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.

Flashback - Why Tequila is a No-No

As I've gotten older, I've done a much better job at learning my limits especially when it comes to alcohol. After living and drinking in New Orleans, Los Angeles and Las Vegas, I've learned the following:

1. When you weigh 115 lbs soaking wet, an extra large Hurricane on Bourbon Street is a really bad idea.

2. More than one tall can of Steel Reserve can drive anyone with good sense to streak through the corridors of a Beverly Hills rock star's mansion.

3. Multiple rounds of tequila should NEVER be consumed while sitting in the hot desert sun.

There are interesting stories to go with each of these lessons, but I'll share the third.....

Quite a while ago, while living in Las Vegas, I used to work as a salesperson for an electronic media group. During each week, this group would have remote broadcasts or satellite radio shows to promote local businesses. On occasion, these remote broadcasts would be held at a really cool location such as Blue Martini, The Palms, or Hawaiian Tropic Zone. When such an event was held at a bar, it was a pretty sure bet that there was either a drink special going on or the organizing sales associate would receive comps from the menu. Thus, I was happy to accept the invitation when a good sales associate friend invited me to one such event on The Strip. Let's call her "Rosa."

I arrived at about 3:00pm. After hugs and "how are you's" we settled in on the top balcony of the establishment and got ourselves comfortable at the bar. The poison would be margaritas. Now, I don't tend to do tequila in any way shape or form. For me, it produces rather bad decision-making and a terrible hangover. But being around Rosa did always bring out the worst in me. She's just that kind of a friend and we don't hang that often. About three hours later, the sun was still burning a hole in my back and we were still drinking because neither of us knew that we were tipsy. Another hour goes by and everything gets ridiculously funny. Another hour goes by and we start harassing some of the men nearby. Another fifteen minutes passes and I come to my senses a tad. I noticed I'm not maintaining good posture on my stool and the bartenders are giving me and Rosa dirty looks. I start tapping Rosa on the shoulder but she's in rare form now. She wants another drink but we've both been cut off. We go downstairs to another bar to score and then head back upstairs. At this point, Rosa falls backwards off of her stool.

I'm thinking Oh Christ! This has gone too far. I have to get my act together. No more margaritas and I should be fine and then I can help my friend not make a total ass of herself. I call some guys that we know and start drinking water. By this time, it is way to late. There is no way that we'll be able to drive either of our cars to escape. The managers of the joint were probably in their office making banned signs for each of our sloshed faces. The guys arrived and offered not to take us home but instead to take us to the Hard Rock. Great idea. We headed over to the Hard Rock. After getting out of the car, I found a trash can and got rid of some of the alcohol sifting around in my belly. This was so not a pretty moment for me.

We got into the club at the Hard Rock, found the VIP section and then just stood there in a circle facing each other. I was downing as much water as possible. I looked at Rosa, now cross-eyed, smiling like an idiot, pinching the rears of passersby. I decided that the best place for me would be the cool confines of a restroom stall. After what seemed like three and a half years, I secured a stall, sat down and immediately fell into a deep coma. While I was dreaming of ice packs and soft pillows, Rosa was making an odd circuit throughout the dance club. According to her report, she managed to dance on a few tables, nearly get into a fight and explore the unknown lesbian side of herself by making out with a blond girl. About an hour and a half later, I woke up feeling pretty refreshed and made my way out to the festivities. The rest of my party rushed towards me asking where I'd been. In the bathroom! I guess it was time to go home before Rosa did a striptease or something.

All in all, I don't think I behaved too badly that night. However, not being able to control one's liquor intake is never a good look at any age. I guess I share this story to further promote the idea of being safe and making wiser decisions. I have so much to live for and I am definitely far from being indestructible. To tequila, as to many other ridiculous things, I just say no. Call it maturity.

August 8th - Wedding in Birmingham

Between you and I, lies an exquisite ache, a satisfying hunger, insanity with a purpose and abiding adoration. For all of these things, I am thankful....*

In all honesty, weddings and wedding related acitivities (except for consummating) tend to rate really high on my "sucks-a-lot" meter. Out of the seven events I've attended, only two have not made me want to throw back my head and scream repeatedly while clawing desperately at the heavens. It just seems that I've witnessed an unfair amount of tomfoolery for such a life-changing occassion. There was the groom that had to be prodded to say "I do" to a woman with whom he had four children; the drunken minister who was given the task of announcing the location of the reception; the wedding participants who seemed to have no respect for the concept of time limits; and finally the 75 year old grandmother who backed that thang up with the ferocity of a meth-addicted stripper in a great deal of debt. Not to mention the so-called "dry" weddings. (Two people are deciding to literally attach themselves at the hip in every way conceivable and not one person needs to take a shot? Please!) Nevertheless, the older I get, the more weddings to which I get dragged. I see no end in sight.

This particular wedding was really nice and even relaxing for a change. We drove from Atlanta to Birmingham singing along to Nat King Cole's Re: Generations and Common's Like Water for Chocolate. We enjoyed the beautiful Alabaman scenery with its many trees and lakes. We celebrated the thought of a night without the company of a perpetually cheery dog and two contemptuous cats. We marvelled at how life has changed much since the carefree days of college. We discussed the challenges of politics inside and outside of the African-American community. We practiced using Irish accents. We talked about finding somewhere to eat some BBQ.

The wedding itself was beautiful. Not because of the decorations or the color scheme, but more so because of the joy in the air. With some couples, you just know they are going to be okay. You can feel that they are making the right decision. You understand that you are witnessing the real thing. It was comforting to see the bride and groom exchange their vows with big, bright smiles on their faces. At the dessert reception (which is a very smart idea) we took in the scenery. It was held at Rucker Place at Five Points South. There was a trio of musicians in the corner covering Stevie Wonder hits and old jazz standards. A mixture of generations filled the room, snacking on chocolate covered strawberries and sipping sweet tea. Again, it was nice. Touching even.

After leaving the festivities, we'd planned to hit the streets of Birmingham and cut the proverbial rug. However, after dining at Outback Steakhouse and making the acquaintance of a woman possessing both an Australian and Southern accent (very strange), we decided that we couldn't resist the lure of cable television in a quiet, climate-controlled hotel suite. We stayed up until 3:00am being utterly confused by the Japanese animation on Adult Swim and prodded by the plethora of sales pitches on the barrage of infomercials.

*For T.C.

July 31st - Neighbor's Pub

Friday night, we accidentally found ourselves in a gay bar. Don't get me wrong. Gay bars are nothing new to me. I've frequented various venues of the homosexual persuasion in every major city I've lived. The crowd is cool and there's no pressure on me to be any sort of way but relaxed. In New Orleans, Oz offered excellent music and dancing as well as cheap drinks. In L.A., Club Lingerie was a mixed crowd and tended to be frequented by French tourists wearing tight pants who always made for intriguing conversation. In San Francisco....well, it's San Francisco. In Las Vegas, that one spot over by The Green Door had the best cheap cocktails and not a soul bothered you plus there was a really cool improv show next door at the shop that sold BDSM gear. It's not that I hadn't planned on giving at least one gay bar a chance in Atlanta but it's just always a strange experience to find yourself in a gay bar when you're not expecting it. The vibe is just different and requires an adjustment of perspective. It's not bad. Just different.

So we had arrived too early for festivities at MJQ and we didn't want to lose our fabulous parking space. I noticed the sign for Neighbor's Pub and said, "C'mon Babe, let's grab a drink until our spot opens." We walked about fifty feet and there we were. We sat down at the bar. I looked around. Noticed a couple in the corner by the pool table and several men sitting around the bar. No big deal. There was a little table sign letting us know that they served $3 Long Island Ice Teas. Sweet. That's what I'll be drinking. The bartender was knee deep in conversation with some dirty blond chick so he didn't get over to us right away. Whatever. We had an hour to kill anyway.

I looked to the left, there was a black guy with an obsessively manicured mustache wearing a baby blue button down staring at us. Was he staring at me or more so at my man? I couldn't tell. I looked away. Some white guy wearing a baseball cap with a pair of stunner shades on top was sitting to our right and asked Love to toss a book of matches at him. He didn't use the matches. Instead, he immediately got on his cell phone. Odd. I looked back to the left. Manicured mustache still staring. Behind him was a picture of Marilyn Monroe and across from her was a rainbow clock with Jagermeister across the front. Never seen that before. Looked back to the right and there was a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. A disco ball in a bar. Novel. The bartender finally stopped talking and sashayed over to us. Gay guy with an interesting t-shirt. Cheery disposition. Cool. We ordered our drinks. There was no Bud Light on tap, so dude offered Love an American beer called Yuengling as he mixed my drink. I tasted the beer. Obama should have drank that at his racism-squashing meeting. Across the bar from us sat two thin chested white guys wearing bright green and yellow polo shirts. Their hair was cut in that way where they had to constantly brush their bangs out of their faces. An extremely large black woman wearing a wig, flower print dress and hot pink lipstick walked in. The third Prince song in a row came on the juke box.

I looked at Love and asked the question. Are we in a gay bar? To which he replied, I think we just might be. We shrugged at each other and smiled. Then a very strange thing happened.

A tall, skinny black man walked over to the bar and got extremely close to Love. He looked over at us and asked us how we were doing. Fine. Then he began to talk about how his night was faring and how he would much rather be travelling through Europe at this juncture. He commented on how the bartender talked too damn much and should have had his ass over here taking orders for drinks instead of socializing. He asked me what I was drinking. I told him. He said the price for the Long Island was unbeatable. Love looked excruciatingly uncomfortable as the stranger kept on bumping shoulders with him. The social butterfly of a bartender made his way over to us. Stranger ordered his drink and offered to buy me my next round. Not us. Just me. I told him I was fine. He insisted, persisted, got downright pushy. Love's lips got tight. I declined in the firmest voice I could muster without being unpleasant. He finally walked away. Love and I looked at each other. I rubbed his back. The bartender walked over and explained how he would have told that motherfucker to fuck off.

About ten minutes later, stranger approached again offering drinks rather forcefully. I told him that no means no. He said he liked my spunkiness. His name was Darrell and he was a manager for Pizza Hut. He explained how Pizza Hut was doing pretty well despite the economy because it was nutritious and white people loved it. It took all of my willpower to maintain a straight face and I still think I rather failed. Love, being the smart ass that he is, asked about the competition like Papa John's. This made Darell quite upset. "Fuck Papa John's!!!" Darrell exclaimed. Love grabbed my hand and squeezed. This was almost too much to bear. This guy was going to have to get the hell away from us before we peed on ourselves. Finally, he did walk away. We decided that we needed another drink. The bartender served us another round and put it on Darrell's tab. That would show Darrell's ass. We doubled our tip for the bartender and I left him an outpast30.blogspot.com calling card. Yes, this was soooo going to get blogged about.