Los Angeles: Day 2 (Santa Monica)

This is the mall down in Santa Monica. I LOVE this mall. 

Los Angeles is many cities and energies packed into one. Thus it is possible to get the taste of many flavors all in one day. After leaving the morning peace of Venice Beach, we ventured about a mile or two north on Ocean Blvd to Santa Monica to do some shopping at Third Street Promenade.

When I lived here, I recall thinking nothing of traipsing down to this spot to hit up Nordstrom. It was there. I went. Big whoop. Now as a tourist, I marveled at how pristine and convenient it all was. Everything from the parking garage to the brilliance of the sun shining down in the center of the mall to all of the beautiful and extremely fit people. It was so easy to want to spend money and BE there. We were happy darting in and out of stores, snapping pictures, eating up the scenery.

I don't remember this topiary being here before.

It was funny how we could tell who the natives were. They were always well accessorized and somewhat annoyed. Annoyed with what, we did not know. Maybe they were bored with the perfection of the day or maybe they were sick of tourists steadily financing the continued survival of this spectacular mall. Had I been this way? Perpetually discontent with such splendid surroundings. Unsatisfied with my cute face and flat stomach and disposal income? I don't think I was overall, but I probably had my days. I was finding myself. I was trying to have a good time. I was trying not to be lonely or trapped in my own head. I do remember gravitating toward tourists and migrants to L.A. because their wonder with the world and its inhabitants hadn't been savagely beaten and left for dead by their own egos.

Remember that one hippie chick from The Voice? This is her.

After having a wonderful encounter with an androgynous salesperson named Pat at Barnes and Nobles (Yes, I'm so not kidding. I have no idea what gender that person was but he/she was very kind to let me use the employee bathroom.) and eating lunch, we drove down  Santa Monica Blvd to Wilshire. We rode past Rodeo Drive then up La Cienega to Sunset then all the way down the winding ride of Sunset to Pacific Coast Highway where we watched the surfers try to catch a wave. These had been all of my favorite sights to see and roads to drive as a resident. Where I'd think and search for answers within myself. Where I was free to dream in waking solace. I probably looked like a zombie.

We then returned to Venice Beach and walked to Whole Foods before settling in for the night. Memories collided with the present. Some good. Some bad. Mostly funny. It's amazing and fortunate how I've grown and how I haven't changed a bit. Just like California.

Los Angeles: Day 2 (Venice Beach)

The pad on Dudley was pretty sweet.

While in Los Angeles, it is easy to get caught up in the "fuck you, pay me" mentality required to survive in style (with money) here, but I dare say that is even more enticing to make one's acquaintance with the softer, sweeter side of Golden Statery.  There is a coolness here that people have. A vibe which proclaims that life is more than a rat race. Life is about stopping and smelling the poppies. Catching the perfect wave at the beach. Skating down the sidewalk instead of walking. Creating art on a spoon.

For the Southern Californian beach dweller, the day seems to pass by at a slower rate of speed. Or maybe, it's just that the day starts sooner. I know I was up at sunrise itching to go out to the coast. From our bungalow, it was a two minute stroll. The sand, still cool from the previous night, was bespeckled with meandering gull prints. Joggers, young and old, made their way along the foam of the tide's edge.

The water just seems to goes on forever.

"I don't know a more terrible way to spend a morning, " one jogger commented as he passed us. "I'd much rather be getting a root canal." Good old wry Californian wit.

Standing on the sand looking out at that big blue, there is no other matter because nothing else matters.  There is just now and peace and serenity and whatever notion that pops into one's head. I forgot why the hell I moved away from this place. Why the hell did I move away from this place? This feeling? This now? Back in the day, I was so consumed with finishing school and getting the right job and going to as many places in the country that I could before it was too late. I never did find out what time "too late" was. I'm still trying to figure it out.  Currently, I don't think it exists.

I could totally live here with Hubby.

So after the hubby and I did some katas and stuck our feet in the water and marveled aloud at how great we were feeling, I made a promise to sell as many novels as necessary to finance our relocation to this place. I told my husband that I would convert him into a kept man and we would live together in one of these beach rentals. We would spend our mornings and evenings out on the sand and the time in the middle would be filled with writing and creating and baby-making. We would be inspired by the characters of Venice Beach to write my second award-winning novel which would finance our relocation to our next paradise.

Los Angeles: Day 1

Flying into Los Angeles, the city seems to go on forever.

