Let me clear my throat (Honkmaster Chris Remix)
Current mood: cantankerous
Category: News and Politics

"When you get the notion, put your backfield in motion."

– Gap Band, Doin' Da Butt

It's the Fourth. My brother is in the Army and my girlfriend is in the UK. Between the two of them, I've got a great contact high (patriotism style). But, in lieu of getting the tattoo I've always wanted—a gun-toting bald eagle clawing out the eyes of a baguette-chewing Frenchman in a field of flowers that have blossomed red, white and blue with Mount Rushmore above the horizon—I'm just going to speak my mind. (Though it might not be cheaper in the long run than the aforementioned full-torso panoramic ink.)

A possible title for the forthcoming diatribe could be "Separating the shit from Shinola: Cuz y'all just don't know!"

As I'm sure someone/s (i.e. – The {local} Man/s) hoped, a big deal was made of the massage parlor raids by the MPD and the Sheriff's Department. It got a lot of press and attention—people seem satisfied that our authorities are taking care of it. Nevermind that those places, for the most part, reopened the day after they were raided, some a couple days later. My point, if you don't get it, is that the article I wrote stirred up a reluctant fuss from people who'd rather not have to deal with it. They did what people do when they don't really care: a half-assed job.

{Note: This is not to say that everyone in authority in Macon-Bibb County cares not. Several do care, but they seem to be in the minority.}

{Another note: For me, this isn't about the morality of prostitution. I am deeply concerned that Macon is becoming a hub of international sex trafficking—i.e. – slavery and sexual abuse. That's the issue for me as a human and a journalist.)

I expect this nonchalance out of politicians because it's their job to play with smoke and mirrors until you're left with the illusion that your vote for them is a wise one. Unfortunately, I also expect it out of our local news media, though I wish I didn't.

Our news outlets aren't as interested in Macon as they are interested in making money off it. Maybe this is just the corporate thing, the way things are going in all formats. They'd probably argue that they're just meeting public demand, dictated by flawless focus groups and studies.

Go through the paper, watch the news, comb their websites. You'll see a theme develop. They all wait on something to come to them. They cover public meetings, reword press releases, rehash stories that are days (and weeks and months) old and look right past shit that's happening right in front of them. (And this is necessary, mind you—not a bad thing unless it's the only thing they do.) They report, instead of investigate, something the moment it happens. The only time they seem to follow up on something is when it isn't actually helpful—like the endless stream of stories about the Warner Robins Little League team.

Or, they bury the story.

The other day, The Telegraph's Julie Hubbard did a story about the "shadow superintendent" who the Bibb BOE pays to give advice to the actual superintendent, Sharon Patterson. (I'm oversimplifying here.) He's gotten like $600,000 over seven years from the BOE so far. Good story. Important. It matters. But it was below the fold on the front page. That's okay if there had been bigger, more meaningful stories. 

This story was bumped because UGA VI—a mascot—died. Even though it was all over the Internet the day before, they  figured a few more papers would sell if the picture was  big enough to draw Bulldog fans. Worse, they kept running stories about UGA, even doing a memorial section on the website so people could say stupid shit like "Hunker down in peace, ruff-ruff."

I'm not trying to exalt my work or The 11^th Hour. In fact, we aren't doing this vital work either. Thing is, we're a "bar rag", an entertainment magazine. We aren't the daily. We're trying, with every issue, to become the community paper The Telegraph refuses to be, but our editorial staff doesn't exist outside of me. In the same issue that I'm writing the feature piece and political commentary, I'm writing a bartender profile and a couple paragraphs on fashion. Yes, we have some volunteer writers and Brad writes too, but that's it folks. We don't have the reporters—let alone the copy editors, proofreaders, section editors, etc.—that The Telegraph or WMAZ or even WPGA has.

Our daily paper has gotten on my nerves ever since I moved back to Macon, well before I even picked up an issue of The 11^th Hour. I guess it's because I expect more of them, that I was first introduced to writing in that building by people who actually cared.

Once this story about the massage parlors got ample attention, people wrote Letters to the Editor at The Telegraph. Finally, senior editor Charles Richardson wrote an editorial that was so sorry it shouldn't have even been printed. He claimed all the city/county needed to do was pass an ordinance and then keep moving. It's like he didn't even bother to check what he was writing about.

So, I wrote him a letter, politely trying to goad him into doing more work. His response was cynical. In short, the politicians weren't taking it seriously, only doing it for votes, he wrote, implying they didn't need to do anything else about it. I'd understand that attitude if they were actually doing something else worth a damn.

The day that first Letter to the Editor was published:....

1.)  Richardson wrote about Tiger Woods stunning victory at the US Open, linking him to Barack Obama somehow.

2.)  On the front page, above the fold, which means it is where it can been seen through the window of a newsbox—usually reserved for serious news by actual newspapers—the story was about a man who raises peafowl.

3.)  On the front of the local section, which now only slides into the front section—again above the fold—the big story was about a man who owns 1000 hats.

4.)  Buried in the business section, The Telegraph announced that their parent company, McClatchy, was cutting jobs across the board. …I wonder why.

But they aren't the only culprits.

While I was putting together the most recent issue with little breakdowns about the contested races in this July 15^th primary, one of the campaign managers told me that they'd been approached by a local magazine that wanted to write an article about them. As they were setting it up, the person revealed that it'd cost the campaign $1000 but would include a full-page ad. The campaign refused the shakedown, despite being called back several times and told: "The other candidates are doing it." I wanted to vomit. The same folks reportedly charge $3000 for their cover, which is almost as disgusting.

You can figure out who without me saying. There isn't a lick of useful political information publication that wasn't bought, and frankly, the most important information may be who fell for that scam. Now, I'm not against political ads at all, but I am against the imbalance it creates when you don't offer ANY actual unpaid information for your readers. One day, X-Mart Adult Superstore will be on the cover with their feature story. That'd be awesome.

Once upon a time, there was a thing called "The Fourth Estate", and it existed in Macon, GA, too. The bulk of the news now—what passes for news because it's scandalous or bad—is actually just "hey something shitty happened". It may suck to read or watch, but it doesn't really impact your life. However, when there is relevant news, it either isn't prominently placed or isn't covered adequately. Every week, I have new examples. Lord have mercy, if I ever had a staff to work with, we wouldn't have this problem. Until then, I'm just going to do what I can and bitch about what others aren't doing.

Currently reading : Shaking the Foundations: 200 Years of Investigative Journalism in America (Nation Books)

12:14 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

the Acoustic Kool-Aid Test
Current mood: sweaty

This is overdue, as are most of my efforts--or so it often feels.

Justin Cutway, who I have a hard time calling by his unChristian name, Trendlenberg, is my favorite singer/songwriter whenever I hear him play. Just like the Golden Bough is my favorite venue whenever I hear someone there. If I heard a homeless guy playing pots and pans with a wooden spoon at the Golden Bough, it'd still be my favorite venue at that moment. If that homeless guy were Justin Cutway, he'd still be my favorite singer/songwriter. And that's just the fact I've become accustomed to accepting.

