups.
My two Fest sets go OK. Not bad; not great. This slight disappointment leads to a natural impulse to drink. JMB finds a comedy open mic up the street. We walk in, get beers and destroy the place. All our other comedy buddies come by and do sets as well. We all agree that even though the crowd is a tenth of the size, it is the best show of the weekend. Kyle gets a ride from a lady cop. Like, to the hotel. Not jail.
To celebrate, we find a Steak ‘N Shake to be obnoxious in. Double Steakburger with fries and a chocolate shake. Of course. It is at least 4 a.m. Let’s go home, you guys.
Monday, Oct. 29
On the bleary-eyed yet cheerful ride home, Emily gets a craving for Jimmy John’s. I try to find one, but there’s a lot of dissent in the van. She’s the only one who likes Jimmy John’s. We pass a Firehouse Subs. Compromise! I’ve never been in one before, but the New York Steamer hits me just right. It’s kind of a reuben sub, but not really. Also not the other thing you were thinking. Pervert.
After we arrive back in Athens, my appetite returns. I’m definitely not drinking tonight. It’s been a full week, for Christ’s sake! I head to Shokitini and take a quiet seat by myself at the sushi bar. Complimentary salad! Inari nigiri! Shokitini Slammer! Complimentary fried Oreo, because SUGAR!
Sake is half off. God damn it. OK, fine. Bring me one.
Luke Fields performs at Farm 255 this Thursday, Nov. 8 as part of the Free Range Comedy series.
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