Whenever I return to Los Angeles, I remember the times I spent sitting in traffic singing at the top of my lungs to keep from losing my mind. I remember meeting a random guy at a gas station who later stole discounted toilet paper from a super market and split the proceeds with me. I remember juggling college and full time work and extra work and volunteering and dating. (Where did all that energy go?) Now, upon my return to L.A. for a week long visit with my husband, we are most excited not about sights like beaches or tar pits or walks of fame but rather honey walnut prawns, hot dogs and huge burritos. That's right. We have officially become foodie tourists. Crazy.

After deboarding the plane, we found the rental car shuttle to pick up our reservation. The exchange with the rental guy was a real gem. I was immediately reminded of how L.A. is all about the hard sale. The billboards, the celebrities, the residents, everything all converges to sell you something. The convo went like this.

Venice Beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond.

"Hey are y'all Nigerian? Because my wife and I know Nigerians." How nice. He knew people from another country. I wished I had a cookie to give to him.

"Yes, we do happen to be." I am Nigerian by marriage but I didn't feel like going into detail on that with him.

"Oh wonderful. Nigerians love Louis Vutton bags." Okay, lovely stereotype, Asshole. This was him establishing a "connection" with us and also figuring aloud that we, as a people, like to spend our hard-earned money on unnecessary crap.

"Some of us do." Just like any other population of human beings who may or may not have name brand preferences in bags.

"We'll give you the week-long rental for $75 but it's going to be a real gas guzzler like a Grand Marquis or a Crown Victoria. I can switch you to a more gas efficient car for an additional $10 a day." So, he was going to be doing us a favor. Right. I swear I selected the economy class car when I made the reservation. This fool wanted us to double down to avoid driving something with a V8 (which we had not chosen) to save on gas as if the  V8 technology hasn't improved on fuel efficiency since 1912. I don't scare easy. I wanted the damn $75 deal.

"We'll take our chances with the sales deal, Sir." I used to live here. I know where the cheap gas stations are and how to avoid traffic.

"Okay, well you'll also want to get the basic insurance for $9 a day because blah, blah, blah and if the car comes back with a single scratch then you could be paying $250 a day for repairs blah, blah, blah." A scratch? Oh no! I have no faith in my own driving skills. I'm definitely going to scratch up the car. Let me give this insulting idiot and an additional $63 for fear of a scratch.

"We've got full coverage through our insurance plan. No thanks." Thank you, Geico.

After that whole  rental debacle, we got our hands on some honey
walnut prawns courtesy of Hop Woo in Chinatown.  

"But according to California law blah, blah, blah and the cost of going without this additional coverage will end up hitting you really hard." Dude didn't know he was talking to an attorney and someone who used to work in direct sales. Jerk. He was probably gunning for a sales prize because as I listened to the other rental clerks around me they were all trying to upsell from the threat of the V8 and push the basic insurance coverage. And they were not backing down from first and second refusals. Thank goodness I love saying "no" a lot.

"No, thanks."

We went out to the lot to retrieve our suppposed cop car and the only car available was an Ultima.   We did our own inspection to check for dings and scratches but upon final checkout the attendant revealed that we would only actually be liable for dents. Sigh.

Welcome to Los Angeles. Home of "I will tell you as many lies as I can muster to make a bonus on my check." Yeah, I remember that all too well. This is one of the reasons why I live in Atlanta.

A Tale of Two Open Mics

Venturing out into Atlanta nightlife has officially become an exercise in introspection. I'm not sure if its on account of me or the city itself or a combination thereof. Perhaps my going out at night always was a journey into myself. In any case, I've taken note and I believe this tango with self-awareness is the impetus for my hunt for open-mic poetry. I guess I  want to hear the inner dialogue of others  in technicolor, dolby digital and all that. I've got a thing for words. Thus I visited two different open mic nights this week. The first was on Wednesday night at Rev Coffee on Spring Street in Smyrna. The second was on Thursday night at Hodge Podge on Moreland Avenue in Atlanta.

Rev Coffee
This place was a pleasant mix of suburbia with distinct notes of metropolis. Just about everyone on the mic was an aspiring folk singer with the exception of a Bach-playing cellist and an improvising actress. What I enjoyed most about the joint was the clear energy of acceptance; a comfort in the newness of what a brave guitar-strumming expressionist may present. An appreciation for baring one's naked soul while being shrouded in song. I fed off of the energy of the youth there. Oh, they are so hopeful and confident in their ignorance. I wanted to protect them from their future selves. I found myself time-travelling back to my own college days of angry poetry and experimentation in love poetry and wondering about the world poetry. I was inspired to write in my little black notebook. I think I'll make this place a regular Wednesday night treat. I like how the place looks like a coffee-loving collegiate dorm room on steroids. Also, Rev Coffee's pineapple smoothies are the bomb.