It was last... er, Tuesday—no, the one before last. Damn. Okay, the Tuesday before last (aka June 10). Doc Brown and I got there after things had started, and I can't remember why it was then. But it was. And the room was full and the show was underway. And I looked up and around the way one does when they're both looking for a seat and trying acclimate to the social temperature in a different setting. I see seats on the front row, which happens when you're among the last, and I see a dozen friendly, favorite faces, which happens when Justin is playing at the Golden Bough.

Somewhere in the middle of some of the most beautifully written and sometimes cynically crafted songs, the warm glow of a big happy surrounded my insides and made a new home on my shoulders. There was a moment of connection between Cutway as Trendlenberg and my friends as audience, as if minds and feelings were easy to read. If I were an artist, I'd draw a gas gauge going from empty to full. That was the message.

The caboose of that train was called the "We Don't Have a Scene" Express, and on the back end of that, a little man with a gray mustache and black vest and matching cap waved as they pulled away. He yelled, "And we don't need one anyway."

That is to say another piece of a puzzle fell into place. From a couple years back—let's be generous and say, four—the idea of "building something" seemed to be what a lot of us rallied around. What I saw that night was that it was just the excuse we used to get to know each other and hang out, to have something to talk about when it was too hard to just say, "You look cool, wanna hang out?" So, if only for a moment, I felt like it was okay to let go of the whole idea of a scene—like the big cities have, yee haw—and just enjoy the fucking community we've accidentally built in its stead.

Most importantly, to keep doing what good communities do, which is enriching each other. We have musicians and party makers, philosophers and visual artists, writers and culture vultures. Though each may create because they can—or because they cannot stop creating—it's also like they create to make me feel better. And you, too, if that makes you feel better.

As I told the Fish yesterday, it also made me wonder if I'd stopped contributing to that. Once upon a time, I was writing a book and everyone was in it, somehow. And we all had special powers. An alarm clock would go off in Macon and people would wake up listening to a Roger Riddle mix. They'd go to their front step and pick up a newsletter that I'd written in my sleep. And so on and so forth. That's what I thought of back then, and what I think is happening now, but I don't know how much I'm actually contributing. Or supporting sometimes.

People do not change, not fundamentally. We are as deep and thick and difficult as this earth itself. Clear the land, pour a foundation and build a house, lay some sod and put a pink flamingo on your new lawn. Nothing changed; it just got prettier. Everything it's sitting on is the same. You just decorated better. And vice versa, the house could fall to shit and the grass could all die. Someone could steal your pink flamingo.

I'm trying to rebuild on my old land. I want a big house so I can have big parties, and this is as naked about my ambition as I care to be right now. More than anything though, I realized I don't want to be left out of what's going on, and I don't want to stop contributing. I'm just hoping to do it better and differently than I had before.

5:33 AM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Only as old (school) as you feel
Current mood: optimistic
Category: Parties and Nightlife

The reason I didn't do much of anything last Friday is because I had an incredible time on Thursday. That night at the Cox Capitol Theatre, with Doski Wo and The Revival and Al King and Robot Folk Junkies and Y'all Street and the unfortunately named 2 of a Kind, was a flash forward to where I'd like the Macon social scene to be, and a flash back to time when I drank for fun, not self-destruction.

Having been out of the drinking thing for so long, I over did it, and so, Friday was a day of suffering. I felt fine until after I'd showered. Then I vomited for the next several hours, sometimes screaming through the process, a half-yell, half-yack thing that was truly disgusting and disturbing. Every hackneyed cliché about hugging toilets and praying to porcelain gods rang true with each trip from my bed to the bathroom.

I'd do it all over again if it meant having that Thursday night again.

Hopefully, there is no direct correlation between my alcoholic overindulgence and having the variety of entertainment and people that was at the Capitol that night. But if there is, I will lay down my liver for it.

If you were there, you know why. (And thank you for being there.) If you weren't, you should get your second chances soon. In fact, the following Saturday was a more reserved (for me at least) version at the Tic Toc Room with Riddle and Dirt Dog throwing their second Black Card Party.

From what I gather, it is becoming a monthly event. Right now, it is invite only but it looks like that list is growing so maybe they'll open up for the general (but appropriate) public. The idea is to have people who actually like to listen to music show up. In the paper, I made the comparison to having a wine expert pick out their favorite bottle and giving it to you for free. That's the gig. Riddle and Dirt Dog play what they really want to play. You get the best.

That brings out an interesting crowd. It was as diverse and progressive as anything I've ever seen in Macon. While both those adjectives are absolutely correct, they're also disgustingly liberal sounding terms that mean something good but have an unfortunate pallor of political death about them. What I mean by that is that this isn't a political event. Neither was Thursday at the Capitol. It was just folks getting together without pretense or fear (or at least, getting together despite their pretense and fear). It was getting together because the function was too good to ignore. THAT is what we need more of.

In between both, Angelic and Riddle took me out to Twiggs County—WAY the hell out in Twiggs County... so far into Twiggs County I wasn't sure we were ever getting back to any place that wasn't in Twiggs County. Anyway, we went because someone put together an Old School All-Star concert. Doug E. Fresh, Slick Rick, Chubb Rock, Big Daddy Kane, Whodini, Sugar Hill Gang, Rob Base and several more including Fab Five Freddy.

So yeah, it was worth being out in the middle of nowhere.

What struck me at this concert is that hip-hop will be, for me, what "oldies" are for my mom and dad. They may have been young adults when Woodstock broke rock music into a thousand tie-dyed, psychedelic little pieces, but what they remember most fondly is shit from their idyllic childhood. Idyllic, I say, not because it was perfect but because they were innocent in the world. That's what that music reminds them of. That's what they hear when Leslie Gore sings, "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to." They hear "Back when I didn't have to worry about anything because I was a kid."

So when Slick Rick and Doug E. Fresh finally unleashed "La Di Da Di" on us, I was all tingly inside because that was the stuff I liked when all I had to do on a Saturday was cut the grass and play wiffle ball in the front yard with my friends.

And that reminded me of what I thought about the black kids I played with growing up. I knew—based on the way I saw adults act, based on what I heard some of them say—that there was supposed to be a problem between us white folks and them black folks. I knew that there was supposed to be a difference, that we weren't supposed to get along for some reason. By and large, we got along anyway. We were kids. We did what kids do. We played. We did that without much of a problem until we got older and adopted everyone else's prejudice.

I remember clearly the day I got too old to be innocent anymore, the day I became tainted by this shit. My bike got stolen, and one of my white friends said it was probably one of the black kids who did it. We walked around the neighborhood, off Shurling Drive, down Alandale and Clinton and Walnut Creek, back to Kensington. Never found the bike but that idea that someone would steal my bike because of their color stuck.

What I only sensed as a kid started becoming, in that moment, a part of how I thought, which was cemented by a friend who got it from the adults around him. In bits and pieces for a long time after that, the idea grew, the prejudice and bigotry grew. White people did good things and black people were shady. That isn't to say I was an ardent racist at any point in my life, but I certainly had a particular set of lenses. After a while, my friends came in colors: black and white.

My black friends changed too. It was obvious that something had gotten into them. They came around less, started calling each other "Nigga". In one of my least enlightened moments, I asked why they could call each other that and I couldn't. Didn't get an answer but I did get punched. From then on, it was the default worst thing to call a person. Once, I got into another fight and called the guy a "Nigger." Angry and hateful, that word transcended race. It was the just the meanest thing I could say.

