Here's a promise fulfilled: the stuff I forgot to mention last time.
Last Monday, the Macon Record Collectors Club (Mr. CC) debuted. It's something Mad Roger Cash (Mr. Cash) had been throwing around for a long time and after all that, there were no expectations -- no idea what it'd really be like. He posted a couple blogs about it, engaged a little word of mouth and that's about it. Out of that minimal effort, a new bright spot appeared on the Macon skyline, hanging above the past week like the Star of Bethlehem.
A dozen folks or so showed up with their vinyl collections (a couple brought CDs as is permissible according to club bylaws) and about fifty people total showed up to enjoy the songs everyone felt like sharing. It was a damn fine show n' tell. When it comes this Monday, I'll be able to breath a little easier because I've been thinking all week about what I'd bring. In the interim, I'll begin my campaign to allow cassette tapes as a large part of my music collection is comprised of such.
Mr. CC Mondays @ The Hummingbird, 9pm. It's proof that if you want something cool to do, you can have something cool to do -- even if you have to start it... especially if you're willing to start it. Kudos, Raj.
All of a sudden, I forgot what I did Tuesday and Wednesday. Maybe someone out there remembers for me. (Alcohol isn't to blame, just a Swiss-cheese memory.)
But Thursday, I remember Thursday.
It was Goat Girl's last day and so half my day job was put on hold because we needed to send her off in style. Style. That's what we at the 11th Hour call it when you fill a stinky old tent that Grizzle used to live in with foam peanuts and hook up a leaf blower while I sit in the middle of the chaotic blizzard. A living snow globe for a woman with a snow glow fetish. That was Grizzle's idea. "You're the new editor," he said, "And you'll emerge like a butterfly from the living snow globe. It's symbolic."
My Arch-Nemesis, our political pokeabout, told us of a place in the mall where a picture can be put on any number of cheesy items. It was with great joy that the 11th Hour staff lined up for an Olan Mills type photo, which was then put on a mousepad (the attendant said all of us couldn't fit on the commemorative plate that we wanted to get). And since we were at the mall -- and on the way to a celebration -- we had to get a giant chocolate chip cookie that spelled out in blue and white frosting how very much we'd miss our old editor.
Hm. I almost forgot that we were rockin' with 'Dre. You can't call it champagne if it isn't called Andre's. Cookies and bubbly. Yum.
For over a year, I've known and been invited to attend the Cocktail Hour. Designed to be a steam valve and return to days gone by, the Cocktail Hour is a roving affair populated with generally interesting and intelligent locals. Young professionals and a couple ne'er do wells. It was a good kind of fun. I drank coffee and sat on the porch swing at the Zookery talking to whomever would talk to me.
Then I left for the Thriller dance rehearsal. Good stuff. Twenty-five, thirty people. Most of them dancing. It was so packed we'll be moving the next practice to the Armory Ballroom so we have room for everyone. Don't forget to check out our badass moves on Saturday, Oct 28th at 9:30pm. Afterward: Tres In Season at 550 and Unknown Hinson at the Bird. I will go the entire night as a zombie. And maybe the next day to church. (Hey, they'll welcome me. They believe in resurrection.)
Here's a sidenote: The last post was my 200th on Myspace -- est. May o2, 2004. I just went flipping through them and here's something I want to point out. This time last year, I was working at GEICO and had before that been partially employed at Applebee's -- the bread on my unemployment sandwich that lasted three months in 2005. This time two years ago, I worked at Waffle House for a week, did catering jobs on the side and was driving to Oglethorpe, Ga., at 5:30am because I had a gig cleaning out the machines that make paper for diapers. Then I moved to Detroit so I could learn to be cold and do custom interior work on old hot rods. I've had more jobs than candles on my birthday cake. I follow my gut as best I can and eat when I can afford it. Now, I'm a columnist and an editor. I have no college degree and no formal training in anything in particular. I am the American Dream. Pleasure to meet you.
As I said I would, I went to the Ten Oh Two this Friday. As I expected I would, I abandoned any effort to avoid binge drinking. My special guest, a carryout coffee cup of whiskey and ginger (a Family), accompanied me, Camo, TCE, The T and KC. Big Papi (my brother) and Lil' Bit (his boo) came for the show -- they were harassed at the door, per my instruction, by Osh Gosh. I had a hip pocket full of whiskey -- flask #2, ready for destruction. And how.
Same disastrous results as always. Except there were people in my apartment (aka The Center) before me or Roger. And though I was provided food from the Good Food Truck, I did not eat it. I was illin'.
Someone called me and I strolled down the street away from the noise. A police officer noticed my beer and pulled me over. I was grateful to be on foot. Another cop got his back in case I got crazy. I was ticketed for violating the open container law, which wasn't as cool as when I thought I was written up for being drunk. I accidentally let it slip that I'm a big, important public figure then begged both Officer Harris and Officer Campbell to hug me. Neither would and I had to drink more to lick my lonely, lonely wounds.
Saturday afternoon, Camo and I chowed down at the New China Buffet where I won (no joke) a fortune cookie in their scratch-off game. I'd wanted the 42" Flat Screen TV instead. Then I got coffee with Draggy and Grabby, my two favorite new people. Grabby suggested we drink. We put our hands in the middle and chanted, lifting our hands with the loud cheers that followed. Let's say it was almost a really bad idea. Once my gin and tonic ran out, I conceded to imbibe the only other available liquor: melon flavored vodka.
Boo, melon flavored vodka, boo!
Moon vodka.
Arrrggh!
But I learned this in the process: I am not the only person in the world who could be called a fanatic for Ryan Klesko's mad skillz on the diz-eye-mond. The same gal showed me up in Trivial Pursuit. But I scored points with Draggy for knowing what plum liquor is called in Bulgaria. She told tales about her class of strip-dancing art students. Throughout the evening, we swapped invented words new and old: slasshole, conspisious, felissitate. That eased my concerns about missing the Barefoot Hookers. Reverend Ty will understand when I explain it to him. All I have to do is tell him I'm now obliged to write a poem called "Munch".
Lord, there's probably more to say but I'm tired. My body doesn't like me and I'm serious this time about leaving the booze alone for a while. Wednesday evening, Snow White and I are going to introduce Tandoori Fried Chicken to the world and I'm pretty sure I'm going to make that my new goal in life. For the sake of Indian-Southern fusion foods, the hard-drinking and late nights will fall by the wayside...
... like my move to San Diego.
Go Tigers!
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