Hodge Podge
The vibe of Hodge Podge truly invites people to gather and spend a little time, make new acquaintances and come again soon. I found students surfing the web at cafe tables in one section, young ladies gathered in a knitting circle in another section,  and  the open mic DJ setting up his sound system in the largest room/area. The open mic  program itself was in its initial stages of development with only two brave souls singing covers of popular songs. Maybe I should have brought my poetry and spit a little something.  I ended up having this eye-opening conversation with two other ladies about myriad topics including the pros and cons of Atlanta life, love and marriage and past encounters with interesting strangers. After eating a heavenly triple-chocolate cupcake and drinking a Mandarin Orange Jarritos, I felt even more confident that I would return on the second Thursday of next month to perform. Goodness, I haven't done a poem out loud in public since I lived in Los Angeles. However, this place just inspired conversation...connection. It had the energy of being on the brink of an explosion. Anything was possible around me, within me.

*****
So, as I return to school in the fall to take this writing addiction to the next level, there is something awakening in me. Beckoning me back to the roots of my words, the well from which I draw what makes me want to go crazy with a pen and a notebook or rather a laptop. I like it. I feel like I'm being reborn. Not to say I won't go to crazy parties and sip on dirty martinis.  I admittedly need the wildness of nightlife as continued inspiration for my story-telling. I am, however,  enjoying the peace of the present while getting hyped about my future. I liken it to the feeling one gets just before uttering their first word in front of a live microphone at some quaint little coffeeshop.....

June 29th - Barcelona Atlanta @ Inman Park

A few days ago, Metro Atlanta received an official heat advisory from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. I couldn't quite comprehend how the temperature could manage to get any hotter than what it already was. It's been summer since early March. We barely had a winter and there had been absolutely no spring. The trees were utterly confused. Left with no choice but to bloom bigger, stronger, greener. Fortify for the supposed armageddon in December.


Lo and behold the temperature dial read 109 degrees on the car's dash as I motored to last night's happy hour meetup. Shit. Drinking in this heat? Why? When I handed my keys to the valet at Barcelona Atlanta, the dial had inched up to 111 degrees. God help us all.

The bar/restaurant was full of people. Speaking at the top of their lungs because everyone else was speaking at the top of their lungs. There is no such thing as an "indoor voice" at a bar. I ordered a white wine sangria. No way I was gonna suck all the moisture from my face with some dry death concoction tonight. Damned adult acne. I looked around the establishment.  There was the after-work crowd with their pressed button downs and belted slacks. Their sleek, sophisticated dresses. They looked like they had been here for hours.  There was also a random group of women with a very young baby. I couldn't make up any reason in my head to explain why they were here with an infant so I turned away from them before they caught me staring. There was the wait staff playing with their phones, waiting for more people to squeeze themselves into a place which was rapidly becoming the place to be.  Everyone seemed to be drinking mojitos.


This was the second time I'd been been here and I'm sure I would return again at some later date. Whether they eventually offered a bona fide drink special or not. There was just something about the place. It had this understated sex appeal. This casual elegance. And each time I uttered its name, I would let the combo of consonants and vowels  lazily roll off of my tongue. I'm meeting some ladies at Barcelona. We're having cocktails and tapas at Barcelona. Perhaps, we should make reservations at Barcelona. (Note to self: Look up vacation destinations in Spain.)




As soon as my party of professional gals convened, we fell into an easy conversation on careers, parenting, politics and marriage. A few weeks ago, I'd scolded my husband for assuming that all women talk about are relationships. However, as I listened and contributed to the fray I had to admit that he was right. At this age, everything about life is an application of self to whatever particular relationship. In our younger days, we take our encounters with life for granted. As we grow older, we also grow into this state of double consciousness. We live our lives and we watch ourselves live our lives. Sometimes with delight. Sometimes with disgust. Sometimes with wonderment. Always with resolve. We recognize ourselves as others recount their tales. We often have the same reaction in tragedy or in triumph. We laugh. We order another round. We eat our tapas and sop up alioli with bread. We change the subject.