Thankfully, eventually, it just made no sense to me to think or feel that way, and ever since then, I've been trying to unravel that ball of knots. But being in a city that willingly (and often just ridiculously) segregates itself socially, makes it hard. It's hard to just see a person—not when you're one-on-one or in a small group. That's fine. That's easy. It's when you see a big group. Boom: there's the black club; there's the white club, which is tantamount to "Stay away" if you're not of that race. And that's tantamount to stupidity. It's one thing to not dig what someone else digs, but it's another to pretend you don't because you're not the right color for it.

The feeling I had at the Capitol last Thursday, the feeling in Twiggs that Saturday afternoon and in the Tic Toc that night, was a lot like when I was just a small kid. I knew there was supposed to be—based on the way folks here act—a big difference between us white folks and black folks, but I wanted to have fun anyway so I disregarded it. Just like being a kid. That's what made it so great.

There was a while at the Capitol when the room divided itself pretty clearly. No one was dancing or mingling much. I asked Riddle why and he said, "There's too many black people in here," meaning that's what the white folks were thinking. And I said, "But the black folks seem uptight too." He said, "That's because there's too many white folks in here." Fortunately, as Riddle predicted, that broke down when Doski took the stage.

8:44 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Not this one. The other one.
Current mood: like a virgin
Category: like a virgin Sports

{Tonight, I'm on double-duty. This blog post will be different than the one I made earlier for The 11th Hour. But I think you should definitely read it.}

Thursday, April 17, 2008
It's a half-hour before game time, and I'm at Central City Park waiting on my team. Watching two church league squads face off in a swearing-free battle of iron wills, I pop six Sudafed tablets that I'd been saving since Federal regulations moved the good stuff behind the pharmacy counter. From an unmarked bottle, I take two little white pills from the bunch I bought off a trucker on my last surendipitious trip to Payne City. I wash them down with my third Red Bull of the afternoon. In minutes, I will be ready to play.

The heat in my blood rises. My muscles loosen and become electric. I start slapping myself in the face and screaming senselessly. A grandmother in the stands stares, mouth agape.

"Recreational co-ed softball ain't what it used to be," I tell her. She doesn't seem convinced so I spit a wad of chewing tobacco at her feet and walk off.

Warming up my arm, I send canonfire towards the opposing team's dugout in the form of 12-inch softballs flung in rapid succession. Smirking, I say, "My bad."

The Macon Improvement Authority gathers around me for a pep talk. It's like a scene from "300". We're bloodthirsty. We wear armor and little else. At the climax of my speech, one of my warriors chucks a spear over the centerfield fence. We all chant, "Today is a good day to die!"

My assistant coach, Jessica Walden, hands the umpire a hundred. Per my instructions she tells him, "This is not a bribe. This is to help your family with funeral arrangements if you decide to get in our way tonight."

A member of the other team lets out a rabid yell. She's found the present we placed in their ball bag: the scalps of our last opponents.

The call goes out: "Play ball!" The game's outcome is a foregone conclusion. No matter what happens with the final score, we will have a good time tonight.

8:48 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

the Redding Run for Grape-Flavored Excellence
Current mood: doggy style
Category: doggy style Pets and Animals

You may have noticed my new pictures. You may think I’ve become a total sell-out, or that I’ve sold my soul to the devil (aka - Mark Ballard). But then, you’d be an idiot. If I’d sold out or sold my soul, I’d have asked for a little more.

But not much more...

Tosha Walden, who runs a talent agency and happens to be on the MIA softball team, called to ask me if I’d be interested in participating in the Cherry Blossom Fashion Show. My initial reaction was no, but I internalized that response and listened. After all, Tosh had secured funding for our softball team, which saved me like $35 bucks and that’s nothing to sneeze at. As I hesitantly hung on, she began to sweeten the deal. At first, she did it in the wrong way, suggesting I’d get to see local celebrities in the nude—folks I hope to never see in the nude. (Like Mark Brooker, who I’ll mention in greater detail soon.)

Then she said, "And you can walk the Pink Poodle."

"Done!"

"That’s an honor usually reserved for—excuse me? Huh? Did you say you’re in?"

"Yes! Sign me up."

Though the above is a slight exaggeration, I can tell you this one thing that I know to be an honest to God fact of life: When anyone offers you a chance to "walk the Pink Poodle", you take it. For the rest of my natural life—and the entirety of my supernatural life, if I make it to Heaven—I get to brag that I "walked the Pink Poodle."

But Chris, why the quotation marks? That’s simple. Every time I tell someone that I "walked the Pink Poodle", I will follow by saying, "...if you know what I mean." If the person isn’t from Macon, they probably won’t know what I mean, which is fine. Actually, I may even prefer it that way.

All that considered, the pot was even sweeter than I could’ve imagined because when I arrived, Mark Ballard welcomed me. I thought he was standing in his underwear, which was slightly disconcerting, but then I realized that he was already in his "casual" attire, which was the first stage of our fashion show. It just so happened that his outfit involved white linen shorts, a shirt and tie, and a sleeveless sweater. You can see why I would’ve been confused. He also mentioned several times that he’d gotten the spray-on tan for this event, and I don’t doubt the truthfulness of that statement.

And then, when The Artist rode through the room, which was 600 deep with people in various shades of pink, on a flowery scooter, I knew that the photo op of a lifetime was coming.

Fortunately, Mark Brooker (of the Soul Proprietors and NeoKats) was there so I had a friendly to speak with. Unfortunately, he stripped down to his jockeys to change. Now, I’m a shy guy, believe it or not. I’m not a fan of being even remotely naked in public. The times I’ve done it, lots of alcohol was involved. There was no alcohol involved at this event, at least, not for me. The state of things—namely, Mark Brooker’s intimidating, non-boxer presence—begged for alcohol or escape. And so, I quickly turned about face and hid myself with the jacket I wore to the dressing room.

Before I could accidentally catch anyone else in the near-buff, I left the room.

When I returned, Paul, the owner of the Pink Poodle (Lacy), was there to instruct me how to manipulate the giant dog. You should be able to tell from the pictures that this poodle is about 6’4" and 260lbs of pure muscle. The first time I saw it, two years ago on assignment as a bootleg photog, I nearly shit myself. I’d stared that dog in the face and found no weakness. I knew that at any moment, it could lunge for my throat. In fact, I was certain it may do just that. To legitimize my experience—to be able to say in truth and honesty that I’d "walked the Pink Poodle, if you know what I mean"—I had to actually walk the Pink Poodle. And it scared me.

With as much bravery as I could muster, I practiced Paul’s instructions: be authoritative—command her, do not ask—and never, ever, ever look her in the eyes. It reminded me of a blind date I went on once. When it was my turn to, I grabbed her by the leash and tried not to think about how I was taking my life into my hands. Again, it was eerily reminiscent of that blind date.

Because we’d all moved through our first presentation too quickly, Mark Ballard had started spending time with each "community model" after their walk, asking questions and making small talk. There in the spotlight, with a thousand eyes on us, The Artist decided to ask me about the Jive Turkey articles I’d written about him. For the next several minutes, I tried to explain the concept of satire to a room of kindly old ladies and men in pink jackets. When I’m nervous, I sweat. I’m pretty sure they won’t be able to return the clothes I wore.

