The Bird Dog

As you may or may not know, this past Sunday was my birthday. (In certain parts of the rural, ‘scary’ south, it is referred to as the ‘bird dog.’ As are your thirteen-or-so mutts you have painstakingly trained to retrieve various Georgia-native avifauna that you just shot.) I didn’t do much. Last year having been my twenty-first, I got most of my partying out of my system then. But that’s not to say that this gal would be turning twenty-two without a little fun involved.

Friday was the actual party. Pretty normal as parties go, with the usual attendants you see at just about every house function where there is a keg  involved.

There was the usual group of guys that find their way into every party:  a little too full of themselves, and sincerely believe that there is a specific, ceremonial art to tapping a keg of Bud Light. They are the ones who will also end up sparring shirtless with each other by the end of the evening, (they will do so in a convenient place…like in front of everyone else) and, if drunk enough, may challenge the one another to a cigarette-arm-burning match to prove who is more of an idiot, or who’s penis is larger — or something like that.

Saturday was working day, and mostly uneventful. Sunday, however, proved to be a great birthday. My family had prepared a party for me at The Colonnade.    

I certainly did get my fill of collard greens, and it was WONDERFUL. If you’ve never been to this little slice of Atlanta life, you should go. Even if you hate eating around old people, (there are quite a few there, and quite often) go just for the greens.

Overall, it was a good start to twenty-two. That being said, I hope everyone has a great Thursday, and hey…let me know what you think about that new Heineken Draught Keg commercial. That shit is LAME!  Couldn’t they have come up with a better strategy than ‘dumb green robot bitch dances the robot while simultaneously opening up her stomach to reveal the draught keg?’ If only there was a way to emote how hard I am shaking my head.

Post-Hiatus

So sorry for the gap there, my poor little PowerBook g4 is on her last legs, and I no longer have the blogging portability that I value so highly; also, I will not get the chance, at least right away, to enact a little experiment I’ve been wanting to try: blogging IN ATLANTA. Most public places have WiFi, right? And if not, there is always Word, so I can empty all my thoughts into a document and then post it later when the internets are back in my life. Sadly, this will have to be postponed.

97 Estoria. You should go, if you haven’t. Located at, surprise, 97 Estoria, in a tucked-away corner of Cabbagetown, and it sports a trendy-yet-welcoming intimate interior that—

–What? Oh, Cabbagetown? Hah, what about it? You say you want a little history?

Knock yourself out!

As I was saying, 97 Etsoria is a great place to go to meet people, see and be seen, or have a drink with a friend or that special someone. However, if you are allergic to hipsters then you might want to re-think coming to 97 Estoria. Unless you bring your inhaler, or have a plan of attack.

Last week I simultaneously discovered and got a job at an establishment that I consider one of the coolest places Atlanta has to offer. Highland Cigar Company  (the website is a little silly, I will admit freely) takes the cigar/bar environment from South Florida, and puts a not-so- gentlemanly spin on it. It’s all the sophistication of a cigar store…with booze. And if you don’t see the potential for hilarity, then you might want to check your pulse.  If you need a place to go and smoke your stockpile of Cubanos and watch the game, this is the place to do it. If you’ve got a hell of a lot of work and want a cozy place to finish it, and maybe drink a few beers in the process, I highly recommend this place. Besides the obvious people-watching merits. As for as a job goes, all I have to say is, ‘At least they are training me on the bar.’

‘Cause if all else fails in this little deadtime before graduation, at least I will have bartending under my belt.

And lastly for review this evening, we come to DSC. You got it. Azul. Every Friday Raging Burrito and Azul open the doors that connect them and become Decatur Social Club. There’re two bars, the one in Raging and one in Azul, and if you can manage to move (and by move I am referring to bodily propulsion with the use of one’s own two legs…forget trying to dance) ANYWHERE in that space after one-thirty A.M, then you’re my fucking hero.  Because I found myself stuck in the same spot for about twelve minutes, unable to move due to the sheer volume of people around me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so liberally moistened from the sweat of others.

Once again, one must exercise caution when attending the DSC. You primary concern is still most likely going to be people that look like this.  (there is, of course, the exception of those scenesters that are actually cool) And of course, always remember where you left your tab open, the front bar or the back. The DJs seem to keep good music playing, both modern mixes and good old stuff that is served up as is.