I stole away to the restroom, which I must say is one of the oddest features of Barcelona. Instead of having a men's and women's communal setup with individual stalls, there is one private restroom for a single male and two such restrooms for women. Initially, I thought this to be rather inconvenient for anyone who had a dire toilet-related emergency. However,  as I waited outside of one of the women's rooms for my turn, I couldn't help but imagine coming here one night with my husband and surreptitiously snatching him into this bathroom for an impromptu slap and tickle after trying two or three of those mojitos. As I entered the bathroom, I giggled at the picture on the wall. I think Barcelona winked at me.  


 I returned to the table, laughed as the ladies ogled some strapping  young man walk by outside, paid my check and then ventured back out into the lake of fire temperature to retrieve my car. Feeling sentimental, I held onto to the logo-stamped matches I'd grabbed while exiting. Yeah, I'd definitely go back.

June 23rd - Highland and Ponce

For an introverted nightlife addict, being in  an ideal romantic relationship can be a double-edged sword. On one hand, love is bliss and leaving the home seems totally unnecessary because Hubby and I get each other's jokes and have great conversations and so on and so forth.  On the other hand, we never leave the house. While we sometimes begrudge the idea of making social dates outside of the ones we are constantly making with each other, we need them. So last night, I invited a good friend to go for drinks in celebration of her landing a new gig. KM and I had both worked for the equivalent of hell on earth together. While I'd told hell what it could do with its job back in April , she'd gotten the chance to do the same just a few days ago. Now hell's failure would be complete. 

Tyrome Jerome's Cuz is available @ 678-680-3543.

I was initially thinking Loca Luna but I figured why not be a little more adventurous by doing some barhopping along Highland Avenue. The thing I love about Atlanta is that all throughout the city there are these great little pedestrian-friendly neighborhoods featuring deceptively large homes, shops, markets and surprisingly awesome restaurants and bars. Virginia Highlands is definitely one such place. Hubby and I had ventured to its Surin of Thailand on numerous occasions but I had yet to visit such places as Neighbors Pub, Blind Willie's, Limerick Junction or Dark Horse Tavern. These venues often offer live acts during weeknights and exceptional happy hour specials. Plus this particular part of Highland Avenue made for excellent people watching. After parking in a great spot around the corner, we immediately ran into Tyrome Jerome's Cuz  pictured left. Apparently, Tyrome Jerome's Cuz is available for parties and special events. He gave us a card and wished us well in our imbibing pursuits. 

Guy behind the bar makes a helluva dirty martini.

Because Blind Willie's was charging a cover, we went next door to Limerick Junction. I had my signature Ketel One dirty martini with extra olives. KM had Johnny Walker Red on the rocks. We shared some curry fries. Okay, that particular martini was the best martini I have had since I moved here to Atlanta. The fries were also top notch. While we were there, we sat at this little table facing the street to check out the passersby. Earlier that night, I'd convinced KM to wear comfy shoes so she'd have a better time in lieu of being in pain by putting style first. This wonderfully dressed young woman came walking by with her date and it was evident that she was in a great deal of agony. Her extraordinarily cute shoes were really killing both her and her dates chances for having a good night. He was wearing flip flops. KM high-fived me.


We settled up at Limerick Junction and moved down the street to Neighbors. For some reason, we got the sense that it was either a gay bar or at least a gay-friendly establishment. Not that it being gay friendly or not was necessarily relevant, it's just that I notice I have a habit of accidentally finding myself in gay bars and I thought it prudent to be informed this time around.  Before updating our respective Facebook statuses, I leaned over and asked the guys at the table next to us. They replied with an emphatic "no" and asked why we assumed they were gay. I told them that I thought nothing of the sort and figured they would either be there because it was or was not a gay bar. They looked around at the other tables and concluded that it was indeed an acceptable assumption to make because all of the tables were sexually homogeneous. We laughed. God, the South. People have been gay since the beginning of time, but for some reason Southerners refuse to accept those "unholy" antics of their friends, coworkers, cousins and yes, neighbors. Also, to be confused for a card-carrying member is just unforgivable. Frankly, I think that all of the controversy over any adult's sexual preference is rather gay. Let's just live and let live, shall we?


After another not-as-good-as-the-one-at-Limerick dirty martini , I gave one of the guys some tips on how to party for free during his upcoming trip to Vegas. I asked for some recommendations on good Atlanta nightlife spots and they told me that I'd just have to drive around the city and try my luck although nothing was going to quite live up to the debauchery I'd experienced in Sin City. By the way, why had I left Las Vegas they inquired. For love and marriage. (I missed Hubby right at that moment. Damn this being married to Mr. Right.) We bid the dudes farewell, strolled back to the car and then moved on to the final party of the night at the infamous Clermont Lounge just around the corner on Ponce De Leon. 