On the less bizarre side of things, I got to hang out with Jessica Walden, who had been my editor when I first started with The 11th Hour, and I was reacquainted with Steve Farr from Wesleyan, who happens to be one of the coolest guys in Macon. No joke. Of course, Alan Walden and his son, Christian, were there. When all was said and we were done wearing fancy clothes, we were treated to a spread of sandwich meats and chocolate mousse. It was just like dinner with my family ...except for the dill-spiced Havarti cheese, which I stuffed into my pockets before I left.

So... after 29 years on the planet, about 22 of them spent off and on in Macon, I finally got into the Cherry Blossom Festival spirit. Next year, I may dye something pink.

10:00 PM - 6 Comments - 7 Kudos - Add Comment

Macon Improvement

Two years ago—two literal years—I endeavored to find a group of people who would play softball with me. Then the Parks & Rec screwed up and we were left off the schedule. One year ago, I was in a self-induced coma brought on by a case of head-up-own-ass disease. But this year... oh, this year...

The call went out and the people responded in waves, droves, with massive groups of softball hungry miscreants. We have nearly 20 people on the roster. And by nearly 20, I mean 19. Just one shy. That’s how nearly.

But old problems resurfaced. The first practice, we only had four people show up, myself included. And collecting the money to pay the $450 fee presented me some trouble. It wasn’t looking good heading into the second practice.

Further, I was on deadline with the paper, and I had to put my girlfriend on a plane (I do that when I’m sick of her being so smart, funny and super fine).

But I drove back to Macon from Atlanta, buying some balls of the 11- and 12-inch variety along the way. One person was there at a quarter to 6pm, our start time, and one person was there at ten past. I was getting worried.

The floodgates opened and we had more people than I could shake a stick at, so I told some of them to stand in the field and others to grab a bat and I threw balls at them. Big balls (of the 11- and 12-inch variety). We did this until the sun went down. I’m sore today but I felt fantastic yesterday.

Prescott Suzuki is sponsoring the team, and initially, I thought that meant that I’d have to do away with our original team logo, which is inspired by the PBR label.

 

I didn’t think that Prescott Suzuki, the official car dealership of the 2008 Macon Improvement Authority Softball Team, would like the message that pairing would send. Folks frown on the insinuation of drinking and driving. But! But they were cool with it and so we get to go with our cool logo. The alternative was going to be shitty. Now, I’m thinking of ordering extra jerseys so our fans can have some when they attend games.

Currently reading : Become a Better You By Joel Osteen Release date: 15 October, 2007

7:25 PM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Hit me baby one more time

I don't know what's wrong with y'all but Britney Spears is still hot. (I like a little coo-coo with my Coco Puffs, if you know what I mean.)

Even I don't know what I mean by that.

Guess I'm just unloading my brain now. After a week of more intense social activity than I've had in a long time, I decided to go hermit again. Granted, this week was actually only Thursday and the most intense part was just that I got hammered and paid for it, but not nearly as badly as I had after my brother's bachelor party, which was also a Thursday. (I'm going to lock myself in a room this Thursday.)

Somehow, I was invited to go up on the city bus to Taste of Macon in Atlanta. Though I thought I was invited to ride a literal city bus, it turns out that it was actually the bus that city employees were riding, a coach rife with City Council and City Hall staff. This was, I decided, a nice sign post on my path to respectability. For no good reason, I took Alex, who has replaced me on the bar scene as the "night writer". He came dressed in a three piece suit with a pink ribbon on his lapel. I decided that was not a nice sign post on my path to respectability and subsequently spent half of my conversations with him making fun of his clothes. (It isn't fun to be outdressed by your subordinates.)

I won't say who, mostly because I don't remember, but someone gave me a beer. It was not even 4 o' clock yet. That beer was done before we hit the Interstate, and whatever postive momentum I had on the "take me seriously" train was derailed. By 7:30pm, they were loading us back on the bus and I was loaded, yelling at our city officials because Alex had talked them into calling me C-Ho.

Because we were invited, our first stop after Atlanta was at the Capitol Theatre where Mercer Law was having a benefit during which a band of faculty members performed. I took pictures, which is how I remember that. It was fun. I think.

And then to the Hummingbird and then to The Porch, where I'd missed, by hours, Connor's first birthday. I don't know if Dan and Monica were upset or not, but they were friendly so I'm assuming not. I know I was loud but that's because I'd come from the Hummingbird where I began losing my hearing all over again. Leaky and the Moustached Montebank posed as fighters, and then I walked home. In the morning, I walked to work, almost an hour late.

This all sounds way too familiar.

Saturday came and reminded that I want to play softball because it was warm and the Saturday paper has listings for recreational sports. I sent out the call and have so far had several people say they want to play. Two years ago, I tried this. We had a team, we were registered, we were ready, and we were left off the schedule. Organization is obviously not the strongpoint for Parks & Recreation. This will not happen to us again.

At 1pm, the Writers and Exciters Guild was reborn. More than two years ago, I tried to put together a writer's group because I didn't see one here that'd fit my style, which is based on being cool. We always had a handful of folks present, and it went well for a few months until I dropped the ball. That ball laid on the ground, mostly motionless, for the past couple of years. Finally, we started anew.

Really new. I was the only person at this meeting that'd ever been to one before. That was actually quite refreshing. And honestly, the quality of work was impressive. Kara and Jenny from Macon State came and read. Their work will, I believe, appear in the Fall Line Review, MSC's literary magazine, and with good reason. Alex, for no good reason, showed up. Actually, he surprised me. He read "The Roast of the Regretted Tattoo", which you can find in his blog. Funny, funny stuff. Freelance writer Angel Collins joined us as did an email from Jeff B about collaborative fiction. A couple other folks expressed their regrets for not being able to make it, and right now, I feel like the future of the group is in good hands.

And god bless the Golden Bough for being a one-stop shop.

My regrets this week, aside from personal miscues that won't make this public blog, are chiefly that I chose to hide at home when I could've been at the Back Porch Lounge on Friday, and at Starcadia on Saturday. According to Jeremy of Oh No They Didn't, one of the performing bands, it was a full room. The reason that's good is because all those bands (except for lovable Mag Tard) struggle to get a gig here. Their music doesn't appeal to the genre types that most of our bars have decided upon. So Jeremy and some others set out to find a place where they could be heard in their hometown even though they'd already played in Athens and Atlanta.

The Starcadia thing was a benefit for the Macon Venue Project, a collective of young people who want to raise enough money to open a venue that probably would showcase the talent that played at the Back Porch. (By the way, it just occurred to me that some reading might think that The Porch is the same as The Back Porch and that my friends threw their son's first birthday in a bar. That isn't the case so put the phone down; there's no need to call child services.)

Frankly, I don't know if the Macon Venue Project is going to work but I'm very hopeful. The reason is that I've actually talked with the guys and they are, if nothing else, passionate about it. And honestly, if they pull it off, this will be a boon to Macon. If you don't know who they are yet, visit their Myspace and see what's up. This is something you want to support.

And that's about that.

10:37 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

rumors of my death
Current mood: I’m gonna let it shine

Last Monday, I got back on a red eye flight from Vegas with my girlfriend. We'd left on Valentine's Day. We did not get married though. There were no plans to do so either, but I find it interesting: the timing and destination.

