Poet Collin Kelley signs at his home in Atlanta, Georgia.
23 May 2012
Poetgraph # 18
In September 2008 I had a one hour lay-over at Atlanta’s Jackson-Hartsfield Extra Large Airport and agreed to meet my three-year strong blog buddy Collin Kelley in the food court (where else would two foodies meet?). This meant leaving the security checkpoint which meant having to go back through it to make my connecting jet. Collin was coming from downtown and wound-up getting stuck in traffic, or so was his excuse. I rushed through the point-of-no-return and into the food court where I have 30 minutes before my connecting flight leaves. I text message Collin and say I better head back in so I don’t miss my flight and boy did that lite his panties on fire. He left me a voicemail screaming like a mad banshee at an octave so high it was questionable as to if it was produced by a human. All I could make out was “I left work early” and “I’m burning the fuck up sitting in traffic with no A/C” and “It’s my fucking birthday” and “for you, you little bitch.” I stayed put. The last thing you want to do is piss-off a queen who’s obsessed with 1970s pop culture. Collin soon arrived in his trademark black t-shirt, we had a quick celebration of his birthday, and I ran back to my gate and jetted to San Francisco.
See the YouTube video of our fateful Airport meeting here.
In an ironic twist of fate, as I write this, Collin is on a plane over the Atlantic ocean going to some party for the Queen in London.