Is that a guy hanging off the side of the roof?

I'd visited Clermont Lounge previously on karaoke (Tuesday) night but never on a Saturday night. The place was really jumping. While this one naked chick was making her pectoral muscle individually bounce her left boob at the bar, KM and I had a very pleasant conversation with a 48-year-old mother of three visiting from Tulsa. She was here for a business conference and was delightfully tipsy after drinking two vodka cranberries. We asked her what her secret was for looking so good for her age. She said it was happiness. I don't know. I kind of wanted to slap her for saying that. I knew plenty of happy fat people.


The DJ arrived shortly after and we contributed our bodies to the crowd on the dance floor for quite some time before making our exit. The funny thing about Clermont Lounge  (other than the fact  that it is a dive strip bar featuring strippers who will never grace the covers of Playboy, Hustler, XXL or any men's magazine featuring ideally attractive women) is that so many professional 30 and up year old people come there to dance and have a good time. We're pretty sure we spotted a Georgia Congressman. If it wasn't for the fact that there seemed to be no central air, I suppose we could have stayed well into the wee hours of the night. Alas, I had to get KM's drunk ass home  and return to my own personal wedded bliss. I had no business being out gallivanting in the first place. (Wink)

Flashback - Couples' Night Gone Wrong

This weekend, the hubby and I plan on visiting with another couple that just had twins. I'm pretty confident the visit will be very chill and wholesome with no drama or foolishness. What a relief. Back in the day, when I first moved to Las Vegas I remember a couples' night that was anything but normal. 

I used to be heavily involved with a guy to whom I never should have given my number, my attention or my time. Let's call him "Sam". Nevertheless, I began a relationship with Sam and tried my best to cultivate it by engaging in various "team-building" exercises such as eating dinner at his uncle's house or going with him to score pot from a little one-armed guy with an eye patch in the hood behind Stratosphere. One night, we visited with a married couple on the other side of town. They were friends somehow of Sam's uncle and we thought it prudent to hang out with other couples who were close in age to us. We'll call this couple "Von" and "Betty". The idea was to have dinner with them, have a couple of brews and play cards or dominoes. You know, just an old fashioned hang session, despite the fact that we were living in one of the most exciting cities on earth.

Von greeted us at the door when we arrived. As any proper host would, he invited us in, made us comfortable and prepared us a drink.  We asked after Betty. She wasn't home yet because she was just finishing getting her hair done at the salon. She would be back shortly. In the meantime, we would just enjoy each other's company. An hour went by before Betty arrived. She came in, barely spoke to us, gave Von a look and then immediately went to the master bedroom.  We suggested a three-handed game of spades. Von excused himself to the bedroom. Sam and I looked at each other and then looked at the front door. There was going to be trouble.

Von emerged from the bedroom, all smiles, letting us know that Betty was just changing her clothes and would be out to join us in no time. We shrugged and grabbed more beer from the fridge. It's no problem. We'd wait for her before starting a game. I think Von managed one swig of his drink before going back into the bedroom. At this point, I'm pretty sure that an argument had ensued between them but I could not be sure. Either the walls of the apartment were well insulated or they were not the yelling types. A few more moments passed and Betty emerged wearing this slinky little dress that was way too cute to just sit at home in. Betty was going out and evidently without Von, Sam or me. Von followed her to the front door and asked her where she was going. Out, she replied. While putting on her shoes and grabbing a shawl, she neglected to put her cell phone in her purse. The cell phone sat on the kitchen counter. Von noticed the slip and surreptitiously covered the phone with his hand before sneaking it into his pocket. Betty left.

Sam and I stood up from the kitchen table and attempted to make a cordial exit but Von wasn't having it. He was determined to have all of us sitting around the table, Betty included, drinking beer and playing cards. We froze in our tracks while Von perused the history in his wife's cell phone. Then suddenly Von flew out of the front door, presumably in pursuit of his wife. I turned to Sam and exclaimed, "Oh shit! We gotta bounce!"  Careful to leave the door unlocked, we made our way down the stairs and away from the building where we witnessed Von snatching Betty out of the driver's seat of her car before sitting in it himself.

"Where are you going, Betty? You going out? Who with? This fool that keeps calling your phone? Who is this fool calling your phone?", Von hurled at Betty.

"I don't have to tell you shit, Von. I'm going out. Don't worry about who's on my phone. Get out of my car!" Betty spat back.