Instead, we visited her family, which also gave me a chance to experience a half of the country that I'd neglected: The West. Granted, one little trip to Las Vegas isn't really exploring the whole half, but it's a start. A big one too. The overwhelming majority of my life has been spent on this side of things where we build up to our little mountains, one anthill at a time. I mean, the old Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium sat more a thousand feet above sea level, but only because it took its time getting there. You wouldn't hardly think it was that high up if you never saw a home run hit there. (RIP Launchin' Pad)

Inbound, we flew over at night. The pitch black silhouette of the mountainscape looked like fancy wall border against the deep blue night sky, and on the floor of the room, someone had scattered thousands of lights. It was beautiful. It was just the start.

My girlfriend likes to run. She'd told me of her hour long runs out in Vegas. I had not been looking forward to that part. But as soon as we stepped out of the house that next day and I looked down the road at the path we'd soon run, I saw all the regular suburban diversions and the huge looming mountains in the background. It was a shock. Like seeing a hovering space ship in a good sci-fi movie with great special effects. We ran towards those rocks forever but never caught up with them. They never changed in size, never seemed closer or more distant. They were just there, the whole time. Old men silently reading the paper at the Waffle House.

The dry air. I'd been warned about it by way of those mediocre metrology conversations strangers have with each other. "It'll get to 100 every day in the summer out there... but it's a dry heat." On the stoop of winter, there is no heat but there is dry air, and that shit required keeping a bottle of water by the bedside to avoid getting dehydrated.

So yeah, I know my point is only "things are different there than they are here" but this is my blog and I'll point out the mundane and obviously when I please.

The week between returning and right now has been strange. Fast too. It came quickly and I only know it's gone now because of the faint breeze that tickles the peach fuzz on my face.

If you didn't see me piss drunk on Thursday or mostly sober and well-dressed on Saturday then you might not know that my little brother Jeff got married. If you've paid any attention to this Myspace profile, you know I have a nephew and might know that my nephew was made possible in part thanks to a grant from the Jeff Horne Foundation. (That is to say it's his kid.) So while it shouldn't have been a shock—and intellectually wasn't— that Jeff would marry the lady with whom he'd already procreated (that being Laticia) it was still a little tough to accept.

They announced their wedding about three weeks prior to the date, which didn't help a lot of things, including the acceptance thing. As such, I waited until last Thursday when we had the rehearsal dinner. Standing there, as the Best Man, watching them pantomime my brother's decent into marriage, it finally dawned on me: This is a Rehearsal Dinner for a Wedding, not just a dinner. I mean, I'd avoided eating too late in the day so I could preserve my appetite, and I even showed up on time to avoid making folks wait on me. I just had forgotten that we were going to pretend that Jeff was getting married before sat down with the BBQ. Judging from Jeff's face up there, it'd hit him about the same. I guess there's just something about saying, "With this ring, I thee wed."

To make sure that we stopped thinking about things like the future, Jeff, the groomsmen and myself all went out for a sort-of bachelor's party. It just so happened to be the night the Hummingbird reopened. First things first, we went to The Oasis for a Flaming Dr. Pepper and some pool. It gave us a chance to get our engines started without sitting off to the side doing nothing, having to shout over the noise at the Bird. This group, by the way, included a dude named Jonathon, a dude named Justin, and a really small dude named Andy. Good guys one and all.

Cutting to the chase: we all got super drunk. From the Oasis, we went to the Bird, where Jeff snaked as many free shots as he could, all the way toasting himself as "Dead Man Walking". By the time we made it to the Red Eye, we shouldn't have gone to the Red Eye. That is to say, we needed no more booze and the Red Eye had so much of it. Of course we drank some of that superfluous booze.

Justin put his head down on one of the tables and thusly hidden, quietly puked while we talked. Jeff and Jonathon kept doing shots and drinks, and I started getting the feeling like someone might die if I didn't try to sober up. (Note: my blood alcohol level was probably ten times the legal limit.) One of the barflies noticed the pool of puke, so I started hustling my guys out of the bar.

Barely at the top of the steps with long, lanky Jonathon and dead weight Justin, Andy comes up and says Jeff is inside cleaning up the puke. It's his bachelor party so I can't let him do the cleaning. Just a rule. So Andy takes over the drunk shuffle while I go to rescue my brother.

I find Jeff singing into the mop handle as he looks at Stuart, who happens to be a big dude. This is Jeff's song: "It's okay because I'm getting married. I'm getting married on Saturday. I'm a dead man walking." And so on and so forth (yes, ad nauseum) until I take the mop. Jeff doesn't go outside. Instead, he tells Stuart (sans song) what his plans are for the upcoming weekend, namely that he's getting married. Fortunately, Stuart is a nice guy who likes to write, or so I remember him saying as I tried to get the vomit off the floor.

The adventure was only really starting. My roommate Chad, who would hit on my sister after the wedding on Saturday, came to my rescue, helping me get the boys home in a manner that would be considered illegal in some states, probably this one. Once home in separate cars—the first time of two times this week when I'd leave my truck downtown—we drug the drunk asses inside. Jonathon managed to knock over a solid wood table that was wedged into a corner of the kitchen. He completely flipped it, spilling a bottle of apple vodka, which broke, but heroically saving a bottle of Evan Williams.

Jeff passed out on the couch in the living room. Jonathon was on the chaise lounge. Justin slept on a palate on the floor near a garbage can for more puke, and Andy grabbed a spot in the entertainment room. Chad and I talked till four in the morning, and then I went to sleep in my bed.

When I awoke at eight, someone was in my bed. Looking out the door through a bad hangover, I saw that the couch was empty. I assumed that meant my brother had jumped into my bed for some reason. So I grabbed space on the couch and went back to sleep. Despite the hell in my head and stomach, I got up to shower and then walk to work since my truck wasn't at home with me. Doing so, I noticed that Jeff was actually on the floor with his head on Justin's leg, and Jonathon was the one in my bed.

I locked the door when I showered.

I could go into great detail about the pain I felt on Friday, but I won't. The whole ordeal can be summed up by the fact that on my way to the post office, I had to vomit in an oversized cup that I fortunately had in my truck. It was the violent kind of vomiting. That was at 3pm.

Once upon a time, I really enjoyed doing that. I mean it. I thought the hangovers were cathartic. I'd get jacked up just to have some suffering. I am not that guy any longer. Not that cathartic pain isn't helpful.

I ran my second 5K the morning of my brother's wedding. This time, my girlfriend, at my behest, ran at a pace befitting her. I didn't want her waiting on me when she could be kicking ass. It was a challenge because normally I use her as motivation to finish. This time, I had to do it all by my lonesome (and some music by Otis Redding). Imagine my joy when they announced that the first mile and a half would be uphill.

Anyway, I did it. I finished in 27 minutes and 17 seconds, more than three minutes after my gorgeous girlfriend who applauded when I came in. I hadn't stopped and I sprinted at the end. It hurt, but that pain only lasted ten minutes, which is much less than a hangover. And it felt much better much sooner. It was in the throes of recovery that I realized that my favorite thing about hangovers was that moment when they ended, when you felt noticeably better. I got that a lot quicker with the road race.