That’s all I got for today. But I’m going to try and get my computer fixed ASAP so I can commence my round-the-city blogging. Hope everyone is enjoying their humpday appropriately…by humping something.

Hot Hot HOT!

It’s a Sunday, and it’s, thankfully, not nearly as hot as it has been. A massive heatwave has been static here in this city for days now. By Wednesday it’s going to be back up to 105 with the heat index. Now I’m all for the heat; one thing everyone should know is that the South is like the proverbial kitchen. If you can’t stand the heat, and so on. Me? I live for this weather. An excerpt from my other blog dated Friday, August 10th reads thusly:

<i>People are dying, literally. The poor are dropping dead under overpasses, the rich fainting on sidewalks, briefcases in hand. This is the time everything solidifies for me. I wouldn’t trade this heat for love nor money. Opening doors and stepping foot outside is like walking into hot oil. It will rain later, but it will only get hotter then. The heat will cling to the moisture in the air and this city will be a rainforest, awash with sweat and the anticipation of a Friday night.
This is it. Summer rolls her hips the sweetest and hardest this one last time and everyone in Atlanta sucks in and moans out deep and low. The blues were written for days like this.
Barefoot and moist, I find myself smoking on the front porch.</i>

A bit abstract, but that is the more luscious way to describe it. However, these past few days have gotten me closer and closer to retracting those words. It’s so hot, I’ve seen things I thought I might never see in this city:

a. The Corner Tavern (known also as The Coroner Tavern to those who are fans of the band) has closed their giant garage door to bar out the summer heat. Even in the winter they usually keep it open and blast heaters.

b. The homeless guys at the intersection of Freedom Parkway and Boulevard have ditched their scrawled “Homeless; Give $; God Bless” signs for buckets of ice with bottles of water in them. They charge anywhere from $2 to $4, but I can imagine those frosty bottles look pretty appetizing to the people who have no AC in their cars.

c. Even the cats are staying inside. Arthur’s lovely silver shorthair Sally, who usually delights in turning into a kitteh throw-rug in the odd shafts of sunlight, is now opting to decorate the hardwood floor of the kitchen next to the AC vent.

My advice to those that are unfamiliar with Atlanta in August, here is my advice to you: watch SurvivorMan. (Don’t settle for Bear Grylls, that guy’s a hack…FAKE ACCENT ALERT) There are two different episodes of the show in which the host strands himself in Rainforests. One in Costa Rica, and another in the Amazon. That will help you survive this intensity. You might have to bust open some coconuts to stay hydrated, but it will help.

In other news, Arthur is back from Italy as of Friday, and bearing gifts! But the best purchase decision he made, I believe, was this (purchased here). He’s been obsessed with Plague Doctors for a while, and I could tell he was excited. It’s going to become a pretty bitchin’ Halloween costume.

I am still a little sad about the whole thing; him going to Italy, having all that amazing fun. I don’t even really care about the fact that he went without me, but I put Italy so high on a Renaissance pedestal, that I ache every time I think about it. But that is all getting better. Slowly, but surely.

Lastly, in internet news, there is a pretty sweet article in the latest issue of Wired (the one with Martha Stewart on the cover, in the middle of icing a Wii as though it were a cake…way to go, Stewart. Some unfortunate nerd could have used that) that is all about how to make a meme and do it right. It’s pretty awesome, y’all should check it out.

A side note: The Word ‘Meme’

A Brief Aside

Due to my recent linking issues, as well as the fact that this is hilarious and completely true, I wanted to try and see if I can link it: I Hate Crocs

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The Dog Days

Saturday night was enjoyed once again at the aforementioned Sampson Street Lofts. (or, as I discovered they are more formally known as “The Cotton Docks” due to the location once having been a cotton mill) This was a fairly uneventful evening for the most part, hoever atabout three am, I happened to glance up at the temperature gague on the ceiling of my car, and realized that it was 94 degrees fahrenheit. I hate to say it, but that’s what I love; I really don’t think I want to live anywhere that DOESN’T reach 94 degrees in the middle of the night.

Arthur will be back from Italy Friday. Most of the hurt has finally diminished, along with the prickly jealousy. I’m glad to be past most of it, too. I was pretty decently depressed for most of last week, and when consoled by my friends and family, all cooing gentl and telling me Arthur would be back soon, all I could do was scoff. I miss my boyfriend, sure. Somewhat. Mostly I’m just jealous that he is riding in a gondola, drinking Roman wine and swimming in the Mediterranean. But most of that is passing, as long as I don’t sit and stew about it.

We finally got a little bit of rain yesteday, too, so I didn’t need to water out back. Of course after that, it was so muggy I could barely breathe when I stepped outside. Small price to pay for not having to water.

Ok, it’s rant time. I’ve been pretty pissed off about this for a while, being someone that frequently watches channels like Court TV and The History Channel. Obviously I’m about 50 years away from fitting into their target demographic, and occasionally I am bombarded with commercials for LifeAlert and incontinence medication. But what I absolutely cannot stand is the fact that someone out there feels like they can sell something as ridiculous as this:

(I apologize, I can’t link this for some reason.)

http://www.corvettedollar.com/?cid=359602&gclid=CKbFpYiG4o0CFR3XgAodIixhrw

I feel really bad for the elderly people that feel that they need this shit. (Oh, and just in case you saw this, and decided you needed to get one for everyone you know, there is a STRICT LIMIT of five per caller!!!)

I would really like to start posting ridiculous chachka like this as well as discussing Atlanta. Because crap like this is just too hilarious.

I think that’s all for now. See everyone in class tomorrow!

Party Time and then Late-Night Eats

If, in the future, someone should come to you and advise you that there is a party on Sampson Street in the C apartment, I can tell you right now, if you’re into meeting new people and going places that do not suck, the Sampson Street Lofts is the place for you. I’m not totally sure what it once was, perhaps storage space or a factory at one point, But now it has been divided up into lofts and each one sports enormous, open, areas and industrial, old-brick atmosphere. There is room enough for anything you would need a lot of room for. Located in those weird little backroads between Freedom Parkway and Dekalb Avenue,

they are out-of-the-way, private, and host a majority of people between the ages of 18-30. Most of these people make up a very creative little community, people that paint the letters of their apartments on their doors in various creative and bizarre ways. Parties here feature ourtageous things such as acrobatic, arial performances, homemade beer served out of bathtubs, and old episodes of Transformers projected on walls. Even if you can’t get in to take a look at a unit, if you’re ever in the neighborhood, drive by and check it out. It’s truly an outrageous and fun place to be.
Say you’re at Sampson Street in the middle of the night, and you suddenly realize you are hungry. So you dig up a sober, responsible driver and head out into the night – but it’s so late! Where to go? Well, you’ve got some choices in this city.
flaunts a well-known reputation for being some of the best Chinese food in Atlanta. Plus they’re open all night most nights. About a year ago, Chinese Buddha was in a much less-desireable location, and was ssporting ratty carpet, and stained seat-covers. Now, in a swanky locale on 14th street, this little place has moved on up in the world, and along with slightly more expensive prices than one could once expect, now has romantic atmosphere, and an extended, better-dressed staff. For late-night fried rice cravings, this is all you need.
— Atlanta Diner is a bit more of a drive if you’re not in Decatur, but it’s worth it. This place rocks some of the best salads you can imagine, as well as an eggplant parmesan that has, in the past, shaken patrons to their very core, and given them just cause to re-evaluate their personal faith. Whatever you do, don’t talk to the street walkers that occasionally stumble in.
And of course, who could forget, Majestic. You have to really appreciate this eatery for what it really is: a greasy spoon that is open 24 hours, in which you will find a staff that tumbled right out of Hipsterville. The food can be anywhere from pretty good to horrifying, but nothing settles a drunken, rumbling stomach like pattymelt grease. And if you haven’t ever been there, well, it’s worth going at least once. It’s an Atlanta icon, like the Fox and Turner; just don’t slip in the occasional vomit puddles outside the bathroom.

CityTown USA

It’s been a little bit crazy these past few days; running around, house-sitting for Arthur, who is now in Italy, and of course, getting caught under the heavy thumb that is late summer in Atlanta. Hauling recycling to the curb of Arthur’s Virginia-Highlands house at two a.m. becomes surprisingly sweaty, no matter the brevity of the exertion, or lack of sunlight. A stale breeze is gently moving candy wrappers down the sidewalk, but doing very little to cool the backs of necks.

This presented the perfect opportunity for a late-night summer activity: a late movie, to be viewed in a large, darkened theater with the air conditioning on full-blast. However, Talk to Me was only showing at one theater. Atlantic Station. A shopping-living anomaly that is lovingly nicknamed CityTown. Atlantic Station haunts my nightmares. The ones where I wake up in a cold sweat, fearing that this will be how people live in the future.

It is, by design, not a new idea: people living above stores. Not a hard concept. Who wouldn’t want to wake up every morning in their charming little flat or studio to the smell of freshly baked break wafting up from the street; or hear jazz from the nightclub below in the cool of the evening?

Atlantic Station takes that brilliant concept of space conservation and shits all over it. In Atlantic Station, who’s tagline is “Life Happens Here” people have the option of living above the following: one or two overpriced restaurants, or, chain stores such as Express or Banana Republic. I have no desire, and I worry about the fact that it is a coveted living locale.

If you do decide to brave the bizarre, cardboard-cutout feel of Atlantic Station, be my guest. It sports a decent movie theater, and if you absolutely can’t live without those bitchin’ Guess capris that went on sale and you’d rather go to human hive of weirdness to buy them, that’s fine too. BUT REMEMBER. If you go to visit and not to live, you must validate your parking. Or else you will be forced to live there, on a neverending quest for the parking office in the lower bowels of the parking deck.

DAMN GOOD ADVERTISING

Ok so let’s take a break from Where-The-Players-Play and watch an awesome commercial. You’ve probably already seen it, but let us re-celebrate it here.

Little Ghost

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story:

The Tale of The Morse Code Ghost.

Last night was the second-to-last of house-sitting for the Smiths. Ay and I spent a quiet evening making dinner, drinking, and watching the Simpsons marathon. (I later did as the movie promotional commercial instructed me and tried to Simpsonize myself. It did not work.) By all accounts, this was an enjoyable, lovely evening to begin drawing this venture to a close.

About one, we went up to bed. I was pretty beat, so I fell asleep first, while my counterpart stayed up to watch a little more TV. I woke up about 4 hours later. Ae had dozed off, as he so often does, with the television on. I turned it off, and rolled over to go back to sleep.

I have always felt that there is something about the country that has an effect on people, and therefore the places in which they live. I have been tent camping with my mother nearly every autumn without fail since I was a toddler. And every year, I get the same sort of feeling when the sun sets over the orange Appalachians. Bumpkin-desperation mixed with the cold and throw in a few weird noises, and I’d have myself a regular creep-fest. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it, all through those years out there. Even when my aunt bought a cabin in Rabun Gap when I was fifteen, and our mother-daughter fall foliage outings moved indoors, it was still there. Desolate sensations; no-one-can-hear-you-scream, someone is watching me.

In the sudden darkness after the television’s doused light, I could hear something, and I felt that old fear settle on my brain like a cold blanket. A was fast asleep, snoring gently, while my heartbeat was quickening and sweat was collecting in my eyebrows. It was a clicking, popping, cracking, quiet at first and then louder. It would go on for a while, then stop and start again quietly. It was coming from the ceiling, in the corner furthest from the bed. The rotation of the ceiling fan was cooling my sweat, and I shivered but couldn’t move. I was completely terrified.

Who had died such a grim and untimely death that their restless soul felt that they should come back, here and now, to torment me? Who did I owe anything, and why now? What had happened here? Beaten to death and crammed in the attic of the farmhouse that stood in this very spot, on the very farm that was bulldozed to make way for this neighborhood, sometimes she returns, sometimes she clicks…sometimes she clicks…

By six a.m., I had spun the whole sad story in my head, and I was petrified. I shook A awake and, though my throat was clenched as tightly as my clammy hands, I squeaked, “Do you hear that?”

But he was dead! Killed right next to her in bed, and she felt the sticky blood and screamed, and the ghost kept clicking —

“Turn off the fan.” He muttered, snorted, and went back to sleep. I steeled myself, opened my eyes as wide as I could, curled my toes, and shuffled over to the wall and flipped the switch. The clicking stopped immediately.

All things considered, I slept great this morning. I am a bit dissapointed, though. Because I know deep down, the whole reason I feel the way I feel, whether it’s huddled in a sleeping bag or wide-eyed in the darkness of a huge house, is because I want to hear the ghost. I want to let the countryside effect me in that way, because it’s fun, and it makes this region even more special to me.