April 27th - Clermont Lounge

Eh Meh Geh! I think I’m still tipsy from last night. I’m going to pay for this for the next eight hours of copywriting I have to do. I don’t care. It was worth it. In the midst of celebrating my 32nd birthday week, I made the insane decision to go to Clermont Lounge. Now what exactly would possess me to go to a strip club/dive bar on a Tuesday night? I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to do something out of the ordinary. Plus it was karaoke night.

A little history. Clermont Lounge is the only remaining operational portion of the Clermont Hotel. Clermont Hotel was built back in 1924 and served as apartments for many years before officially becoming a motor hotel. Eventually, it was condemned because it quite literally was a hot mess. However, the Clermont Lounge is still alive and kicking. Opened in 1965, it is officially the first and longest running strip club in Atlanta. I’d heard about the place from a couple of acquaintances way back when I first moved here. They referred to it as the place where strippers go to die. If you Google it, then you’ll find all kinds of reviews about its randomness. It’s just one of those places that you have to see. Hence, I chose to see it last night.

We got there at about 11:00pm, parked and took a couple of pictures of the exterior since no cameras would be allowed inside. We were greeted by this ruffian, bearded, motorcyclist-looking bouncer guy. After showing him our IDs, we entered. The interior had one of those root beer glows to it. You know. Brown and murky. To our left was the stage for karaoke and a collection of tables and chairs. In front of us was a juke box which was only allowed to be operated by the strippers. To the right was a horseshoe shaped bar lined with some sort of padding for the elbows and adorned with various bumper stickers. Dancing on a stage in the middle of the bar was a very naked and very tattooed bleach blond woman who had to be in her late 30s. She had a fairly fit body and very perky implants. We sat down at the bar to order a beer and a cocktail. Two and a half drinks and three strippers later, I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

Here’s the thing. None of the strippers were young. None of them had pin-up bodies. One of them -her name was Solai- didn’t even get naked. Instead, Solai kind of pranced around in these really cute boots. After Sweetheart gave me some tip cash, I gave Solai a dollar and asked her where she got those bad boys. She thanked me graciously before telling me. When Sweetheart called her “queen” she flashed some nipples our way. The next lady had to be at to be 50...at least. Her body had definitely seen better days but she pranced around coyly and then spanked herself for us. We tipped her too. I think the icing on the stripper cake was this really meaty chick. She made her ass clap. I applauded. That takes talent. We tipped her and then discussed how I should go about practicing that same move at home.

I can’t tell you how ridiculously entertained I was. Initially, I felt like I was watching someone’s cookie-baking mother strip but then I realized that these were just real women. Real women have flab and stretch marks. Real women age. But that doesn’t stop them from being in touch with their inner freak, nor does it dictate that they should be ashamed to do so. I don’t think any of these women were stripping because it was the only thing they could do to make money. In fact, status quo would tell them to keep on every inch of their clothing. Instead, I want desperately to believe it was a choice to give the middle finger to conventional notions of beauty. I’m not mad.

After conversing with this guy named Joshua about Sweetheart’s cocktail and the coolest U.S. cities in which to party, we made our way over to a table in front of the karaoke stage. I was pretty lit by then so I can’t even begin to recall what some of the folks were singing. Wait. I do believe that someone sang the theme song to Family Matters. One couple sang A Whole New World. It was pretty terrible. Finally, I got up and sang Prince’s Darling Nikki. I must have put on some show because one of the strippers came over to the stage and tipped me. LOL!!! After I sat down, I was all set to go up again and do Alanis Morisette’s You Oughta Know but Sweetheart reminded me that it was about half past 1 and I still had to go to work at 7:30 in the morning. Poo. Begrudgingly, I agreed to leave.

I had an awesome time. It was so cool because there was no pretense and everybody had a real chill attitude. I like that. Plus, I got to wear these wedge heels I’ve only worn once for the past eight years I’ve had them. It’s the little things.

April 23, 2010 – Loca Luna and MJQ

Last week, I decided this past Friday night would begin the week long celebration of my 32nd birthday. It started off fantastic. By the wee hours of the morning on Saturday, I was in a much more pensive mood. I’m beginning to think that each anniversary of my time spent on earth is meant to be a period of reflection amidst the sordid revelry. Let me explain.

We had every intention of going salsa dancing at Sanctuary with some other happy couples but they ended up flaking. So, we decided to call up a newly single friend of ours for tapas at Loca Luna and dancing at MJQ. As we sipped mango mojitos and dined on plantains at Loca Luna, it seemed the theme of the night was matured sexuality. What is the protocol for re-entering the dating-with-a-purpose scene once one is past a certain age? What are the expectations? How does one plug into their inner sex appeal? What is flirtation? What games are no longer worth playing? I think every unmarried thirty-something is trying to figure this out as they determine what comes next.

We rode over to MJQ at about 11:00pm to find a pretty vacant party scene. After paying the $5.00 cover, we decided to stay put. Things normally picked up pretty quickly and we were enjoying the renovations. Much to our surprise, MJQ had updated the underground walls with colorful, spray painted murals. The men’s and women’s bathroom were now distinguishable from the outside! Upon entering the women’s bathroom, I found they’d expanded it to four fully operational stalls and painted the interior a soft rose hue. They’d also managed to hang a mirror which actually had a clear reflection. Way to go, MJQ! Additionally, they now had a coat check service. That’s about where my delight ended.

We’d apparently come to the wrong party. That night, a worthy crowd didn’t gather until about 12:30. In that hour and a half we were an audience to the usual nightclub peculiarities. Folks like to line the room drinking their courage while a few rhythmically challenged creatures of the night can not help but to hop around haplessly on the dance floor. That evening, it was a young college girl who looked like she had a fire burning in her belly. I wasn’t mad at her. Ten years ago, I was that girl. Then there were the drunk chicks who were on a mission to be screwed. They’re always easy to spot. They tend to be a little bit dressier and a lot more drunk than the rest of the ladies. They part their legs wide to dance in really, really short skirts. Come to think of it, they don’t actually dance. They writhe. And they’ll do so with the first guy bold enough to buy of whatever they're selling. In the middle of watching one of these girls bent over backwards on the dance floor, I started coughing uncontrollably. Can you believe that? After six years of living in the smoking free-for-all that is Las Vegas, the cigarette smoke was actually bothering me.

I drank some water and started to focus on the music. The DJ left much to be desired. For an hour or so, he played some West Coast and East Coast favorites a la Tupac, Jay-Z and Biggie Smalls but it was nothing to turn flips over. After the nostalgia wore off, I found myself terribly bored by the ridiculously slow beats. Has hip-hop always been so slow or have I just been that much more into House lately? I waited patiently for some reggae or some Floridian booty-shaking music to be mixed in but it didn’t happen. Instead, I looked out over a scene of young drunks in a seemingly perpetual state of sex simulation. Again, I tried to focus on the song lyrics. I then came to the conclusion that I no longer wish to hear about any penis for which I do not have an exclusive interest. Additionally, I realized that some Hip Hop songs are just not meant to be listened to in a club setting. For instance, Renee by Lost Boyz is depressing. Why the hell would I want to do the Cabbage Patch to that?

My boyfriend realized a change had come over me. Inside, I’d actually begun to write in my head. Outside, I was experiencing a contact high. Since when did every third person in a nightclub find it necessary to smoke a blunt right on the dance floor? Had it always been this way? Yes indeed, I was high as hell. It was time to go. The first thing I uttered as I breathed non-Chronic air was, “I’m getting old.” I don’t know what I was more dismayed by. Was it the music? Was it the involuntary smoke out? No. I think it was the dancing or lack thereof. Don’t get me wrong. I’m as big a fan of lewd and lascivious behavior as anyone else. But, I’ve come to believe that sexuality should be more than a walking, talking commercial for doggy-style. Sensuality is so much better when it is understated. A glance of the eye. A fire in the gait. The movement of a bare shoulder. Thoughtfully applied scented oil. Clever, never obvious, innuendo. And while a sinfully, lustful sexual encounter can have its pleasures, it is so much better to have the ability to make real love all day with someone deserving of one’s time. You hear me? These days, true romance to me is falling into a drool-inducing slumber after eating spicy pepper soup and then awakening to find that my lover has placed the leftovers in Tupperware. That kind of flirtation will have me hanging naked from a chandelier with an electric hand mixer in one hand and raspberry flavored massage oil in the other. (Please direct all inquiries to outpast30lady@gmail.com. I’m not even going to begin to explain that trick in this blog.)

Anyhow, maturity is having its way with me.

Tuesdays at Java Lords

American author Jack London once said, You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. During the past couple of months, I really needed to kick myself in the pants to sit down and write. I don't know what it was. I was going places and seeing strange things.

My inner narrative was chattering up a storm but when it came time to write, I just couldn't make myself sit down in front of the computer. The past couple of weeks has reminded me to never fail to use and share my gift.

I know I'm supposed to be writing. Yes, the content is sometimes questionable but I'm supposed to be the crazy scribe that I am. The Universe proclaims it.

In February, for inspiration's sake, I began frequenting a coffeehouse in Little 5 Points. The name of the place is Java Lords. I must say that the hot white chocolate there is to die for! Sweets and I discovered this place on a particularly cold afternoon while buying Bilal/Foreign Exchange tickets. You can order any coffee or hot chocolate or hot tea and spike it with a variety of flavored syrups. White hot chocolate with hazelnut and raspberry! Mercy! I'm drooling...but that's neither here nor there. I asked the hippie-esque barista if they have an open mic night. She said yes, every Tuesday night starting at 9. During open mic, Java Lords features $3 beer and a $3 cocktails special. Like I wasn't going to go. Puh. Leeze.

So the following Tuesday, I went for the first time and watched about five or six different acts. There was this old dude playing a guitar and singing. He did both things terribly. I'm serious. It was not good. However, the crowd was so polite. There was not a smirk or sneer on anyone's face except for my own. Out of shame, I tried my best to look pleasant and then finally I just decided to text someone. I possess no poker face. Once old dude finished crooning, the crowd applauded appreciatively. How nice is that? No heckling or anything. Just an appreciation for the enormous balls it takes to bear one's soul to a crowd of strangers. That's cool. Reason #38 for my current romance with Atlanta, Georgia.

Next up was an Igbo comedian by the name of Odinakachukwu. (I dare you to try to pronounce that.) He was telling Black jokes in a predominantly White crowd. Ha. I probably laughed the loudest and most often.

We are now Facebook friends. He was followed by a couple of forgettable, angst-ridden guitarists who whined rather incoherently over home grown melodies.

I sighed. I smiled. I clapped politely. After this cool magician did a couple of tricks, I made my exit and vowed to return the following week.

The next week, the old dude who'd gone first on last week took to the stage again. He was no less drunk and no less horrible at both his strumming and his grunting into the mic. What I made myself notice was his extreme level of commitment.

I like when people commit. In time and with less alcohol, he will improve. About three more acts went on as I drank my fruity cocktail and waited for Cousin Von to arrive.

Then this trio out of Austin, Texas got up on the mic and what they did was beautiful. I will let the following video speak for itself.

I can't recall what the name of their group was (The Blue Mints?!?!?) but I will never forget the way I felt as I watched them perform. They moved me. Their whole vibe seemed....pure. As if they were doing what they loved in the hope of reaching some momentarily captive ear to share a bit of their version of soul. It's not unlike what I'm attempting to do with this blog or anything else I write. I just want to share with someone... anyone who's willing to read a few paragraphs. Maybe stir up some shock or revelation or laughter or the feeling of knowing that someone else out there is thinking the same ridiculous thing I am. So it took me a month and some change to write down this particular piece. Sue me.

April 2nd - The Velvet Room

I just know my girl, Tanisha, has been waiting on this one with her crazy ass. I love you, Tanisha! Okay. So following my experience at the Pink Floyd concert, my boyfriend and I hightailed it over to The Velvet Room in Chamblee. We arrived at about midnight or a little bit thereafter.

I'd never been to The Velvet Room and I can't say that I would have gone if it hadn't been for Tanisha or the fact that Biz Markie was going to be spinning. The Velvet Room is often promoted by a few of the local radio stations and I am a bit of a party snob. It's not that I think I'm too good for any venue. I just don't like to be shot...as I've mentioned before. Over the past few years, The Velvet Room has been the scene for many a gun crime. Oh well. There we were.

