Stuck Here and Having None

In lieu of another tirade, I’m going to stick to what I do best: writing about drinking. Once, I would’ve said smoking and drinking but I’ve been off the non-wacky tobacky for three weeks now. Over a decade, I poured smoke down my throat, filled my lungs with carcinogens, and permeated my brain with nicotine—all as I sat still doing nothing more strenuous than reading, writing or talking. Since I quit, I’ve taken up “moving around” as a hobby. It’s been good. If there were a 1/4K charity run, I’d do it. Maybe Chantix would sponsor me.

Hitting 30 in the 80’s: Riverview Ballroom

The party to top all parties: Meagan and Jessica’s 30^th birthday celebration. The theme was an 80’s Prom, which meant throwback outfits that were both trashy and somewhat classy. My major concern was my lack of hair, having again clipped it due to this fall’s muggy heat (the less pleasant 80s). So I bought a wig and put on a pair of powder blue pants, a light pink shirt and a white blazer, cuffs rolled to my elbows. I aimed for Miami Vice’s Sonny Crocket but looked like a chubby, small-town drag king. I didn’t care—I had three fly honeys with me.

I walked, like an Egyptian, down to Electric Avenue in my sunglasses, which I wear at night because my future’s so bright, with my date who requested a trip to Funkytown then told me to get out of her dreams and into her car because I was just what she needed (her feet were tired—she’s an Uptown Girl), and even though she wasn’t my beautiful wife, I was ready to whip it—whip it good—should she say, “Rock me, Amadeus,” because I know girls just want to have fun, especially the material girls in our material world—a veritable land of confusion—where we all just want to get loose, footloose, in the rains down in Africa listening to Mexican radio, the star of which was killed by video who, like everyone, wants to rule the world. (Really y’all, I’m alright. Don’t nobody worry ‘bout me.)

Infamous rockers 2 Finger Jester didn’t just get the party started, they pulled out black leather defibrillators, cranked it to 11, and sent us off in a high-speed DeLorean chase with Spuds MacKenzie at the wheel. After lead singer Mat screamed, “I want to see all you hot ladies down here in the front rockin’ out,” I don’t remember anything but chaos and beautiful confusion awash in a sea of clashing colors, metallic fiber and dancing. I woke up the next day on the steps of St. Joseph’s with an incriminating Polaroid picture of me and Josh Lloyd, who was dressed up like a hot pink tiger with blue hair and a nose ring. My legs would hardly move. Minutes later, my little sister called from Pensacola asking for a Western Union wire transfer—she and my cousin had gone in search of Bret Michael’s first pair of stone-washed jeans and gotten stuck in a crab shack off Fort Myers Beach. Needless to say, Meg and Jessica threw one helluva party.

Saturday, October 20^th – Bearstock

After five years—two and a half somehow affiliated with this paper—I’ve finally figured it out. Only 100 people in Macon actually want to live in a city, and at most, about 50 of them at a time show up for stuff that would be overflowing with folks if it were in other cities. For instance, Bearstock. From noon till nine, they had 12 bands playing—local, regional and national acts—and it didn’t cost a dime to attend. At 5:30pm, when Hank Vegas was playing, there were about 30 people (way less than half the number that saw them in Atlanta’s Star Bar). When Meiko—a local girl who, not that long ago, was playing open mic nights at Loco’s but now has been featured on iTunes and Grey’s Anatomy—took the stage, the crowd was more robust but still… why weren’t there 500 people present? Boo Macon. You missed a great opportunity to enjoy yourself.