Sam and I decided not to wave or say goodbye. We backed away from the scene toward our own car but kept an eye out to make sure no fisticuffs took place. A couple more statements were thrown back and forth between the couple before Von pushed Betty away from the car, closed the car door and started the engine. Meanwhile, Betty scampered back toward the car, clutched the door frame and decided to hold onto the car even as it backed out of the slanted parking spot, stopped and continued forward down the street. Those had to be at least four inch heels she was wearing but I have to admit she was keeping up pretty well running along side that car. I can just see her little legs pumping even now when I close my eyes and remember.

There was nothing else for us to do but go home at that point. We ended up not calling or visiting with Von or Betty again. We thought it would be best not do so to so for the sake of our own relationship and to spare them any embarrassment. Today, all I can do is laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I think that night foreshadowed the things to come between Sam and I. Thank God, we're not together anymore.

April 20 - High Museum of Art

Last night, my first outing was to Atlanta's High Museum of Art. Yes, I know. It's quite humorous to go to a place known as the "High" on April 20th. It just happened to be a cute little coincidence.  My good friend Kristin was kind enough to let me tag along on her two-for-one ticket deal to see the Picasso to Warhol: Fourteen Modern Masters exhibit. I was game to see more work from Picasso and I was curious to learn the reasons behind the hype for Warhol. The  other 12 artists would be much appreciated lagniappe. Additionally, Jazz at the High,  which takes place every third Friday, was also happening. Kenneth Whalum and Joe Gransden would be performing. I have no idea who either of those artists are but it matters not.  We went, we ate a little dinner there and drank cocktails before heading on up to the exhibit first. Both the dinner and the cocktails were delightful. A wonderfully flavorful pasta and my signature dirty martini. Yum.

The first picture we saw was Pablo Picasso's Girl Before A Mirror. I think any woman would be able to recognize the power of the statement in that piece. We all look in the mirror and seem to see the worst of ourselves no matter what reality or the mirror actually reflects. I was moved. Then I went on to the other works when Kristin and I were all but accosted by one of Kristin's college classmates. Let's call him "Steven". Tall and pale with closely cropped hair and a goatee, I assumed that Steven was into men. However, literally five minutes after we shook hands he revealed that he hadn't sex in two years. Furthermore, he wasn't into drinking or drugs so he felt that his social life was suffering on account. Born and raised in Atlanta, he had been "whupped" regularly by both parents and grandparents. He didn't really care for the portrait of his grandmother which hung above his parents sofa because it looked as if it was watching his every move. He planned on making an entrepreneurial move to Lagos, Nigeria in the next year and had recently cried while attending a Nneka concert. Steven seemed to suffer a disconnect with white women because he was under the impression that they all wanted to go to Paris, eat cheese and fart. Again, Steven wasn't into drinking so he had only actually been drunk once. He had been horrified by that particular experience. So much so, that he woke up sweating from a nightmare about being intoxicated. Steven managed to reveal all this information to me while gazing upon works by Jackson Pollock, Romare Bearden and finally Andy Warhol.

My impression of Andy Warhol was that he managed to do for art what many CEOs had done in commerce. Take an existing idea, reproduce in multiples, brand and sell to the masses. An artistic wonder? Eh. A shrewd businessperson? Sure. As for Steven, he might as well have been one of the exhibits. I was as much intrigued with him as I was with Bearden's collages. He'd offered so much about himself in just that short window of time that I'd hoped he had at least been under the influence of some hardcore prescription drug. I guess some people are open like that. So what, I reveal all sorts of stuff on a blog. As if anyone reads. Alas, I think we Americans tend to tax our freedom of speech. We can't help expressing what we feel, think and know even when we might run the risk of revealing too much. Maybe both Steven and I should both pick up a brush and be a little less literal.  But, then again, where's the fun in that?

Kristin and I ended up not sticking around for the jazz. The acoustics really sucked although I'm sure the artists were quite nice. We had other plans for the evening. But that's another blog post.

For now, I really do encourage everyone who has a chance to check out the High for this exhibit or any other exhibit coming up. Art, in all of its forms, is such a wonderfully reflective and fulfilling approach to communicating the true nature of the human spirit. Truly something to behold.

April 14 - The Sound Table

During last year's tumultuous task of wedding planning, the hubby and I made a valiant effort to put the cares of the event aside and attend a few social events here and there. One such event included clubbing at this spot on Buford Highway in the name of a friend's birthday. We hadn't been out dancing in Providence knows how long. I hadn't been going to my Latin dance classes at Dance 101, so it was an understatement to say that I needed this. The biggest issue that night was what to wear. 


When I first turned 30, I was still into stilettos and tight little dresses. And every now and then, that is still my uniform of choice. But these days I can't stand a screaming foot. I want to dance with wild abandon whenever I have the opportunity. Some hot-in-the-ass dress does not properly afford that. I wore jeans, a top and some sensible platforms. Hubby wore jeans with a shirt and breathable boots. When we showed up at the club, we were dressed for the wrong event. Rather, I was dressed for the wrong event. I saw women my age of all shapes and sizes stuffed down in dresses more appropriate for the 20 year old wanton. Initially, I felt stupid but then I realized that thinking I was stupid  was what was really stupid. I'll explain.


I am no longer 20 something and I no longer believe in sporting the glory of my uncovered ass for the hell of it. My femininity is not defined by my neckline or hemline. I don't think self-mummification via a lycra dress is necessary to accentuate my assets. Nor do I delight in planting a crop of corns on my feet for the sake of fashion. And finally, I'm not a featured product in the never-ending meat market scenario that seems to be today's nightlife. I don't mean to put down those ladies who like to do all of the aforementioned things. Hey, more power to you! You look sexy and all that. But c'mon. Most of the men were still dressed like they took a break from playing XBOX to get their rocks off. I damn well knew that they were my age and had a dress shirt somewhere in their closet. Ladies, why are we putting ourselves on display for men who think a graphic tee with a comedic message is dressing up?


Sigh. After that particular occasion, I really didn't miss clubbing all that much. I got back to  wedding planning and coveted my nights indoors away from the fray. 

But today's a new day. Dancing is still a necessity in my book. After being hipped to the scene at The Sound Table, I can breathe a mature sigh of relief. The second Saturday of each month features the wheels-of-steel stylings of DJ Kemit Kickin' Up Dust. The cover is $5. The scene is come as you are. The crowd is pleasantly 20, 30 and 40 something, wine-loving, no-nonsense and representative of the rainbow that is our American population. Instead of the focus being the potential hook-up, the star of the night is the music. What was so delightful about my experience this past Saturday was the fact that the DJ played most of every song instead of just snippets like that ass clown of a DJ at the above-referenced Club Ass Hat.  (I'm not bitter.) And when I say song, I mean good old-fashioned soul music where the lyrics are actually poetic and sublime. The melody is more than just a looped guitar riff and a contrived bass line. I'm talking actual instrumentation, People.

Some of the song highlights for me included  Love You Inside Out  by The Bee Gees, Wikka Wrap by The Evasions, The Big Payback by James Brown and Black Betty by Ram Jam. What really cracked me up was when everyone was singing the lyrics to What A Fool Believes by The Doobie Brothers.  I only know one person that actually knows the real lyrics to that song and that is Alex Raffi of Imagine Communications. Whatever Doobie brother that is singing sounds like he has a mouthful of bad tasting jello but he's still trying to sing around it. LOL Good times.


Anyway, I left The Sound Table just as hyped as all get up. I was talking a mile a minute and feeling amorous. A great time was had by me. Of course the two cocktails I had could have been a contributing factor but who's really paying attention. Kudos to you DJ Kemit!

April 7 - Fat Matt's Rib Shack

As we get on in age we tend to get so caught up in planning and saving and using wisdom to direct our paths. That's all well and good, but oh, the blessed spontaneity of our youth is not something that should be packed away á la high school yearbooks and lettermen jackets. Sometimes, it's okay to be inappropriately dressed and unarmed with any real sense of a direction on a Saturday night in Atlanta. Unlike college days, we have a bit more disposable cash, a well-maintained car and health insurance. Hence, after not being able to find a parking spot at Midtown Landmark to go see the 8:00pm show of The Raid:Redemption, we found ourselves driving through Virginia Highland looking for some sort of dive bar with live entertainment, Yuengling and palatable appetizers until the 10:20pm show of The Raid: Redemption. We happened upon Fat Matt's Rib Shack.

 According to my betrothed, Fat Matt's is considered to be one of Atlanta's longtime, top destinations for heart-attack inducing grub. There's no pretense about this place. No gimmicks or ritzy restaurant design. It's quite literally a glorified shack with a kitchen and a patio. All the tables and chairs rock and not on purpose. The menu is painted on the wall. The stage is on the opposite side of the restaurant with the bathrooms right next to said stage. It was perfect.  We parked and stood in the line which was extended outside of the door. Great sign.

This being my third year living in Atlanta, I've learned patience and have given up the notion of Las Vegas type VIP consideration when trying to access any night time entertainment. At Fat Matt's we were going to have to stand in line whether we planned on dining in or taking out. While Hubby grabbed a table and ordered a couple of beers, I stood in line and weighed the options of splitting a whole rack of ribs for $20 or a half rack of ribs for $10 with a side of potato salad. I decided on the half rack. We were determined to see that damn movie AND get popcorn. Once, our order was placed I rejoined Hubby at the table and began sucking down my Yuengling. Turns out we were seated next to a group of musicians and entertainers who were trying to sit in with The Jump'n Jukes who were scheduled to perform tonight. Somebody knew the bass guitarist and played in another band with him or something and she sang and he rapped and they played big band jazz standards. Hell if I knew. Nevertheless, they were all quite pleasant.

I was reminded again of college days in New Orleans. All the guys in Jazz Studies at UNO just a giggin' about town at places like The Funky Butt, The Red Room, Cafe Brasil and Snug Harbor. We made the world better by enjoying each other's company with good music and good food instead of worrying about why the recalcitrant neighbor down the street wouldn't pay his HOA dues and was operating a business out of his garage.

The food arrived quickly. Compared to Fox Bro.s Bar-B-Q, the rib meat wasn't seasoned quite as well. However, the actual barbecue sauce and the potato salad was slammin. I'd go back. As for the entertainment, The Jumpin' Jukes were on point and the lady that sat in absolutely killed Route 66. I kind of felt badly for staying home on Monday nights to make fun of Christina Aguilera's stylist on The Voice while this real talent was floating about my new-found hometown. We left Fat Matt's feeling both satisfied and nostalgic. We vowed that we would make our first summer as married friends a dedication to our fun-loving, fancy free youth. And yes, we did see The Raid: Redemption at 10:20pm.

April 7 - Pillow Fight @ Freedom Park

Goodness, has it really been two years? Where has the time gone? Friends, readers, followers please forgive me. Instead of being out partying and recording all of the sordid details, I was busy finding loving, planning a wedding and getting married. I promise it won't happen again.

In this year of rumored apocalypse, Armageddon and generally the end of the world as we know it, Atlanta's weather has been awfully strange. Winter came and went in less than two months. Spring perhaps lasted for about a week. As of the past couple of weeks, we've been experiencing 80 + degree weather. I ain't complainin'. Atlanta's special brand of my favorite season radiates in shades of green that outdazzle any emerald. And like all of the trees and flowering plants and outside critters, something inside me comes ALIVE and I've got to be outdoors soaking it in. I awoke with the mission to go to the park. Any park. After developing a proposal for the day's activities, which my husband could not refuse, I prepared a picnic basket, chairs and my other half for an afternoon at Freedom Park.

Upon arrival, the park was relatively empty with the exception of some ne'erdowells under a tree, a few pet owners with their dogs and four sanguine shirtless Frisbee tossers. To describe the scene as pleasant would have been a criminal understatement. The park was gorgeous. The air and sun were perfection. The world could have its bad economy, celebrity scandals and racially charged tales of woe. Here we were in the park with our toes in the grass and all was indeed well.

As the time passed, we noticed an uptick in fellow parkers. They all looked of the neo-hippie persuasion and which came as no real shock to us. What seemed odd is that they all had pillows. Not blankets or chairs. Just pillows. After a few moments of shameless staring and ear-hustling (a phrased coined by my husband which is another fancy way of saying eavesdropping) we deduced that there was going to be a park pillow fight. Oh joy! What fun! Why had we not been made aware? Where could we go buy pillows? It's happened every year on the first Saturday in April for three years? Oh poo! Well, we'll definitely bring a pillow next year. For now, we'd watch.

We positioned ourselves on a hill in clear view of the activities and let the energy of the moment wash over us. Men and women, girls and boys, young and old and even a few dogs were having the time of their lives laughing and swinging pillows at each other. All you could hear were thwaps and giggles. Some fighters had one or two targets in mind while others just ran around wacking anyone who had a pillow. Even the guy selling popsicles from one of those little pushcarts was knockin' heads. Hubby and I stood pointing, laughing and discussing what strategies we would use if only we had brought our pillows. Again, why had we not heard about this? The opportunity to be a kid again out in public while beating someone senseless with a pillow? No duh. That's me 1000%. Well, next year it would be on. We made a mental note and then headed on to to the grocery store to try our best to pick up healthy foods and avoid purchasing Ben and Jerry's Pistachio Pistachio.