And so, I felt good going into Jeff and Ticia's wedding despite the fact I'd shown up late and without the stuff to decorate their car. It went as expected: they got all the words right, no one objected, and I got all misty-eyed.

At the reception, we ate and mingled and joked, and I was getting excited about the toast I was going to give Jeff. Then the time came to do it, and all I could think about was how proud I was of him and all he's overcome. I could only think about this little pink and yellow worm of a boy that Mom and Dad brought home. I remembered all the times growing up when he wanted my attention and how little I gave him. I realized that, regardless, he kept moving forward, kept his big heart intact, and is in a position to take care of himself, his boy and his wife.

So of course I cried. I couldn't hardly get the words out of my mouth. All the jabs I wanted to throw at him and his groomsman and my family and such—they were all gone. None of it remained.

Weepiness aside, we returned to the Hummingbird. Bride, groom, family, friends. And Jeff got tore up drunk again. So did my sister (that's another story for another day). When he and Ticia finally left, it was after a marathon heart-to-heart session Jeff had with me, Jonathon, Justin and his buddy Frank. He just wanted us all to know exactly how much we meant to him and he decided that'd work best if he repeated himself over the course of a half hour in the cold. Seriously, Jeff is a socialable guy, but he keeps select company, and having gotten to know his friends a little better, I understood why.

He thinks we'll sneak him out of the house from time to time.

6:13 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Double Dipping

The Role of Isolation, Rhetoric and Vulnerability in the Nature of Masculinity as a Developing Theme in Paul Thomas Anderson's Major Cinematic Works

The smell of a cigarette mingling with a crisp winter night used to be the most provocative trigger I knew. It would, without fail, revitalize romantic visions of sitting in a dank, sparse apartment at a typewriter, smoking and staring out of a window to a street that, in my head, was itself a romanticized version of Paris, one parsed together from Bill Murray's version of The Razor's Edge and the film adaptation of Vonnegut's Mother Night.

In the former, the world was fresh from the Great War, and Bill Murray's character, Larry Darrell, was being baptized by fire to a life he was chasing through experience and hand-me-down wisdom. The latter centered chiefly around a misunderstood outcast from the Second World War, Howard W. Campbell, Jr., who went from world-wide notoriety to persona non grata in the vast claustrophobic expanses of post-war New York City. In their own ways, each informed who it was I wanted to be: a guy alone with his million thoughts and feelings. For some reason, being that guy seemed like a special and sometimes sacred self-sacrifice.

The two shared these major thematic elements: isolation, rhetoric and mythologized masculinity. By their representation as a sort of "new manhood"—evolving archetypes for a post-modern manliness, recast in historical perspective to appear as ancestors to today's version—the most painful and negative attributes of their personalities became primary. To fit the bill as these characters embodied it required embracing isolation and manipulative speech as positives. As a confused young man, I mistook these things as goals instead of symptoms. Worse, I believed that these were examples of the man I should be as opposed to explorations into what men were becoming. Maybe Tipper Gore was right about the power of art and its misappropriations.

What I knew when I found Larry Darrell and Howard W. Campbell, Jr., was that they thought too much and felt too much. At the time, I related in a way that made them mentors. Larry began as a carefree goof with tons of charisma who left the cozy environs of early 20^th century suburbia for what initially seemed like a guest appearance in the First World War, ostensibly an opportunity to cross out a line item on the checklist to becoming a man. He found something ugly in it—his morality fast in his mind, death looked like a deadline for a timed test—and that set him on a path to find purpose in finding a purpose. The fact that his friends back home all had their lives turn to shit because of the stock market crash only validated his trajectory. While that remained true to him for the majority of his story arc, it meant he sacrificed closeness to others, namely finding and keeping love. Seldom satisfied, he dove into several philosophies, regurgitated each with the sound of clanging brass, then abandoned it for something else. It wasn't so much that I wanted to be like him, but that I was destined to be like him, and that I was, in fact, acting like him—jumping to and clinging to someone else's beliefs as a life raft.

Howard W. Campbell, Jr., was an American playwright living in Germany during Hitler's ascendancy. With his art, he'd built a life that was comfortable and seemingly fulfilling. His parents, who'd taken him to Germany as a child, were ready to leave because of the political climate, but Howard was not. He had a hot German wife and a career to consider. After meeting a mysterious American spy who asked him to serve his native country as a covert operative, Howard was faced with knowing that he'd become a disengaged pawn by the trappings that only really served him superficially. So he became the Third Reich's Rush Limbaugh, secretly transmitting communiqués through his propagandist talk radio broadcasts. Then his wife died in an Allied bombing run, and Germany fell, leaving him a villain with no one to defend him. The passage of time was a saving grace and a jail as he returned to America, no longer reviled because the national attention span had moved to other enemies, forced to live without purpose. His life started anew when a woman came claiming to be his long dead wife. In the end, he was only again being used. The moral of the story was supposedly summed up in this line: "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." (Another moral was presented as "Make love while you can. It is good for you." But that's a little besides the point, or at least, my point.) What I saw in Howard was that a person is only safe from manipulation when he is isolated from others.

Between Larry and Howard, I'd developed a synergistic sense of unstoppable destiny and cautious deliberation. On one hand, I was that guy who had to journey the world for answers even if it meant being alone. On the other, it was best if I were the guy who stayed apart from the world to avoid being mistreated. Both guys were suckers for love that failed them. Larry had been engaged to a woman that couldn't handle who he wanted to be, and then he fell for someone he thought he could save. His second chance—he called her his reward—was murdered when she couldn't fight her demons any longer. Howard lost his wife in real life, and then lost her ideal when the poseur was revealed as a fraud. In each situation, their mistake seemed to be in making a love connection.

My own life seemed to bear this out, as I'm sure it has for many, many others. You only really get hurt when you're vulnerable. This is the third key in the mythology of this type of masculinity: the inability to avoid vulnerability. The "new man" can't help it.

In a few hours, I will hop a plane to Las Vegas with my girlfriend, an amazing human being who excels on every level I can imagine. To get to this point, we each had to concede—whether consciously or not is debatable—that the risk of being vulnerable was worth the potential reward. What it has made me aware of most is that luck (or timing or whatever you want to call it) ultimately swings the balance in or out of whack. For Larry and Howard, it was really just bad luck (and/or the evil intentions of the author) that made the moral of their stories seem so bleak; it wasn't that their lot was a universal fact of life. Whoops.

With that in mind—albeit in the back of my mind—I saw There Will Be Blood in an entirely different light than either The Razor's Edge or Mother Night. As we watched There Will Be Blood I was reminded of Paul Thomas Anderson's other two big movies, Boogie Nights and Magnolia because the singularity of his focus in this new flick illuminated themes in the other two much more clearly. Isolation, rhetoric, vulnerability and the mythology of masculinity.

In Boogie Nights, Mark Walberg is a kid with a giant wiener who just wants to be loved. Putting that monster wang to use in porn, he finds the warm embrace of community. (It is somewhat ironic that in emotionless sex he comes to the sort of acceptance for which he'd longed.) The bluster of machismo in the choreographed segments of imaginary skin flicks and the hedonism of the lifestyle serves as the rhetorical device. These are the vehicles for export of that subculture's pathos. Blah, blah, blah. By the movie's end, he's a man alone, giving his penis a pep talk.