When we arrived, I couldn't believe that this much lauded club shared a parking lot with Big Lots. I had to take a picture. They charged us 20 dollars to park at Big Lots. I'm not even going to say what it cost for us to skip the line. Let's just say it was the equivalent of three tanks of gas...or two sushi dinners for two...or a utility bill payment...or an HOA payment.

Let me digress here for a minute. Just the fact that I compared a club cover to an HOA payment is a clear and present sign that I'm tiring of this sort of scenario. Perhaps I should do concerts or other extra-ordinary events from now on...unless I'm in Vegas. But anywho...

We got in and again there was no reason on earth why those people standing in line outside couldn't gain access. We crossed a fairly empty expanse of the dance floor before having to wade through a crowd of people not dancing, but instead standing around looking at all of the other people standing around. I don't get it, Colored People. What's that about? Your feet hurt? You came to a dance club not to dance?!?! I pulled out my cell phone and started texting Tanisha to find her location. Of course, she was in VIP. She came out to meet us, we took pictures and giggled and danced a little for about ten minutes when Biz Markie took to the turn tables.

Ahh finally! Sweet, sweet, classic Hip Hop. Not that current rap crap they try to pass off as music. He spun a bunch of the classics back to back to back to back. The crowd sang or rapped along. Damn, those songs were old.

Which means we're old. I reject that. I feel like a wiser, more experienced 14 year old with a cool wardrobe. I don't know why everyone in the club was facing the DJ stand instead of just dancing, but whatever.

I guess they were trying to get a gander at Grandmaster Flash. Yes, THE Grandmaster Flash was there and started spinning. I thought of how my older sister and brother would have just loved to be here. I really gotta get them to move to Atlanta.

Following the spin show, Rob Base came on stage with some unknown singing guy. Where the hell was DJ EZ Rock? At that point, Tanisha disappeared with her random Caribbean date. (Girl, where the hell do you find these guys?) We managed to get through Rob Base's performance without being thoroughly annoyed. He didn't really rap any songs. He just kept talking to us and asking us if we remembered old Hip Hop songs. Yes, WE REMEMBER ALREADY! Sigh. Thankfully, he left and then Whodini came on stage. Those guys looked exactly the same! Maybe a little wear and tear here and there...but we all know that black don't crack. They looked good. And lo and behold, there was Tanisha's crazy behind dancing on stage right along with them. I don't know how she manages to always do that. You'll see her in the video with the long hair and baby doll dress singing One Love. Go Crazy!

After their performance, I was done. There is only so much I can tolerate of random people crossing the floor and bumping into me for no apparent reason. This one Lycra-covered lady must have criss-crossed the floor four different times. She was way too big to be moving around like that. She's going to have to make up for that calorie loss with hella cake. Between that and this random smiling guy, I had to leave. He just kept standing there looking me directly in the face and smiling like that boy on the cover of Mad Magazine. Now that I think of it, he must have been high on Ecstasy or something. Now, he knows he was too old for that! It was a grown and sexy party! And probably my last general public grown and sexy party in the ATL. I'm sticking to the immigrant night clubs or strictly exclusive affairs. PEACE!

April 2nd - The Machine plays Pink Floyd with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra

This outing was particularly random considering that I am SO unfamiliar with Pink Floyd's music. One day in March, my boyfriend announces that we're going to a Pink Floyd concert some time in April. I'm all really?!?! Don't get me wrong. I love rock music. In fact, I love all kinds of music except for that slow Mexican music with all the horns and stuff. It kind of grates on my nerves and you can't really dance to it. But seriously, I love System of a Down, Rage Against the Machine, Disturbed, Incubus, Tool, Chevelle and many more bands. I can't say that I ever really dabbled in much rock coming out of the 60's and 70's but I'm open. I was kind of shocked by my boyfriend because I listen to way more rock than him. However, he was interested in this concert because he loves a Wyclef Jean remake of a Pink Floyd song called Wish You Were Here. Plus it was a chance to hang out with this really cool couple we know, Stellion (awesome name) and Deniece. The only song I know by Pink Floyd is Another Brick In the Wall but hey, it's all good.

We got down to the Woodruff Arts Center at about 15 minutes before the show began to encounter a bunch of other concert-goers who were primarily well over the age of 35. I giggled to myself. We were going to be in the company of aging hippies. That's cool. LOL. Probably twenty years from now, the orchestra will be accompanying a cover band that plays nothing but Jodeci or LL Cool J or Green Day songs. We made our way to some pretty fantastic seats smack dab in the middle of the orchestra section about ten rows back from the stage. Thanks Stellion and Deniece! The symphony musicians were already seated on stage when the members of The Machine came walking out. They had to be about 50 years old, dressed in all black, sporting hair reminiscent of the 80s hair band crazy. We were ready to rock.

The lights dimmed. Hanging above the stage was a large round circle which turned out to be a projection screen. A strange movie began to show on it as the musicians started the intro to Shine On You Crazy Diamond. It was of this kid walking through a field and then encountering the entrance to some sort of Alice in Wonderland type environment. Colored lights began to flash patterns against the walls and ceiling of the halls, sometimes shining directly into my eye. I thought, Wow Pink Floyd must have loved being high on acid and crap. The concert continued with four more songs including One of These Days and Comfortably Numb before the leader of The Machine announced there would be a short intermission before covering the entire Dark Side of The Moon album.

At that point, I got up to use the restroom and snag some booze. I was enjoying the music but according to the history behind this album, it was probably better that I listened with some spirits in me. Apparently the themes of the album focused on the passage of time, greed, conflict and oh yeah, mental illness. The main composer of this album, Pink Floyd's Syd Barrett, was, in fact, suffering from mental illness. Personally, this begs a lot of questions. The Dark Side of the Moon sold millions upon millions of copies. People walk around with t-shirts featuring the album artwork all of time. For those of us who enjoy this music, are we a little bit crazy too? Does it take insanity to produce timeless music? Where can I get me one of those t-shirts?

Anywho, I have to say that I really liked the show and I do believe we should add this album to our music collection. My favorites were Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun, Any Colour You Like, Breathe in the Air and On the Run. I thought it was kind of funny when this lady came out and starting moaning to The Great Gig in the Sky. Why didn't they ask me to moan to this song? I could've moaned and writhed on stage for three to six minutes.

We left and went to R. Thomas to eat some breakfast with Stellion and Deniece. There we had a discussion about Communist Romania and Democratic Nigeria. Stellion is from Romania and you know my honey is from Nigeria. They were both very pleased to be in America. We also discussed this odd video we saw on VBS.tv. Apparently in Columbia, the young boys like to have sex with donkeys. We left there and immediately went to our next outing at The Velvet Room...but that's another blog.

April 1st- Sutra Lounge and Opera Atlanta

Admittedly, I've been slacking on my outings but I have pretty decent excuses. For one, winters in Atlanta suck compared to winters in Las Vegas. You don't want to go out of the house. It's cold as hell. And why would you go out into the night to look at people when you can cuddle up with your honey and watch James Bond movies? Additionally, we've been doing more social gatherings at friends' homes. It's just so much easier. There's no cover charge or overpriced cocktails or unwarranted trifling behavior. It's funny how I absolutely relished these amenities in Las Vegas. They just made for good blogging. But as I grow older and wiser, I want to go to venues or functions where I can do what I intend to come there to do. If it's drinking then I don't want my wallet to get raped. If it's dancing then I don't want to wade through a sea of uncomfortable-looking 21 year olds just taking up space. And if it's acting a fool...well, I can act a natural fool anywhere, but I don't want to run the risk of getting shot doing so. I still have to have babies.

However, my girl Tanisha was visiting from Las Vegas so all bets were off. Now you may remember the lovely Tanisha from our adventure at Olympic Gardens. Good times. While I was in the midst of writing copy for a San Diego business lawyer's website, she called me to hit the club. We decided on Leopard Lounge in Midtown. I blew out my fro, stuffed my body down into some leggings and headed out the door listening to Incubus. As I drove into Atlanta proper, I laughed to myself at the people lining the streets. You would have thought it had been summer for at least three months. On Monday, it was 50 degrees in the middle of the day. That night, it was a very pleasant 69 degrees at 9:55pm and the city was buzzing. We found each other and preceded to Sutra Lounge for discounted cocktails. It's funny. We never saw any part of Leopard Lounge. Oh well.

Sutra was empty, which surprised me. It's not like I'd been there before but then again, it was a Thursday night, Sutra's a nice venue and the drinks were a decent price. But come to think of it, we were hitting the streets pretty early. It's not typical to reach any party down destination until half past 11, but seeing as I had to write a website for a catering company the next day, I figured that I should get out and turn in earlier.

So I was at the bar drinking vanilla Smirnoff and cranberry juice when this dude with a receding hair line grabbed my arm and told me how good my hair smelled. His hand was hella cold. His name was Juan and he was a 41-year-old contractor from some damn place. I forget. He looked kind of stupid. Like he was desperately trying to cling to his youth by hitting on women he supposed to be half his age. I love being 31 but I love not looking it. He kept on making remarks about how we were too young to know this or we probably didn't remember that. I just looked at him. He was with a guy named Derrick and another guy named Trevor who looked to be brothers. They planned on going over to Opera Atlanta which was just across the street and they wanted to know if we would accompany them. Hell no, we weren't just going to buddy up with them. Come on. I mean, there was nothing wrong with them or anything, but seriously. It's not like they offered to buy us drinks. Plus the last thing I was thinking about was pretending to tolerate some stranger. I was there to kick it with my friend. Have a few drinks. Chill. Dance perhaps. I needed to get in another half hour of cardio for the day.

We let them leave, closed our tab, went to the bathroom and then paid to skip the line at Opera. I hate, hate those nightclubs that have you standing outside in the free line just to give the impression that it's teeming with revellers inside. That mess is just ridiculous especially when you get inside and the club is still half empty. Also, it's not like you're going to have an easier time getting a drink if the crowd just trickles in. These places are notoriously understaffed. One almost always has to elbow his or her way through fools to be seen at the bar by some nervous, overworked drink-pourer. Sigh.

We got into Opera and I was totally convinced that the party was 18 and over. Women were on one side of the room and men were on the other. They were just standing there in packs. Just a couple of girls were dancing and that was with each other. We stopped to ask a bouncer what the age requirement was. He said 21 plus. I thought of my nephew. He'll be 21 in July of this year. I can't do this shit anymore. Not here anyway. We took a picture and then left. The bouncers asked us why we were leaving and we said because we were bored. They gave us wristbands for the VIP section, so we went back in. We went up to the balcony and looked down onto the dance floor. There was this bald albino looking guy just dancing by himself. Next to him was this guy wearing a hat kind of jerking around on the dance floor. We decided that we were going to dance with them and we did but the DJ kept playing mere snippets of songs. Tsk. The bald albino guy turned out to be a boxer who could give but couldn't really receive a punch. I'm not sure why he felt it was relevant to explan that, but whatever. We left again and this time for good, but didn't feel like walking all the way back to the car. So we hailed some Ghanaian guy driving past the club and got him to drop us at our parking lot. He was very appreciative when we gave him our VIP wrist bands. Bye now!

At our parking lot, we encountered a problem. The parking attendant's car was blocking Tanisha's rental and the attendant was nowhere to be found. We noticed that the window was halfway down so we reached in and unlocked the door from the inside. We got in, released the parking break and rolled the damn car out of the way. Suddenly the attendant came running up asking for the keys to his car. We didn't have you friggin keys, Fool. Jeeze. Louise.

March 27th - Grandma's Funeral

The night after I celebrated my boyfriend's 32nd surprise birthday party, I lost my grandmother to a long and hard-fought battle with Alzheimer's. Her caregivers, my Aunt Dell, Cousin Cheri and Cousin Desi had gone to sleep on Sunday night and awoke Monday morning to find that Madame Bertha had slipped away peacefully in the night. Phone calls to and from Orlando zapped across the nation's telephone lines. We all took it hard although Aunt Dell had the most difficult time. Grandma was the matriarch of our family. A strong, proud and radiant character of an Alabaman woman. Though sketchy birth records claimed she was 94 years old, we figured that she was closer in age to 98. We knew that one day, she would no longer be with us...but to have never spent a day without her made that reality difficult to face. There were many of us she left behind. Ten children, more than one hundred grandchildren, about twenty great-grandchildren and seven great-great grand children.

I and Cousin Von traveled to Orlando by car to attend the home-going celebration. We arrived at my aunt's house at about 2:00am the following Saturday. We ended up staying up until about 4:00am. Why? Well, here's the thing about the Mootry family. Whenever we have an opportunity to get together, it's a given that we're going to spend the majority of that time laughing. I don't know why more of us aren't writers. There is no minor oddity of life within or outside of the family that goes unnoticed and we will make the time to talk about it. Also, a couple of cousins had some liquor so we had to have a libation. Aunt Dell is ultra saved and sanctified and there was no telling when we would get the opportunity again. God, it was so good to see cousins I hadn't seen in years. We ended up waking up a good percentage of the 15 people who were staying in that house. Then my sister, mother and I sniggled and giggled for quite a while in the room we were sharing. Love my family.

We woke up the next morning to prepare for the funeral. We all went around hugging and greeting each other. Exclaiming about the last time we had seen each other. Marveling over the changes in each other. Being fussed at about staying up into the wee hours of the night. Joking and ribbing and then finally discussing the details of the funeral that afternoon. It seemed that Aunt Dell didn't trust us all to drive our own vehicles to the church in a timely fashion because a couple of uncles had decided to ditch the family for Jack-in-the-Box instead of going to Grandma's viewing. We were therefore mandated to ride in the limo or the church bus after the good Reverend Rolly Murray Jr. arrived to say the morning prayer at 10:30am sharp. Thus we ate breakfast and then got all dolled up in combinations of white and black finery.

We stood out on Auntie's porch at 10:30am as we were instructed because we did not want to incur her wrath...not that she was a mean woman or would punish us in any way. 10:30 came and went and there was still no sign of the good reverend. I therefore took it upon myself to warn my various cousins and second cousins as to what to expect from the good Reverend Rolly Murray Jr. The good reverend was a short, little wisp of a man standing no taller than about 5'3 or maybe 5'4 on a good day. He sported long, manicured nails and a Jheri curl. Yes, you read it right. A Jheri curl. I don't even know where one would go to find the juice for that madness. Anyhow, for as long as I had known, Reverend suffered from Napoleonic complex and loved attention. However, he could sing very well and was known to minister with a ferocity rivaling that of any good Southern Baptist minister. I warned that there would be many stereotypical antics performed at the chapel for our viewing pleasure. Those antics would all work their way to a dramatic end where the good reverend would kneel in front of the congregation and have a red cape thrown upon his shoulders in the fashion of the late James Brown. My cousins found it hard to believe me but truth is stranger than fiction and I spoke no lie. We began to refer to him as Sexual Chocolate.

About an hour later, the good Reverend Rolly Murray Jr. arrived with his wife in an all white Cadillac. Arm-in-arm, they strolled rather majestically toward our large family. The good Reverend was slightly bent forward, licking his teeth and surveying his audience. I stole glances at my cousins and we stifled a giggled. They saw the Jheri curl and the nails. We all linked hands and followed in prayer before streaming into the limo and onto the bus. My sister and I sat in the back with the rest of the trouble-making cousins and had a good laugh about Sexual Chocolate while singing The Greatest Love of All and the theme song to Soul Glo. I think we all really needed to laugh. After all, we were going to Grandma's funeral.

We arrived at the church about half an hour later. Aunt had warned us that there was to be no texting and cell phones were to be shut off. Admittedly, I ignored that request by turning my phone to silent. There would be much on which to comment and I didn't want to spend most of the service crying. I suspected Grandma would forgive us for although she had been a very wise and God-fearing woman, she also loved to laugh and knew her children well. We streamed into the church as the choir sang Soon and Very Soon. Other mourners stood as we walked past Grandma and touched her casket. She had a very peaceful expression on her face. Her white hair a soft afro atop her head. It might as well have been a halo. I'll miss you, Granny. That's when the tears came. My sister and I sat next to our mother in our assigned pews, wringing our hands and wiping our cheeks with Kleenex.

It came time to shut the casket. The plan was that Grandma's daughters, my mother, Aunt Dell and Aunt Bea, would all shut the casket together. However, when they all went up to do so, a bit of a struggle ensued. We all theorized that Aunt Dell was going to cut up the worst because that was how she mourned and many of the family members remembered how she tried to get into the casket at Granddaddy's funeral. She refused to close the door on her mother's casket and therefore about four or five others sort of wrestled a little with her. In the midst of my tears, I couldn't help but notice the absurdity of it. Aunt Dell is just a little old lady but you would have thought they were struggling with a UFC fighter or something. I said a quick prayer and returned to my crying. The casket was successfully shut and the service proceeded with readings of scripture, the singing of Faded Rose and a very moving poem recited by Cousin Desi. It was all heart-breaking.

However, when the good Reverend Rolly Murray Jr. took to the pulpit and began to sing Willing to Run All the Way, I took out my cell phone and prepared myself. He sang that song for a good twenty minutes. In fact, in the middle of the song and with a smug chuckle, he announced how he thought he was going to sing it again. In the program, his sermon was called "words of comfort" but I will have to say it was more like a study in Baptist ministry theatrics. For anyone who hasn't been to a Southern Baptist church service, no matter your religious or non-religious beliefs, this is something you need to see. It's like New Year's Eve in New York or Mardi Gras in New Orleans. It is an unbelievable event and a wondrous occasion that can only be fully experienced first hand.

The minister began to speak in rather a calm and conciliatory voice. He spoke of Grandma being a good Christian woman and how she had imparted great wisdom in the lessons she'd taught her children. He then began to reference the scriptures that would support the gist of his message.

No matter the church or the minister, the message is always the same. You need to come to Jesu, NOW. It started off rather murky. He referenced Steven seeing heaven and wanted so desperately for us to see what he (the reverend) or perhaps Steven saw. At this point, Reverend's voice grew louder and his dedicated team of deacons began to call out "well," "uh-uh" and "amen" during each pause in Reverend's speech. Reverend did a peculiar thing. He said the word "sentence" and then spelled it out for us by spelling it s-e-t-e-n-c-e. I turned and gave a couple of my cousins a look.

Von texted me: What is this? Akeelah and the Bee?!?!


I replied: He's trying to get us to see what he sees..and that is vowels and consonants.

The sermon continued. The point of it was that Steven saw Jesus in heaven and chose to go and be with him rather than stay on earth with us. That was the choice our dear grandmother had made and we needed to accept that. We should rejoice knowing that if we came to Jesus here and now then we too would make that same choice to dwell with our lord and savior forever. During the course of his message, Reverend's voice grew progressively louder, he began to dance about it in that Black minister sort of way, the deacons began to echo and respond more and more constantly, and the organist took to accompanying the rhythm of his words. Reverend managed to spell p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e and p-r-o-m-i-s-e-d for us without incident.

About an hour later, after Uncle Lec signaled to Cousin James to bail, the Reverend brought it home with the following:


Jesus was laid to rest on Friday (GASP and organ) and was there all night Friday night (GASP and organ) and all day Saturday (GASP and organ) and all night Saturday night (GASP and organ) but on Sunday (GASP and organ) he rose! (GASP) He rose! (GASP) He rose! (GASP)

I returned my cell phone to my purse and watched knowingly as the good Reverend stepped calmly from the pulpit to have his wife wrap some sort of tissue around his neck before lovingly placing a black and red-lined cape about his shoulders. He looked a lot like Count Dracula.

We ushered out of the church in a rather indescribable state. There was the sadness we felt for Grandma but then there was the performance we'd just witnessed. How do you rationalize the two? What would Grandma have thought of that. When were we going to eat? Sigh. Our procession rode to the cemetery where Grandma was to be interred. Caped Reverend said a few words before we said a final farewell. As we walked away from her site, there was a gentle breeze in the air. Again, we'll miss you, Granny.

I vascillated as to whether I should record this particular memory on this blog. But then I realized that as I delve deeper into my decade of thirty, the funerals are likely to be more frequent. Funerals are every bit as much a social gathering as a wedding or parading my ass around somebody's nightclub. And just as anything else in this reality, they are often humorous reminders of the beauty, complexity and ridiculousness of life. Most importantly, funerals remind us to appreciate each moment we have to experience this strange living state. Thanks, Grandma.