Delta Queen and the Clermont Lounge

1 Oct

…sounds like an awesome name for a band but that’s not what this post is all about.

Headed to Chattanooga a couple of weeks ago for a conference and thought it would be cool to stay on a steam boat called the Delta Queen.  I read the reviews (mostly positive) and booked a room. The awesomeness factor alone was reason enough to stay there.

The décor and furniture is straight out of the 1920s.  The moment I walked in to the main lounge/deck, I had feeling of being an episode of ghost hunters or TAPS or one of those Biography channel documentaries about old haunted ships.  Now mind you, I had not heard anything about the steamboat being haunted.  And I had not asked.  But as I freshened up in my cabin, I could not shake the feeling of being watched.

It was just … I don’t know how to explain it.  I left my cabin and went down town to purchase some toiletries, stopping at a chachka shop called the Moon Pie to see if there was anything worth overspending on.

“Oh, you are staying at the Delta Queen!” the store clerk exclaimed as he wrapped my $8.50 bottle of hot sauce. “Are you staying in the haunted room?”

“Wait, what!” I cried, “The Delta Queen is haunted????”

I hightailed it back to the boat and asked the valet, “which room is haunted?”

Without hesitation he replied, “I think it is room 107.”

“Great.  I am in room 107.”

The staff tried to convince me room 107 was fine.

“It is 109 that is haunted,” the purser said trying to stifle a smile.

“That is next door and ghosts walk through doors, don’t they,” I replied.  I was not having any of that.

Long story short, I got the lady at the front desk to move me to another cabin on the second deck.

The vibe in there, muuuuuch better.   Plus, I had this view:

Moving on to the next topic.

My carpool buddy and walking Wikipedia, Liz the Librarian, had her bachelorette party on Saturday.  The evening started out boring enough.  Seven women all who looked equally bookish and incredibly smart sitting in a midtown apartment drinking tons of a some champagne/vodka/grapejuice mixture named after the bride–to-be.  Tame, right?  Then the discussion turned NC-17.  Let’s just say, I know waaaaaaay more about Liz than I would ever have just driving to and from work.  Come to think of it, I know way too much about all those women and I can’t even remember most of their names.

Things got interesting when one significant other showed up to drive us to The Clermont Lounge.  Mr. Lucky Pockets was his name.  He came with a mini van and wore nothing but black tightie whities  and a bow tie.  Oh, Atlanta.  If not for the female code of honor, I would post pics.

Now, for the uninitiated, the Clermont is the oldest adult entertainment establishment in the city.  And by adult entertainment, I mean strippers in their 50s and 60s.

Don’t let the silhouettes fool ya.

This would not bother me so much if the women did not have to bend over to pick up the dollars bills.  And if the stripper pole was not located behind the bar.  Where my drinks would be made.  It would not be too awful if the entire place did not have ONLY one ladies room.  ONE.

I had to use the ladies room twice and with both moments, eeewwish hilarity sorta ensued.  The first time, I resorted to peeing in the sink.  I had to take a girl up on her offer of doubling up as I had been waiting in line for almost 20 minutes. This is what happens when you keep drinking like you’re 24 when you are well into your mid-thirties.

The second time, I tried to find and beg my way into the men’s room.  No dice.  I left the lounge and made a beeline for The Chow Baby across the street.  A guy was singing Karaoke.  At the moment I decided to run across his “stage” which was also the main doorway to the back of the restaurant, he went into a dance with his mike stand and tripped me.  I fell hard.  The bathroom was on my mind so I tried to get up and keep going but my right leg would not move.  I had sprained it.

Restaurant patrons tried to help me up and kept asking if I was okay.

“Please just get me to the bathroom.”

When I was done, I limped out to see more curious faces trying to find out if I was okay/if I was going to sue.  One idiot asked if I had been drinking.

Of course I had but that has nothing to do with falling over a mike while trying to get to the bathroom. I almost  hit him with my purse.  Meanwhile karaoke guy was sitting horrified and waiting for me as I exited the restaurant.  I assured him I was fine and just needed to ice and rest the leg.  I went outside to sit by the curb and wait for my husband to pick me up.

Somewhere between bathroom visit one and two, this happened:

So there I was standing in front of the giant fan at the lounge airing my self out, paying no mind to the recycled pungent air, and sipping on a $5 can of yeungling, thinking to myself …this is not too bad.  I just peed in a sink and bought a can of yeungling while avoiding the butt crack of a dancing senior citizen.  This is not bad at all.

“This is awesome isn’t it,” a nice sounding lady said next to me.

“Yes,” I replied and turned to acknowledge the person.  It was dancing grandma.  Standing next to me.  Airing herself out.  Butt naked.

I am not making this shit up.  Only in freaking mid-town Atlanta.  Only.


4 Responses to “Delta Queen and the Clermont Lounge”

  1. Juju October 1, 2012 at 6:35 pm #


  2. Amy October 6, 2012 at 7:09 am #

    I so would have had them switch my room too. Haunted houses, ghost talk and all that supernatural stuff scares me!

  3. Myne Whitman October 14, 2012 at 6:58 pm #

    Grandma stripper, LOL…your life is certainly very interesting 🙂

  4. Mamuje October 23, 2012 at 10:20 am #

    Oh dear! Hahahahahaha….You lead an interesting life.

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