December 26th - Hotsy Totsy and New Parish

When I opened my purse this morning, it smelled like a distillery. Evidence of happy times and nice surprises last night. This time last year, I was partying like a rock star in Las Vegas and perhaps that was to fill the void of not being able to be with family on Christmas. However, this year I had the opportunity to go home to the Bay Area (WEST SIDE!!!) and be with those who know me best, hang with my niece and nephews....and then party a little like a rock star.

It was a bit of a Class of '96 reunion as six of us agreed to meet at Hotsy Totsy in Albany. Despite the rain forming rivers along the sidewalk, the place was packed wall to wall. They weren't giving anything away in the material sense. But now that I think about it, there was much to receive in the cozy confines of that dive bar. Alas, it was a meeting place of the dread locked and albeit odd adults of the world who needed to be free of the blissfully juvenile capitalistic craze that is the American holiday season. Yes, there was a tree in the corner but there were no children, no fruitcake, and no long lines at the department store. Just a drink in everyone's hand and feeling of relief that the new year is almost upon us. Whenever in the Bay again, I will probably swing by this place. I think I've developed a romance for dive bars. They're like a perpetual collegiate living room with a full stock of liquor. There's no pretense, just high boys, shuffle boards, pool tables and lots of tattoos. I guess I'll always be a Bay Area weirdo at heart.

We scooted on down the highway to New Parish in Oakland where a party was being hosted by The People. Now one of my friends had warned me that this place tended to attract hippies of the Santa Cruz persuasion who seem to delight in the natural fragrances of the unshaven and undeodorized arm pit. While funk of this nature is unpleasant, you can always count on such people to have a good time. I had mixed emotions but I felt better after using the bathroom. It was well-lit, fully stocked and operational and didn't smell like beer urine. To me, that was a good sign. We went upstairs to have a better view of the dance floor where I purchased a holiday punch with a dollop of rum which I believe is responsible for the headache I'm experiencing right now. In one corner, someone was selling Filipino/African/American earrings for five dollars. In another corner, two ladies were passing a joint back and forth while painting green circles on a canvas.

From top to bottom, the place was packed with exotically dressed male and female women lovers. According to my friends, since I was the chick with the short afro then it was a given that I was going to be hit on by myriad lesbians. I decided to take that as a compliment and just dance. And dance I did. I loved what the DJ was spinning. It was a mash-up of instrumental African, salsa, jazz, hip-hop and funk. I wish I would have recorded some of it but I was so busy dancing to it with this guy in a jacket with elbow pads and then a guy from South Carolina. Regrettably, I missed the voguers and the b-boy dancers on the other side of the dance floor. Such is life. I think we cut a rug for about an hour and there really wasn't THAT much funk in the air. Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa and Happy New Year Northern Cali!

December 5th - Chris' 50th Birthday Celebration

Who the hell is Chris? In all honesty, I have no idea. I'd never met the man before last night and if he knocked on my front door today, I still wouldn't recognize him. However, I did crash his 50th birthday party out in Athens last night. Well, for Nigerians, there is really no such thing as crashing. My beau and I were the guests of George and Chinonso (thank you!) who were the guests of someone else, hence we were cool to party. Uninvited guests are typical at most Nigerian functions. They have a very welcoming spirit.

Anyhow, we got there at about 12:15am and the party was in full swing. I love my American upbringing and culture (both positive and negative) but I'm delighted by what I'm learning of the Igbo culture. These people love to celebrate life. Somebody had a baby? Let's party. Someone graduated from high school? Let's party. Someone passed away? Let's party. Someone got married? Let's party? Someone is visiting from another country? Let's party. Someone got out of the hospital? Let's party. It's not just cake and a few well-wishers. It's an all-out affair complete with a formal and/or traditional dress code, open bar, DJ, dancing, much thanks to a higher power and a kola nut. Halls are rented. Formal invitations are professionally printed on premium paper. Hair appointments are made. Mercedes are gassed up. It's go time. Chris, bless his heart, was turning 50, hence all the Igbo and various other West Africans both near and far were alerted.

These types of events are not simply thrown together. At each table, there was an itinerary printed on festive paper and we were now experiencing the first round of DANCE, DANCE, DANCE which would be followed by a best dressed contest. I liken these events to an extended family reunion..... with class. No matter who you are or who you came with or why you're there, you can't just sit on the sidelines and not participate. The music moves you. Everyone greets you with a smile and open arms. You MUST eat. You MUST drink. Hell, even the busgirls took time out to dance in between clearing the tables. I recognized a popular Nigerian song about love and marriage and got up to dance with Sweet Lovin' Man. We may have been two of the youngest people dancing on the crowded floor. Folks were gettin it...and not in that "it hurts to move my limbs" way but rather in that "I will dance until the sun rises" way. That's alright!

The highlight of the evening was a Cameroonian dancer and I had to include two videos of this young lady. She was a perfect example of how size does not hinder sex appeal. You see Nigerians, much like men from New Orleans, love those big fine women. They will take a Jill Scott, Queen Latifah or Monique any day. I'm inclined to believe that my boyfriend's mother and sister are trying to fatten me up prior to nuptials. Larger or not, I couldn't hold a candle to that lady doing her thing. She moved better than any malnourished stripper on which I've ever laid eyes. I loved watching her perform because it pretty much went against everything that the status quo claims to represent beauty and sensuality. She was not a size 2. She was as brown as a berry. She had a mid-section that jiggled. Nevertheless, she was undeniably gorgeous and sexy. It was a given that she was going to get sprayed! Spraying is the original form of "making it rain." When a young lady is dancing well then the chiefs and/or men of stature will come and "spray" her with cash. You'll see it in the video.