Though I thought Magnolia was largely boring and featured too much Aimee Mann, it did give me nightmares about a plague of frogs, which was cool. That and Tom Cruise's character fascinated me. While all of the characters were in varying degrees of isolation—each trying to connect in some way, as my girlfriend pointed out—Tom Cruise's character was in a self-imposed exile, and he connected to others falsely, generally proselytizing them to become isolated by choice too. His rhetoric was less figurative as he literally stood before others charging them with his ethos of circumventing the pitfalls of vulnerability by pro-actively manipulating women. As the story develops his father appears as the original culprit, the familiar foil for men. The depths to which Cruise's character went to avoid the pain his father inflicted was really a hyperbolic embodiment of what he hated most in his father. He adopted his father's manipulations begrudgingly to avoid being at the hands of someone like his father.

What makes There Will Be Blood so fascinating in this context is that the main character, Daniel Plainview, astonishingly brought to life by Daniel Day Lewis, is someone who follows isolation as a goal to its logical ends, utilizing verbal rhetoric as a disguise for his manipulations and his vulnerability. His chief antagonist is a charismatic evangelical of the Elmer Gantry mode, who is as deviously naked in his ambitions, but to his misfortune, not nearly as deft at operating in it. Through the course of almost thirty years, Plainview accrues all the manifestations of success, which he states is only to provide him the opportunity to separate himself completely from absolutely everyone because he cannot see anything worth liking about anyone. It is something he stubbornly abides by despite obviously being moved by the illusion of connection with two people, his son and his half-brother. Even though neither relative is actually as they initially appear, he has the opportunity to remain connected emotionally to them though he harshly rejects it. Ultimately, this is a character study of epic proportions that unmasks this mythologized American masculinity as substantively empty. It achieves this by creating Plainview as a fully realized human being with little back story to explain how became this way, building the assumption that this is simply what some people ARE. That is to say, the character himself is a personified philosophical argument.

So, if I ever had any doubts about actually realizing the romanticized ideals of isolation, eschewed vulnerability and rhetorical shields, I don't now. Plus, if I did, I wouldn't be able to enjoy Vegas with my beautiful girlfriend, and that would be a damn shame.

12:19 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

What wouldn’t post last week works alright now

Since the age of eight or so, I've had a reoccurring nightmare that Godzilla was attacking Macon. More specifically, in his attack on Macon, he was attacking places where I was, thusly scaring the shit out of me. The only difference in the first dream and my latest, which was sometime last year, is that the locales are updated to fit where I spend most of my time. For instance, as a kid, I sought refuge at Alexander II, my elementary school, and at my neighbor's house because my best friend lived there. Last year, Godzilla came stomping on downtown while I was in the Bird. Once, I hid in the bushes at my friend's house and the US Military response—firebombing—is actually what took me out. I woke up thinking I was burning. This dream and the one about the nickel and the nun that rapidly grow in size are my only reoccurring nightmares.

Given all that, I was especially psyched to see Cloverfield, a creature feature that a record-setting $41 million worth of Americans were excited to see too. If you don't know about it, it is, as one deft critic deftly described it, "the Blair Witch Godzilla" movie. In other words, the entire story is told by participant POV, all on a hand-held digital camera. This, I figured, would be interesting. Initially, I really only wanted to see how well they'd do telling a story of that type in that way. Creative narratives pique my interest.

What I didn't know is that it would effectively tap into most of my biggest fears, namely being attacked by Godzilla (or a Godzilla-like thing), being unable to outrun the monster, being separated from the woman I love in the midst of a monster attack, being attacked by spiders, and of course, heights. Despite all that, I left the theatre jazzed. Nothing major to write home about on the soul of humankind tip, but solid, solid entertainment. Seriously intense big-budget virtual reality.

It also triggered, in combination with a few weeks of building stress, an episode of brief mania, which is something I haven't experienced in a while. Back before all this gig with The 11th Hour and such, I was just a guy trying to get my shit together, blah, blah, blah--I've said that before. Well, back then, I'd get highly "energetic" and wouldn't be able to stop talking or fidgeting or moving. It's like me on coffee times a hundred plus heightened emotional sensitivity and paranoia. It wasn't just annoying for me and those around me, it was embarrassing and a little scary because it only got worse the harder I tried to control it.

I'm not sure why I mention it here except that it reminded me of what things were like for me four or five years ago. It put me back in a frame of mind and memory that I visit infrequently. When it passed and all was good again, I became really grateful for the difference in me then and me now. It is often enough for me to realize that I have what some people would call a career, that I have good friends and a life—it is something entirely different to realize that I feel sane now because I did not then.

After the movie, after the episode, my girlfriend and I went to the Capitol. It was the first time in a very, very long time that I felt really comfortable being out. I'd hoped that this would return, and it feels like it is slowly. A big part of that is because I'd written and we'd printed my last "night writer" column. It would no longer be my job to go out, which is good because as a job it sucks almost as hard as I had at doing it over the past six months. Now, I get to be social as a matter of choice.

(Yes, yes, I know I always had a choice. No one put a gun to my head, etc. I'm just saying it is nice to look at a weekend {or a week} and only think of doing what really interests me most. What interests me most is being around some of my favorite people, which is what I got to do at the Capitol that night.)

We stayed through the Magnificent Bastard set, which was great, especially up on that big ass stage with that sweet sound system, but left shortly after because it was going to be a super early morning come sunrise Saturday.

At 6:30am, I got up, got dressed, got excited, got in the car and drove to Warner Robins so I could run three miles in the rain and the cold. As you can read at my other blog, I had some trouble staying motivated but completed the damn thing without stopping. In fact, I ran it faster than I ever could have expected: less than 27 minutes. That's a bit more than eight minutes a mile. (Note: They've released the times for the 5K since I first tried to post this and now. I came in 72 out of 263 runners. Yay me!)

While I could go off about how awesome I am for doing this despite being, just six months ago, a two-pack-a-day smoker, I'd rather go off on how awesome mp3 players are.

At the now-forgotten Chris Horne Rock and Roast gala event, a celebration of my 28th birthday, my beautiful benefactors, Brad and Meagan Evans—known in more cartoonish terms as Grizzly and Cardigan Slim—gave me a Sansa music player, SanDisk's version of the iPod. Like the ubiquitous Apple product, it plays music and movies, but it also picks up and records radio, as well as serving as a voice recorder. It is a dynamo of a little black box. It also sat unused for the past 16 months because I didn't have Windows XP on my computer, and more because I didn't get what the big deal was about mp3 players.

Well, as we were packing up our old office on Cherry to move to our new office on Cherry, I found the cord that connects the device to a computer, and so I connected my device to the office computer, which fortunately affords me Windows XP. I then downloaded a couple hundred songs and subsequently plugged my ears with its beneficent sounds. For most of the day, I walked around listening to music that I'd normally have to hear in the truck or through some sort of home audio equipment. For most of the day, I pretended to be a kid again, listening to my Walkman.