The lowlight of the evening was the musical stylings of Kenny Nightingale, gospel saxophonist extraordinaire. Kenny could probably play very well on your average night. However, on this night, Kenny probably had one libation too many and had stepped into that realm. You know the realm I'm talking about. The one where you are pretty drunk and you believe that you are the most talented person in the entire universe and you are performing in front of a crowd of a million devoted fans who are also every bit as drunk as you are...although they really aren't...and you think everything you're doing is out of this world even though in reality it sounds kind of average or maybe even bad? Kenny leaned to and fro in the fashion of an ecstatic John Coltrane as he played some pretty elementary chords on his saxophone. I thought he was going to break himself in half leaning as far back as he did. I had no choice but to post an update on Facebook.

Anyhow, I had an awesome time and can't wait to crash the next Nigerian function.

November 20th - Sanctuary

It's no secret. OutPast30 Lady loves dancing. I like to shake it. No doubt. I watch America's Best Dance Crew and I felt Fanny Pak was robbed during that one season. I watch So You Think Can Dance as well. I'm cheering for Russell Ferguson the krumper. He gets down. I refuse to watch Dancing With the Stars. I want to watch actual dancing, not desperation, on the dance floor. I'm not just a fan of the Hip Hop. I dig all kinds of expression. Thus last night's choice of salsa at The Sanctuary was hot and definitely a nod to my California roots.

We arrived at The Sanctuary at about 9:30pm just in time for the free dance lesson. There was a beginner's class upstairs and an intermediate class downstairs. Although I'm very comfortable with the basic steps and turns of salsa, we opted for the beginner's just to refresh ourselves. The class was being lead by Myron Abernathy. He was a very likable guy (not your usual dance nazi) and took the time to simplify each step in terms that were easy to understand by even the most rhythmically challenged novice. He even clapped it up every time we got the next step. Nothing like joyful positive reinforcement. There was about 30 of us students. Surprisingly, there were just as many guys as there were girls even though many were flying solo. I love Georgia for this. The atmosphere is so inviting that twenty-something year old guys do not mind embarrassing themselves during salsa lessons in pursuit of a good time and probably some tail. Fine with me. Students ranged from drinking age to much older and every one of us was having a ball.

About an hour later, everyone stayed for the party. Drinks were poured at the bar as ceiling fans were switched on and disco lights were revved up. There were no wallflowers. Either you were drinking at the bar or sweating on the dance floor. All shapes, sizes, colors and ages were twisting and turning while being careful not to swing into other couples. Honestly, I've never had a bad time at a salsa spot and that's going back about ten years to my days in New Orleans at House of Blues' Latin night to random spots in L.A. to Northern Cali to here. I don't know why I never did salsa in Las Vegas. I think the coolest thing is that the tables are turned at a salsa club. All the women can't wait to dance with the older men. The older men who know how to salsa can twirl your ass right around that dance floor with a style and finesse that the younger men typically don't possess. These gents have this ultra cool look on their faces, their legs moving, their hands firmly guiding their partners. It's something to see...but it's even better to participate.

I envied the ladies who had dared to come out half naked. I was sweating something terrible as my own partner moved me around the dance floor. We laughed it up as we would occasionally ditch the rules of salsa and break into some African movements. It felt like we had been in there for at least three hours. In reality it had only be an hour and a half. My feet were screaming and the santini that Babe had unexpectedly ordered for me was knocking me in the head. Thus we left for our usual at Checkers while reminiscing about all-nighters back in the day. Not tonight. We had a birthday party to go to the next day and dinner with friends on Sunday. After Checkers, he'd be playing Modern Warfare 2 on XBox360 and I'd be rewatching Lost on Netflix. I can't wait until the new season comes out.

November 13th - MJQ Concourse

While I am a staunch believer in party exploration, I do also believe that every partier should have a fallback location which guarantees happy times and nice surprises. For me, since moving to Atlanta, that place is MJQ. I've been there on about four different occasions and have always left smiling, perspiring, and hungry. Those things are always the mark of a bangin' club experience. Last night's experience delivered the same, identical results.

What is it about MJQ that pleases so thoroughly while other clubs are hit or miss? First and foremost, there is no pretense. There is no dress code, no need to floss, no need to impress and no need to be anyone other than yourself. The whole point is to dance. You put on your comfortable shoes, clothes you don't mind getting funky and you go. Of course both men and women will seek out dating opportunities. Let's not forget that it's a nightclub. However, at MJQ you come as you are. While listening to Kenna, Gnarls Barkley and Talib Kweli, I threw on some jeans, some boots and my favorite tee. I was comfy and I possessed the ability to stomp around the dance floor without pain or discomfort for a minimum of three hours.

Second, MJQ opens at 11:00pm. The party gets started at 11:00pm. The DJ doesn't start out spinning garbage. He rocks it nonstop. Last night was Face Off Friday featuring DJ Rasta Root & Jah Prince with the Face Off Crew. Now there are some folks that spin records and create obvious relationships between tracks. Then there are DJs that truly mix. These folks represented the latter. As the doors opened and people gathered at the bar, all heads were nodding, and all bodies were swaying. This kind of phenomenon is precisely why DJs save lives. A good DJ doesn't delay getting you in a mindset where you can dance off any crap keeping you from enjoying the gifts of life. A good DJ reminds you that your body has the ability to heal itself through movement. A good DJ inspires you to perform even if only for an audience of one. (This blog is dedicated to Mike Olds, by the way. Dude, can't wait for your next mixtape.)

Finally, the crowd at MJQ always, always appreciates those dancers who come to really work themselves out on the dance floor. Enough space is provided for these people to dance, contort, bend, dip, dive, curve, crawl, wiggle and groove. There is no judgement. There is only respect and encouragement. Hell, we all wish we could do that sort of thing with our own bodies! Needless, to say my constant partner and I moved around that dance floor something fierce for the better part of two and half hours. My baby fro was soaked and my boots were kicking! We took a break so I could visit MJQ's one weakness....the ladies' bathroom. Never once have I visited that bathroom without finding some disaster in one of the stalls. When are they going to fix that light? Why aren't there ever any paper towels? And then, if it wasn't for the line of girls standing outside of the restroom, there is no way any first-time visitor would be able to differentiate between it and the male facility.

Nevertheless, I waited my turn to relieve myself. While in line, some guy walks up to me and asks me "What was your name again?" I looked at him and replied, "I didn't tell you my name in the first place. What's this 'again' business?" His ego bruised, he backed away with a sheepish grin. I laughed and shook my head. Young men, let's work on creating solid pick-up lines, okay? Don't be afraid to consult with an older gentlemen and ask their advice on approaching women without looking or sounding like a damn fool. Each one teach one.

November 10th - NuPop Movement Launch @ Wish

If you think about it, celebrities are those individuals who are celebrated because they dared to act or rather dared to convert their dreams into reality. The rest of the things we applaud them for are actually those attributes that WE project upon them. For instance, while living in Los Angeles, the level of disappointment I experienced after encountering a celebrity in real life never ceased to amaze me. I always expected for that movie star, or TV star or rock star to radiate some sort of mysterious oozing "it" factor. Following so many disappointments, I realized that this was unfair of me. Alas, they are ordinary people who are shorter, fatter, funnier looking and far less charismatic than their on-camera or on-air persona portrays them to be. And...they always look extremely annoyed. In person, they can't actually be their real selves because they have to deal with the fame bi-product of whatever dream they dared to chase. That must suck. Imagine having to deal with constant critique and ignorance-based judgement. I believe VIP exists for celebrities primarily to protect them from the unreasonable assault on their character. I only recall meeting one celebrity unaffected by the fame. That's Warren G. That fool will dance in the smack dab of the middle of any party with his arms raised up all night. Maybe that was his dream.

Anyhow, the annoyance factor was in full effect after dragging my ass, in the rain, to Wish in Little Five Points for the launch of a new Hip Hop inspired wrist watch entitled NuPop Movement. (Thanks, Erica for the invitation. I regret that we didn't get a chance to meet in person.) Apparently the Hip Hop community has a thing for watches with huge faces. Them and my momma. For real. My mom loves big faced watches. She can see the numbers better. Evidently Jermaine Dupri partnered with jeweler Pascal Mouawad to create this big faced fashion statement for the masses ...and my mother.

I walked in to find J.D., Monica and Big Boi posing for pictures in front of the makeshift red carpet while everyone else pretty much lined the walls gawking at them. Of the three, Big Boi looked the most annoyed. Dupri appeared to be making the most of the situation while Monica smiled fiercely and avoided eye contact. I took a couple of pictures. Looked at the big faced watches and then bounced to go see The Men Who Stare at Goats with my boyfriend. The movie proved to be an interesting take on existentialism. We enjoyed it.

Jermaine, Monica, Big Boi, thank you for sharing your time to be gawked at by members of the pain-in-the-ass general public. J.D., I hope you sold and continue to sell many watches. Big Boi, I can't wait for your next Outkast and/or solo project. Monica, I can't say that I'll be watching your show but your makeup was impeccable and I wish you the best. Um....keep standing. (???) As for the launch party itself, C'MON! We can do better! Handlers, Wish, whoever, we are dream chasers who make things happen. Here are a few event planning tips for next time.

1. Have some got-damn security at the door! Any deranged stalker could have walked in unchecked with an AK-47 under his coat, a Glock in the small of his back and a knife on his ankle.

2. Make sure you have someone stationed at the door to officialy greet any representatives of the media who dared to come out. Media amplifies your brand and helps you continue to finance the pursuit of your dream. You want to make sure your publicists build those relationships on your behalf.

3. You are or represent stardom, so wear it with pride. There are several liquor companies that would have gladly donated some of their product for the purpose of reaching your audience. That liquor could have moistened your guests' throats and buying attitudes. Additionally, your handlers could've negotiated some butler passes with hors d'ouevres to really finesse the money out of party-goer pockets. Why the hell do you think that fish Paris Hilton leaves the house every day without a red cent on her?

4. It was bright as hell in there! Everyone could see everything and therefore had no real incentive to circulate throughout the party and discover. Illuminate the red carpet and the merchandise ONLY.

5. Partner with a charity and do a dollar coat check or something during cold or rainy seasons. In this way, you make your guests (aka prospective buyers of your big faced watch and other merchandise) comfortable AND you build good will. Plus you get additional publicity through whatever promotion the charitable cause does independently.

And I'm spent.

November 8th - Fox Brothers Bar-B-Q

Many may be under the impression that living in the south means that all of us live a stone's throw away from a church, a gun shop and a good barbeque spot. That's simply not true. The nearest church is just under a mile away. I can't throw a rock that far. The gun shop is within a five minute driving distance and closes early on Sundays. As for good barbeque spots..that's a bit more tricky. Many folks, including me, have family BBQ sauce recipes that have been passed down from generation to generation. You want BBQ? Fire up your own grill and grab a beer. It's on!


The only people I know down here without a respectable barbeque grill is us. I blame that on the fact that my boyfriend is an immigrant hailing from a culture where the men don't understand that their genetic coding means that they must grill. (!!!) I still love him. I've almost entirely convinced him that we need to invest in our own grill. He's tasted the sauce. He likes. I've even gotten him to hold my mighty grilling spatula. He smiled a little. Plus, a fellow Nigerian scored his own grill for his birthday a couple of weeks ago. (Thanks, George.) The seed has been planted. Until we roll that baby home, however, we've wondered where in the heck can we get some ribs?

Oddly enough, my grill resistant boyfriend has a rib addiction. Thus, it was he who launched his own investigation into a respectable BBQ emporium. This past Friday, he was informed by a coworker that he needed to stop by Fox Brothers Bar-B-Q in Decatur. He promptly texted me and advised me that we would not hesitate to dine there this weekend. Come Sunday morning, he put on his military pants and I wore my military boots and jacket in preparation for our battle with the beef! And it was a beautiful day for meat eating, I'll tell you what. The sun was shining. There was a slight breeze in the air. Though Fox Brothers was fairly busy, there was still a table for two with our names all over it.

We scanned the menu and carefully plotted out our course. The plan was to try as much of the meat as humanly possible. Sweet Love needed to have ribs but he couldn't decide between the half or whole rack. I wanted to try both the chicken and the brisket but I didn't want to be greedy. Additionally, we both wanted a taste of the Brunswick stew, tater tots, onion rings, fried okra and perhaps a green veggie like collard greens. The waitress (we called her Bennifer) saw the anxiety on our faces and gave us more time to consider. We decided that to fulfill our chicken wishes we would score an appetizer of six hickory smoked wings with ranch dressing. Sweet Love would get the whole rack of ribs with the Brunswick stew and onion rings, while I got the sliced beef brisket with tater tots and collard greens. Sadly, the fried okra would have to wait. We were so happy with our plan that we high-fived. We're such a great team.

The food came. Okay...it was good. I mean it was damn good ....and there was so much of it. Oh America! Sweet land of gluttony. There's no way we should have eaten as much as we did but the taste kept callin' us and callin' us and callin' us. The smoked wings were so tender and the sauce had just the right combo of brown sugar and vinegar. The hickory flavor in the ribs was undeniable. Again, the meat fell away from the bone like butter. The beef brisket was just the perfect consistency and refrained from getting stuck in the back molars. Oh the sandwich that it would make! They put Lawry's on the tater tots, God bless'em. The onion rings were the size of my fists and yummy. I wasn't too keen on the collards. No, Mom makes them better. Anywho, there was no room for dessert. I don't know why Bennifer fixed her mouth to even ask us that.

We packed up the lagniappe, left Bennifer a 20% tip and waddled to the car. The plan was to walk around Piedmont Park, holding hands, discussing how savory and sinful our meal had been. However, we couldn't find a parking spot and we started talking about...stuff. By the time we did find a parking spot, we were tired. We both agreed that a nap would be the best possible decision we could make at that juncture. We went home and watched Krush Groove pretty much willing the fat to accumulate on our respective bodies. Love will kill you. Two thumbs up, Fox Brothers.

November 7th - Compound

Since, my arrival in Atlanta earlier this year, folks keep mentioning all of these great clubs and hot spots which are no longer operating. They were shut down due to violence or changes made in management or the rotten economy or a combination. However, out of the blue, I receive an email from some place called Compound. They told me that all I had to do was RSVP to their email address and show up to the club before 1am this Saturday to receive free entrance on an ordinarily $20.00 cover charge. According to my Sweet Sexy Thang, this was one of THOSE spots that was all the rage not too long ago. I happily forwarded my RSVP. Why the hell not? It couldn't be any worse than that fiasco at Underground Atlanta.

We arrived at about 11:15pm. In all honesty, the location looked crazy. It's kind of tucked away in this area that looks rather industrial. There are no big ass signs denoting that there is a club inside. Just a number of men in red coats with flash lights trying to coax people into their parking lots for a fee of $5.00. We found free parking on the street. Cool. Cool. While walking up to the door, we noticed a very racially mixed crowd. Very cool. We were patted down and they didn't allow ink pens inside. Okay, maybe someone got stabbed in the eye with a pen a while back. Fine. Safety is good. Our names were checked on the guestlist. Good, the RSVP emailing works. The venue was understated and classy, clean... even a bit expensive looking. I liked.

We got through the doors and entered an enclosed patio. It was cold as hell outside. Okay, maybe it's not that cold to a transplant from New York or Chicago or Philly but I'm originally from mild Cali and more recently, hot Vegas. It was cold. Luckily there were plenty of bars available to experience the exquisite heat that can only be received from a libation. (I'm not an alcoholic.) We stepped up to the bar to order a Long Island and a Grand Marnier with pineapple but then our kind bartender informed us that open bar was in effect with any vodka beverage. Oh Bennett the Bartender, you were so lovely for giving us that information. You are a bright shining example of how excellent service is rewarded with fatty tippage. Cranberry and vodka all around! Might I add that Bennett was not stingy with the sauce. My man!

We stepped inside to the actual dance floor. Hella Asians. I was surprised. We know that there is a large and robust Asian community here in metro-ATL from going to a Asian-American cultural festival in Doraville last month. However, until last night, I was perplexed as to where anyone else not Black or African goes to party. But then again, I was specifically looking for a techno /mash-up/hip-hop party scenario and I should have known that there would be more of a mixed crowd when the music leans in that direction. Anyhow, I got inside, took off my coat, drank my drink and started to really enjoy Lloyd's Get It Shawty played over Pitbull's I Know You Want Me beat. From then on, we pretty much danced nonstop for a good forty five minutes. Admittedly, the dance floor never completely filled up. Bennett the Bartender made sure to tell us that the club was indeed under new management and had been reserving its Saturday nights for private events. However, the economy was forcing them to build up the buzz again and get bodies back in the doors starting this very night. It was a decent, fun-loving crowd and I had no complaints. I had plenty of room to throw my 'bows and that's what I like. We took a break to enjoy more free cocktail and visit the Ally Mcbealesque bathroom. That was strange. That's just asking for an STD-spreading scenario between dancing and tequila shots. Thank goodness for monogamy.

We returned to the dance floor, where I finished my own drink and my partners, and successfully attempted to sweep da floor (the dance). DJ Baby Yu (pictured left) played some awesome sets incorporating plenty of West Coast, East Coast and Dirty South on top of high energy grooves. I didn't mind the random ambiguously lesbian chicks dancing with each other. Nor did I mind the guy grinding his woman and requesting that we photograph said grinding. Everyone looked to be of age and they smiled so sweetly for the shot in the midst of all that thrusting and jiggling. We took a couple of less provocative snapshots of our own. By the time I got finished walking it out (the dance) and then directing all of the regions of the nation to do the same, I was both tired and a little more than tipsy. We left Compound completely satisfied save for our hunger for sweet, delicious Checkers. At Checkers, we scored a double decker fish sandwich and chicken fingers. It was fresh off of the grill and absolutely wonderful. You know we had the seasoned fries. I was in slightly inebriated heaven.

But let me just tell you why the night was so ridiculously fabulous. Including gas, cover, parking, drinks, tips and a late night snack, the whole evening cost us $27.00!!! I just love happy times at bargain basement prices.

October 31st - Halloween in ATL

We all know that Halloween definitely is not what it used to be. Personally, I don't know where the blame lies. Is it because we believe that all of our neighbors are axe-wielding child molesters? Have gates locked us out of the prime areas for the best candy? Could strange, unseasonable weather be the cause of low trick-or-treat turnout? We obviously still celebrate the spooky holiday otherwise there would be no Halloween aisle at the supermarket every year or a crowd of last minute costume shoppers at Party City. I don't know. I just don't know. While preparing for my adult festivities, our house only received three doorbell rings. The last kid that requested treats didn't even have on a costume and I had to give him a plastic bag to hold his candy. I hope Halloween doesn't die by the time my kids are old enough to participate.

In Atlanta, there were parties all over the place! After dressing up in our costumes, we decided to drive around downtown before heading over to The Calabash Lounge in Stone Mountain. There is currently a Gay Pride Festival going on and in my opinion wherever there is gaiety there are sure to be great costumes. Although, I really wanted to, we didn't join the happy revellers because I didn't want to put my boyfriend through another night of uncomfortable come-ons. We passed Ixtlan, a club I've got to get to in the near future, and saw a pretty long line of skimpy costumes accompanied by pimp suits. The reggae spots on Memorial Drive, once we got into Stone Mountain ,looked to be jumpin', jumpin' and we threatened to ditch The Calabash Lounge but having committed to our original plans we went ahead and hit the place up.

Calabash was dead. At 12:30am, it was dead. At 1:00am, it was still dead. At 2:00am, it was dead. When 2:00am repeated itself, it was dead. Why? The Calabash Lounge is an African spot. Africans, as I have learned, are the original source for the practice of operating on colored people's time. There is no such thing as early. There is no getting there on time. Instead, one can count on an African affair to actually begin about three to four hours after the supposed start of the event...no matter what type of event that happens to be. Having grown up in America where earliness and punctuality are typically rewarded with the proverbial worm, I will never get used to this practice. Never. Never, never. Never, never, never. Babe and I danced in the corner for as long as we could stand before heading to R. Thomas for organic breakfast. I don't know if the party ever got started at Calabash. For all I know, as I write this blog, it may be just now starting. (I love you, African People. But...come on!)

I love eating at R. Thomas. It was the first place that Sweets and I dined when we saw each other for the first time after six years. On this Halloween, it was packed with flappers, a male Snow White, sexy Dorothies, wounded knights and even Digital Underground's Humpty (who stopped to do the humpty dance for us as he left his table.) Here we go! This is why I love Halloween. It brings out the creative, little kids in us who can no longer get away with wearing a tutu or superhero cape to the store just because. Like hope, let's keep Halloween alive.

October 29th - Skin Party: The Glow Edition @ Frequency Night Club

Hmmm. Last night - while being a strong example of places not to be attended by someone like me - served as a pleasant reminder of the both the joys and misgivings of the penniless,young 20-something days of yore. I probably should have heeded the obvious warning signs which I will list as follows:

1. The party was held at Underground ATL. Every city has a mall or shopping area which is sketchy during the day and best left undisturbed at night. Underground ATL is that one ghetto mall without any anchor chain stores and tons of cart displays. It's excellent for finding things sold on informercials or t-shirts featuring phrases that contain words like "ain't," "fo' sho," or "nahmsayin.' "'

2. There was no dress code on the invitation. It was assumed that the dress code was casual. It should have also been assumed that those likely to attend would be very young, strangely attired and most likely without the cash to purchase attire conducive to a peaceful and presumably upscale party scene.

3. Ladies were free all night long. It was a Thursday night, and though by tradition ladies night does tend to be on Thursdays, exclusive venues usually have a cut-off time for free admission.

Nevertheless, I and my perpetual date ventured out of the house listening to Mos Def's Auditorium. When we arrived downtown, I personally witnessed a block being "held down" and a couple of working girls on the track. Pulling into the Underground ATL parking garage, we were overcome by a rather ominous feeling. My boyfriend reminded me of how this place was the location of some shooting not too long ago by a rapist equipped with a cooler. I just noticed the lack of cars, a girl in need of pants and her cheerful date, and an inappropriately large number of young males loitering about the parking garage elevators. Outside of Frequency Night Club, there was a line of 80's fashion stricken, 21 year old fresh-faced girls and comically aggressive boys waiting to get in to what looked like a fairly empty venue.

Nostalgia washed over me. I thought back to my college days in New Orleans. My girl Sanita and I, on a budget of $20 each, would secure a suitable outfit and shoes, put money aside for drinks, go to Bible study and then get to the House of Blues before 12am to gain free entrance to hip-hop night. I looked at the crowd around me. Had I been this tacky? Had I been so obviously self-conscious? Had we tried to skip other people in line? Had the dudes always travelled in these crazy-looking packs? Early on, I had feared being stabbed without provocation. However, as I stopped and contemplated my past, I realized that none of these young people were going to engage in that activity. In my 20's, I had dared to go to such places because I knew other people my age would be there. Young people are frightening only because they possess a minimal amounts of reason and a maximum amount of energy. When I checked this one overly eager line-cutter, he cowered as if I was that one aunt who likes to use the belt. I relaxed. These were babies.

One of the few good things about being at a club with young bucks is that there is never a line at the bar. They don't have enough money to buy drinks. (Sadly, no wine was being served.) I immediately went to the reggae room and tied on a Tyku. We sat at the bar and watched the photographer set up while a few youth tried to dance so that no one else could actually see them dance. We laughed. There was one young guy who'd managed to secure a nice spot on a wall while a girl grinded her rump against him. I hope they knew each other. Every now and then, a half-naked chick with a weave and body paint would walk through the reggae room and into the hip-hop room. I guess these were the models who were supposed to set the theme of the party by wearing the glow-in-the dark-body paint. I was embarassed for them...partly because they were so young and partly because it was just so wrong. There was nothing artistic about the paint. It was kind of like an after-thought. One model had this "shit" walk which made me laugh as much as it made me want to protect her. Anyhow, another good thing about these types of situations is that one's old ass learns new dances. Last night, we learned how to do the "Sweep da Floor", which you can see in the video below. (My apologies for the darkness of the video. Remember how dark the clubs used to be at that age?) We both decided that we would visit a reggae spot in the near future after getting in some more cardio.

We went across to the hip-hop room where the majority of the youth were milling around. We noticed the slightly older youth making their entrances. These were mostly females who had sense enough to wear party-gear but did not yet possess the confidence to do anything more than stand in a circle with their equally shy friends waiting for some guy to buy them a drink. Sanita and I were definitely beyond our years in our day. We would triumphantly walk into the club in unison humming our theme song (Bug-a-boo) in our heads. Proudly flaunting our slim figures, we would find the center of the dance floor and generally act like we owned the club. As songs like Snoop Dogg's "Down 4 My N-words" and Crime Mob's "Knuck If You Buck" came on, our fellow partiers seemed to look around for permission before they showed any sign of individuality. Still, there were some, like this cute girl to the left, who donned their Halloween costumes with pride. You were hot, Honey. Enjoy the picture...but please be careful out there.

No, I'll never go to Frequency again. However, I was glad to have experienced what I did last night. It just made me appreciate maturity more. Until Halloween.....

October 17th - Professional Relaxation @ Aja

Sweet Jesus, it is cold out here. Winter has unofficially arrived in Northern Georgia on much earlier terms than expected...or so it seems. Perhaps, I'm late. All I know is that last night when I ventured out after what seems like a migthy long reprieve from Atlanta nightlife, I was wearing a trench coat, military boots, a scarf and fingerless armwarmers. I should have had on some ear muffs as well.

Despite the chilly weather, it was good to be invited to another Professional Relaxation shindig being held at Aja just around the corner from the absolutely fabulous Lenox Square mall in Buckhead. The feeling seemed to be shared by many. Doors opened at 11:00pm. Upon arrival at 11:30pm, the place was packed. The last time I ventured out to one of these events, I had arrived way to late and the party was pretty much wrapping up. I guess the key to enjoying these events is early arrival, realistic expectations and extremely casual attire. In comparison, the experience was like night and day. Last night's draw was the swanky Asian themed bistro, $5.00 cocktails courtesy of Smirnoff and the MC stylings of Biz Markie. Additional perks included the fact that I did not have to wait in a long line outside and free coat checking. OutPast30 Lady loves the little things.

Upon entering, I checked out the scene. It was so nice and toasty, which is probably why some of those typical young women decided to take a chance of wearing little get-ups that consisted of a scant yard's worth of material. I'm getting old. What happened to the days of understated sexy dresses baring a little cleavage and calves instead of navels and snatches? I digress. There was a sinfully large amount of people waiting to get a drink at the bar. So many people were crowded at the second bar, that I didn't even know a bar was there. I was hoping that there was another bar available upstairs, but that was reserved for a private party who was just sitting in there watching a stupid football game. I guess the game wasn't stupid. I just hate waiting for drinks or anything else for that matter. I figured I should check my makeup in the bathroom before shouldering my way to the front of the line at the bar downstairs but I changed plans after someone had apparently dropped "the bomb" in the bathroom. TOXIC.

I don't think Aja was expecting such a large turnout. I have to give it to the folks that promoted the party. It was jumpin'! There was barely elbow room on the dance floor and I do believe those actually dining at the restaurant had to be in a state of shock. The wait was terribly long at the main bar because there were only three bartenders taking orders. One of those bartenders was also handling VIP requests. The would-be lushes waiting for service lacked patience and were downright nasty at times, but I had to laugh at the guy next to me trying to get the bartender's attention. He did so by rattling off a string of random names in a pleading tone. Joe, Bob, Sammy, Nick, Brad, Chet, Steve. I've never felt so empathetically toward a barkeep, that is, until he served me that wack ass Long Island. I ordered two drinks so I wouldn't have to come back. I must have looked crazy standing there sipping off of two different drinks at the same time. However, I had to get my hands free to take pictures and throw my hands in the air once Biz Markie got on the wheels.

Biz was all the way live, spinning a very sweet mix of 90's and current crowd pleasers such as Mos Def's Ms. Fat Booty, Beyonce's Diva, Jamie Foxx's Blame It, The Fugees' Killing Me Softly and Beanie Sigel's Rock the Mic. I could have worked up a pretty good sweat, twirling around like a mad woman on the dance floor but it just didn't feel right to stay that long. I was, afterall, without the delicious company of my Sweet Sticky Thing and the whole goal was to dance off some stress before returning to his side. While he has been recuperating from an illness, I've been worrying the hell out of him by worrying so much about him. Since we both believe in the healing properties of hip gyration, he sent me to dance for both of us. I spent half my time on the dance floor furiously texting him like a crack-addicted teen with hydraulic digits. Keep us both in your prayers.

Yep, I'll go to another one of these things. Many thanks to Emecka and Professional Relaxation.

October 8th - Flu Shooting

It's not glamorous. It's not a good look. The cocktails consist of ibuprofen, orange juice and bed rest. Ain't gon be no club hoppin' if the flu's got my tail. Plus, I'm personally witnessing the flu turn my strong, vibrant boyfriend into a feverish, shivering mess. It's all over the news. It's all over the net. Hell, it's all over the world. Influenza. H1N1. Sickness. Death. Mercy!

October has always been one of my favorite months of the year. The weather transitions to a moderate mixture of warm sunlight and cool breeze. There are activities going on all over town that welcome summer vacationers back home. There's the hint of Christmas just around the corner. Costuming ideas and Halloween at the end of the month. Leaves turning to the colors of their hearts. After a month of flood waters and self-imposed early hibernation, I'm ready to revisit my new city. There's a beer festival coming up and Badu is coming to town. But when I think about the viruses that abound as I get my boyfriend to drink his kajillionth bottle of water, I dread the prospect of going out and rubbing elbows with (gasp) the infected! Therefore, for the first time in life, I headed to Walgreens today and received my flu shot.

It's the responsible thing to do as a thirty-something, all season trouble seeker. It's every bit as necessary as dental check-ups and STD (or STI) screenings. (Hello People! AIDS still exists in this country and it still kills.) I'll be the first to say that I hate shots. Having had three major surgeries over the course of my life and enough syringe pokes to last a lifetime, I'd much rather have a Coke. Alas, I don't want to get sick. So I went to get the shot and when the H1N1 vaccine is made available to me, I will get that too. We all pay tax money to support the studies and recommendations of the Center for Disease Control and Prevention and to not follow their well-educated, scientifically proven directives is more than a bit silly. I'm not a doctor, nor do I portray one on television.

Walgreens is...Walgreens. I don't know what it is about pharmacies. They always seem to be packed with people who don't look like they have any good reason to be there. Sure, there are the snotty-nosed kids and the stooping elderly but there also tends to be a great deal of able-bodied, well-dressed men. Are they there for Viagra? I also always manage to hear yet another reason why our healthcare system needs an overhaul. It seems that the Walker family was also there to get their flu shots. One Walker gentlemen had Medicare, therefore his preventative flu shot was covered. His gainfully employed niece, however, had very good health coverage from her job...but the shot wasn't covered. She didn't mind paying the $25.00 to get the shot. The lady behind the counter explained how most insurance won't cover the vaccine. Doesn't make a lick of sense. Hmmm, something that will most likely prevent the ERs from being packed and people from losing days at work and insurance won't cover it. Dumb! The whole process took about twenty minutes. I filled out some paperwork. Watched the pharmacist prep my shot. Got my shoulder cleaned with some isopropyl. Felt a slight prick. Got a bandage slapped on me and then left.

Since my boyfriend is currently stricken, our doctor friends also recommended that I take Tamiflu. I asked what that would cost me and they replied that it would be about $100.00. That's when I lost it. That's comparable to charging $50 for a loaf of bread or $87 for a bottle of water or $72 for a gallon of milk. Again, this is something that will most likely cut costs, time and heartache in so many ways but the powers that be are going to GD charge an arm and a leg for it because of the law of supply of demand. Ugh. All I want to do is party out in public without fear of catching the heebies. In the words of Biggie..."Damn, why they tryin' to stick for my paper?"

August 29th - Las Olas Riverfront

As much as I wanted to hit South Beach in Miami, I never made it. There was plenty to do right there in Fort Lauderdale. In downtown Fort Lauderdale there is a never ending strip of bars and nightclubs that feature ridiculously cheap or free cover, liquor sponsors passing out free drinks and plenty of dance music to foster a respectable thirst for the happy, frolicking lush. It was pretty absurd of us to scoff at the five dollar cover at the first place we visited. I've never heard of a cover being five dollars. Alas, we were on a mission to party for free. We landed at Sidebar. After leisurely drinking a couple of vodka cocktails, I danced with friends and my boyfriend's brother Matthew to a medley of Michael Jackson hits. That man left us far too soon. I hope we celebrate his birthday every year the way those Elvis freaks do. (Ha! Someone will be calling me a Michael Jackson freak in twenty years.)

I have no idea why our party decided to leave Sidebar. I was having a fine time dancing with this cat who had absolutely no dancing abilities whatsoever. But then again, the idea was to club hop in Fort Lauderdale and I guess that would require visiting more than one club. Outside, the sidewalks thronged with party goers all dolled up in season appropriate fashion. I'd never been more proud of myself for wearing flat shoes. Gone are the days of sacrificing comfort for good looks. Give me a matching flat and I'll show you a happy, 30-plus camper all night long.

Our host, my bf's youngest brother Anthony, wanted to show us one particular club known as Living Room because of its swanky setup. However, he was reluctant to go because it was gay night. The rest of us assured him that we were all cool with partying with the gays but I could understand why he, a hetero, would be apprehensive. If I were a gay man Anthony would be the first guy upon which I'd hit. Additionally there was far more female eye candy at the other spots. However, he and I really needed to use a restroom facility and we knew that Living Room would absolutely let us in for the sweet price of free. Thus, we ventured into the Vegas reminiscent nightclub swarming with slim, good looking men wearing brightly colored polos. LOL. Everyone looked to be having a great time. There was no pushing or shoving. Just smiling and effeminate neck posturing.




I pushed my way to the front of the bathroom line and was met with a rather interesing issue. The line for the men's room was filled with men.The line for the ladies' room was filled with men. For some reason, the men's room seemed to be moving faster. I stood my female ass in the men's room line. There were two urinals and one stall. I let the guy behind me know that he was more than welcome to take the next available urinal. He felt that I should lay claim to that urinal and offered to give me a boost if I wanted to squat over it. I respectfully declined despite urging from two other lisping gentlemen in line. When the men's stall became available, I realized why the ladies' line was moving at a snail's pace. Two men came flouncing out of the men's single stall as if they had just completed some very important business. It was a sure bet that the stalls in the ladies' room were also occupied by those seeking a special kind of privacy. I peed, washed my hands and then scooted out of there before I saw anything that I didn't want to see. Men.

Afterwards, Anthony and I went looking for the rest of our party in the other rooms of the club. I captured some pretty interesting video and photos. For instance, the lady (who was really a man) dancing on top of the bar with the really cute skirt or the lady (who was really a man) that was dancing on top of a platform in the circular shaped room. Then there were the bartenders who wore nothing but speedos. I was pretty sure they were being tipped well. Also, there were the shemales who were far too hot to put on clothes and were proud to show off their hairless bodies by writhing frantically in front of us all (see video below). Good times.

We left Living Room after reuniting with the rest of the bunch and went to a club playing reggaeton. I hate reggaeton. It seems like a music I should like since I like both latin music and reggae music, but I don't. After going to that club, I hated it even more. As I made my way toward the back of the bar, I was accosted by the incredibly drunken Andre. We've all encountered an Andre in our lives. He's that guy that is initially polite when he asks you to dance but soon reveals his inner creep by being way too touchie-feelie and refusing to take no for an answer. I made sure I took a photo of him in order to warn any other visitor to Fort Lauderdale from Atlanta or abroad. He's a molester! Don't dance with him or even look at him. I left reggaeton bar and went back to Sidebar where we soon ended the night about fifteen minutes later. Except for Andre aka Chester, I had a great time. I'll be back.

August 27th - Fort Lauderdale Beach

Living on the east coast of these United States has many benefits. Neighboring states are just hours away...each with their own, distinct personalities and attractions, almost like alien planets that one can reach out and touch, discover and explore. Admittedly, a ten hour drive does have it's challenges but the prize that awaited us on Florida's southern coast was well worth it.

We touched down in Fort Lauderdale right around midnight after passing about a kajillion evangelical billboards and paying an arm and a leg worth of toll on the turnpike. In the night, the ocean was a mysterious, dark whisper flanking our hotel. Eight hours later, it was a sunlit and sparkling utopia luring us sleepy heads to its shore.

I hadn't been to the beach in what seemed like ages. I lived in Long Beach, California back in 2000 and sadly took it for granted. I'd recently enjoyed a bonfire at a San Franciscan beach during an unusually warm night but that doesn't count. Going to the beach means taking a beach towel and an umbrella, wading out into the water, tasting the salt of the sea and then baking in the sun on glistening granules. We crossed the street from the hotel and removed our sandals before stepping into the sand. The morning air was not cool but instead warm like socks out of the dryer. My feet sunk into the sand with each step towards the water. I stopped to pick up a couple of seashells, perfectly formed and brilliantly white. Tentatively touching my toes (I love alliteration) to the foaming water, I was surprised out how warm it was. Like bathwater. I waded out a little deeper, drawing up the hem of my dress, mistaking little blue fish for seaweed as they rubbed against my leg.

Oh goodness, no wonder why people retire here! Wouldn't it be nice? To be old and overweight and not giving a damn as you bare your half-naked sagging and flatulent body to the sea and the southern summer sky. Your grandbabies are of no concern to you as they flit about the beach flinging sand at each other. Let their hard-headed parents worry. Oh yes, this your time at this lovely beach, thinking lovely thoughts until it's time to visit a buffet.

I turned to my boyfriend and asked when we would return to this paradise, to which he replied "as soon as humanly possible."

August 25th - Apres Diem

Apres Diem has become a pretty regular watering hole for me since relocating to Atlanta. I can always count on it to be open late any day of the week. The ambiance is really cool and chill. The drinks are mixed well. The lighting is dark. The music is fitting. On this particular night, I really, really needed a good drink. It's not that I delight in the so-called lush life. Rather, there are those occasions in one's adult life where a buzz brought on by alcohol is both required and appreciated.

On Wednesday, my boyfriend and I will be travelling by car to Miami, Florida to attend his youngest brother's graduation ceremony from Nova University. It will be a ten hour car ride. We will rent a little bungalow with a kitchen just three miles from Fort Lauderdale Beach. I will formally meet my boyfriend's father and I will be hanging out with his entire immediate family. I'm great with families and under any other circumstances I would be totally chill about the whole venture. However, my boyfriend's father is a proud Igbo man who wants nothing more than for his eldest son to marry a proper Nigerian and preferably Igbo woman. I was born in Vallejo, California. Therefore, I was a little on edge as I carefully packed my suitcase and gathered the rest of the things that would be needed for our little vacation. Just as I was ironing the last couple of shirts to place in my suitcase, Berenstein the cat decided to express his displeasure at the idea of me leaving by peeing directly into that same suitcase.

After chasing Berenstein about the house and threatening his life with promises of a drowning in Sweetwater Lake, I put all of my clothes back in the washing machine and started to wash the pungent smell of feline urine out of my suitcase. I was pretty much on the verge of tears when I accidentally tore a hole in my favorite sun dress. At that point I began to cry primarily to keep from screaming repeatedly at the top of my lungs. At that point, Sweetheart decided that I needed a drink. I agreed.

Driving to Apres Diem, the Atlanta night feels like a warm hug. He holds my hand and gives a good squeeze. We arrive and I drink a pineapple amaretto followed by something called a KGB. I'm told it's made with Kahlua, Bailey's, and grand marnier. I'm definitely going to keep that particular concoction in my regular libation rotation. Oh God, I can't wait to get that sand on my toes and the Atlantic washing over me.