It was like being ten years old again, walking on Daytona Beach by myself listening to a gas station tape of Merle Haggard's Greatest Hits, playing and rewinding "I Think I'll Just Stay Here And Drink" despite the fact I wasn't old enough to do either. When the grass cutting jobs became more frequent, I was able to afford MC Hammer and Weird Al Yankovic tapes. On birthdays and Christmas, I became wealthy with the likes of Whitesnake, Bon Jovi and Vanilla Ice. Without discriminating tastes as a kid, I flourished.

All of a sudden, I am again smitten with the ability to make noise appear directly in my head. All of a sudden, I get it. This is what folks have been talking about. One day, I may explore GPS devices and maybe something wireless besides a phone.

Though I've been building up my endurance, running a couple of three times a week for the past couple of months or so, I really think that it was the Sansa that got me through that grueling run. (And my wonderful running mate.) I didn't place in the race, but I was definitely in the top third, which is higher than I could've imagined. With that and all the healthier eating I've done, I'm starting to feel really fucking good. 

And the best part of it all is that I'm finally getting to a point where I think I've got an answer for people when they ask, "What have you been up to?" And that's probably the biggest reason I feel sane now. I have a fucking life.

11:02 PM - 5 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Maybe I recant

So I said I wasn't going to use this blog any more, and maybe I won't after this, but I realize that what I was really saying--by saying I didn't want to keep two blogs, one here and one there--is that I didn't want to keep blogging. Not eternally, just while I was feeling like that. Sometimes there's a drought.

Now that I'm back after a weird day--one that, on paper, would look like a bad day but doesn't feel that way right now--I want to write, and for some reason, despite how very public this blog is, I felt like the Blogger blog for work was too impersonal by design to fit my mood tonight. And so here I am, knocking on an old lover's door.

If you don't know me well--and perhaps even if you think you do--then this recent silence might seem strange. When I look back--and I'm always looking back--I realize that I spend, on average, between a quarter to a half of every year in decline, retreat and respite. Some periods last longer than others. Some are more productive than others. In every case, it's about inflicting a certain amount of damage to myself and then healing. Rene Girard calls it 'regenerative violence', which is a concept I adore. In short, you tear something down to build it up again.

Almost all of 2007, for me, has been like that though. It's just that the past few months have been the retreat and respite part. It all started when I realized that I had no adequate answer to anyone who ever asked "What have you been up to?" Every single time, for quite some time, I felt like I had nothing to say. All of my life felt far too public. Not that I expected or even believed that most people read this blog or the paper or anything else that makes me public, but I felt like everything I was doing was for public consumption so there was nothing interesting to report. In other words, I held nothing back for myself, which in essence meant that most of the things I could talk about with a close friend was something I could discuss with a total stranger.

Tonight, I drove back from the Atlanta airport in jacket my girlfriend bought me, in my girlfriend's car because I wrecked mine earlier today trying to drop her off so she could travel home for the holidays.

Oh yeah, I have a girlfriend. A few of you may have suspected that, or even known it, but I just found out so it's still like news to me. And that's about all the detail I'm interested in giving. Suffice it to say that she is remarkable, otherwise, I wouldn't have a girlfriend. (I still have no idea what she sees in me.)

Those folks close enough to my situation to have watched me lately might be inclined to pin certain changes on this aforementioned girlfriend. You're right and you're wrong. The folks who are closer to me know that this stuff was stirring well before I even knew she existed. What she has done is support me in a way that matters most. As cliched as it might sound, I've never really liked myself very much. If you'd seen the way I lived the past couple of years, you'd have figured that out yourself. That doesn't mean I don't see some value in me, but mostly that I wasn't aware of my worth. She's unveiled a lot of that, and that makes me much more capable of pursuing changes.

Ask me now what I've been doing. In the past, I'd probably have said, in relation to this laying low that I occassionally do, "I've been hiding." Well, now, I can say that I've been rebuilding. I quit smoking and I'm getting some exercise. I'm also working on two books, having decided to ditch the magnum opus for a while to focus on stories that feel much more accessible.

Workwise, I'm leaving the column, which is pretty well known now, and about the same time, I'll be leaving sales for the paper. There are a host of reasons for each, but the only one you need to know about is that this is something that I think will make me a happier person and will help me continue growing in my job as opposed to being stagnant, which I feel I'd gotten.

What I hope to get out of all of this is a better me. Yeah, I know. That sounds like I've decided to grow up and be lame, but that isn't the truth and won't be the case. All I want is to keep myself moving forward. I'm tired of doing circles around the same half block of Cherry Street. That said, I feel a reemergence coming. This time, I believe I'll be more sincere when I talk to people, and I know I won't be drinking booze like it was some sort of psychatric medication.

Alright then... 2008 is coming so soon that I'm thinking about just going ahead and celebrating what it could bring a couple weeks early. Friday and Saturday, I'm going to be out and about with the "semi-finalists" for the column gig. If you see me, come help me test these freakshows. Once one of them takes over, I'll get to go out again for fun instead of work, and what a difference that day will make.

Take care. Have fun. Be good to yourselves.

- Chris

6:34 PM - 3 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

Rules for Replacing Me

If you don't already know, I'm ready to turn over my column to some eager young champ. The city needs someone who can get out there in a way I can't anymore, and I want to give that opportunity to someone who'll make the most of it.

And, I'm putting this out to the Internet community before I put it in the paper. You have first shot. I hope you like it.

First, applicants must be able to say yes to the following:
A1) Committed to write one column every two weeks on a deadline, and creating (or linking) a regular blog through our website.
B2) Dedicated to going out at night at least twice every two weeks, both for things of their choosing and on assignment.
C3) Can foresee themselves doing this for the next six months to a year, maybe more.
D4) Willing to be submitted to tests of cunning, talent and ability, as well as demonstrating some feats of strength and acts of drinking prowess.

If you can say yes to all four of these minimal requirements, you may apply for the contest by sending me an email that states: Basic info (name, age, location, etc), where you most often hang out, what you look for in the nightlife, and a brief write-up explaining why you'd be good at what I do as well as any experience that you think comes in handy. Send them to bluecollar_scholar@yahoo.com

Should I like what I see and I invite you into the next phase, be prepared to:
- Write, talk and/or meet with me about this gig.
- Go out on your own, and write about it on-spec, meaning I give you a word limit that you meet on a deadline without the promise of publication. It is solely for testing purposes.
- Shadow me on a night when I'm out then writing about it, meeting to compare my write-up against yours—not in competition but to see what you see vs. what I see.
- Run a gauntlet of late-night tomfoolery, drunks and miscellaneous tests, both those predetermined and those spontaneous. (Like hazing but safer and without immediate physical pain.)

Each of the above represents a different stage in the contest. Not everyone will make it to the gauntlet… or if they're all excellent they will. Of course, they'll be practical considerations along the way, like meeting the 11th Hour staff, venue owners, etc. But this is it in a nutshell.

If you succeed and you take over my role as the Night Writer, you will benefit as such:
- Local celebrity-hood
- Print and TV appearances
- Free admission into bars and nightclubs
- Your mom and dad's hesitant respect
- Perhaps a little dough
- And something to put on your resume.

Seriously, this is going to be fun. While I plan to stick to what I've put up here, I'm really mostly concerned with finding someone who has a spirit similar to my own. I want to find people who can love Macon (at least a little more than they hate it), and who will take an opportunity and run, seldom waiting on being told what to do.

Good luck.

5:17 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment