It's exactly as I said in the paper: needed more time with my family and wanted to try something new. When Mike Donila agreed to come aboard, I figured it was a good time, just because I knew they'd have a great guy with tremendous talent.
What I'm doing next?
Don't know exactly. I'll report back when I do. In the meantime, I plan to get my soapbox fix here, just like it was before I got in with the paper, regardless of whether or not anyone is reading. It'll give me something to do until I get busy again.
Sitting at Jittery Joes, I picked up the Telegraph and a familiar feeling swept over me: anger and hopelessness. (That's a wee bit of an exaggeration.) The lead story is a good one about the service delivery strategy, which I firmly believe is an issue with greater importance than most folks would suspect, though the headline itself is stupid. Next to it, a national story--like just about any you can find on Yahoo or Google--about Obama's reversal on stem cell research.
Below the fold, which is a weird no man's land since it is the front page but on the half most folks ignore when they're weighing whether or not to buy it, a story about how the Macon Police Department and Bibb County Sheriff's worked together with several other agencies to crack a meth trafficking ring. THAT IS FUCKING HUGE!
But because it's the (nee' Macon) Telegraph, it goes below the fold. That way, people can keep bitching about how the police don't do anything, going on about how bad crime is here and all that. It goes below the fold, beneath a national story that--while important--has less impact on our daily, local lives.
If the next biggest local story was about the birth of 39 puppies, instead of 39 arrests made in conjunction with the drug ring bust, I could see it below the fold.
Bah.
I said it was familiar, and I mean more like de ja vous. Before I started writing for the 11th Hour, I was upset by an issue of The Telegraph that put a headline about Wesleyan's endowment above a story about the way in which poor folks were gonna get screwed by state tort reform.
But, Chris, one is very local, and the other is a statewide issue. Yeah, but in this case, the tort reform law sort of flew in without much notice--or at least much ruckus from poor folks who would no longer be able to sue doctors beyond a preset limit, etc--and it seems like that would be the story you want to roll with. Wesleyan, which is a fine institution and all that, only has a few hundred students. There are THOUSANDS of broke people in Macon.
Do you see where I'm going?
Well, you will. Because I'm gonna bitch and moan for a while. (Just not all of it today.)
Showing posts with label Georgia Bulldogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Georgia Bulldogs. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Monday, October 20, 2008
Chris Horne will do anything for $200
Within reason, and the vast majority of the time, I enjoy it so I just feel guilty for getting paid. Like the Arts on the Riverdale. I'd heard about it ever since I moved back to Macon, but somewhere along the line I'd decided that it wasn't something I'd be interested in experiencing. Like how I've totally written off cocaine. After this Arts on the Riverdale experience, I might start rethinking that whole narcotic drug use thing.
So I'd been asked to emcee and they agreed to pay me handsomely. I agreed handsomely, and went not knowing what to expect. Thing is, stuff like this never crosses my mind. I'd gotten up a little late because I'd spent the night working on a flyer for the Local 478 showcase deal I'm helping put on at the Hummingbird, starting this Saturday, October 25, and I got some coffee and chatted through the grogginess until the caffeine kicked in. Then I got dressed and went. My only regret was that I'd miss the Georgia game. Actually, I figured someone would have the game on somewhere and would invite me to enjoy it between stints on stage.
But what I'd failed to consider--and this is what I mean about stuff never crossing my mind--is that this whole event is sponsored by the Jazz Association of Macon, that these people like jazz so much that on a Saturday in October, they intentionally closed off a street so they could have a big festival celebrating jazz. These aren't college football fans. If I had to compare it to anything, it'd be like Freaknik on jazz. A lot of people loitering in the street and in people's yards, having a good time--not givin' a fuck--but in this really calm, relaxed way.
I saw some neat art (like someone's 6" x 8" rendition of Heath Ledger as The Joker, which they were selling for $75), and a lot of familiar faces (like Jared Wright who was there with the Ga Music Hall of Fame crew and who I later took a picture of as he stood with a guy who looks like Santa Claus). I'm now at a point where I'm more shocked when I go somewhere in town and don't see anyone know, though that's pretty nice because it reminds me how much bigger Macon is than I think.
Plus, I got to listen to some Dixieland jazz, which I wish there was more of in this world. That's coming from a guy who is dying to be in a jug band, so take it for what it's worth. Just know that if I get a chance to put on a concert with Earle Bennett and the Dixieland Drifters, by god I'm going to do it. The clarinet player was of an "advanced age" and required help up the stairs, but he killed it on the clarinet. Gentleman Jim the photographer leaned over and told me that the clarinet player had been THE bandleader for hot jazz groups when he was in high school, which he graduated from over 55 years ago.
Unfortunately, I didn't win anything in the raffle, which is okay because I was only aiming for two prizes: the $100 gift certificate to Natalia's and the $20 men's haircut coupon. Attaining neither, I remain slightly wounded but not terribly depressed. I'll just go hungry and let my hair grow.
The Jazz Association of Macon, which is made of people I can honestly say are super cool, provided a "VIP lounge" in Dr. Clark's garage with various libations, snacks and treats (including some good Indian food). Well, I downed about six whiskey drinks in no time but then was scared straight when a guy invaded my personal space in a drunken stupor, pushing his expired JAM membership card in my face, repeatedly breathing his hours-old gin into the raspy words "Where to do I get my renewal?"
"Dude, I have no idea." Other people throughout the day asked me where stuff was and I was without an answer in almost every circumstance. I'd been given a very thorough script to work from, but it basically only told me where the bathrooms were, that people should buy more raffle tickets and that the sidewalks should be kept clear in case of emergency. As emcee, I knew surprisingly little. In general, I know surprisingly little.
Like announcing the headliner. It was my last real responsibility as emcee, besides thanking everyone at the very end, and I thought, "I'll really do it up big... lots of energy!" So I did. I was screaming into the mic while the band set up, doing a lot of call and respon
se stuff, getting the crowd so worked up that some of them tore at their clothes and were throwing articles of undergarments on stage. They were in a frenzy, all 2000 of them. Having done my part, I stepped aside to let the band, Bill Prince and the Paupers, ride the wave of emotion that I helped bring to its rabidly foaming crescent. Dr. Prince thanked the audience and they went wild, then he counted down and his band produced the softest, sweetest, prettiest elevator musak jazz you've ever heard. That's when I realized just how dumb I am. You don't work the crowd at a jazz festival.
So I'd been asked to emcee and they agreed to pay me handsomely. I agreed handsomely, and went not knowing what to expect. Thing is, stuff like this never crosses my mind. I'd gotten up a little late because I'd spent the night working on a flyer for the Local 478 showcase deal I'm helping put on at the Hummingbird, starting this Saturday, October 25, and I got some coffee and chatted through the grogginess until the caffeine kicked in. Then I got dressed and went. My only regret was that I'd miss the Georgia game. Actually, I figured someone would have the game on somewhere and would invite me to enjoy it between stints on stage.
But what I'd failed to consider--and this is what I mean about stuff never crossing my mind--is that this whole event is sponsored by the Jazz Association of Macon, that these people like jazz so much that on a Saturday in October, they intentionally closed off a street so they could have a big festival celebrating jazz. These aren't college football fans. If I had to compare it to anything, it'd be like Freaknik on jazz. A lot of people loitering in the street and in people's yards, having a good time--not givin' a fuck--but in this really calm, relaxed way.
I saw some neat art (like someone's 6" x 8" rendition of Heath Ledger as The Joker, which they were selling for $75), and a lot of familiar faces (like Jared Wright who was there with the Ga Music Hall of Fame crew and who I later took a picture of as he stood with a guy who looks like Santa Claus). I'm now at a point where I'm more shocked when I go somewhere in town and don't see anyone know, though that's pretty nice because it reminds me how much bigger Macon is than I think.
Plus, I got to listen to some Dixieland jazz, which I wish there was more of in this world. That's coming from a guy who is dying to be in a jug band, so take it for what it's worth. Just know that if I get a chance to put on a concert with Earle Bennett and the Dixieland Drifters, by god I'm going to do it. The clarinet player was of an "advanced age" and required help up the stairs, but he killed it on the clarinet. Gentleman Jim the photographer leaned over and told me that the clarinet player had been THE bandleader for hot jazz groups when he was in high school, which he graduated from over 55 years ago.Unfortunately, I didn't win anything in the raffle, which is okay because I was only aiming for two prizes: the $100 gift certificate to Natalia's and the $20 men's haircut coupon. Attaining neither, I remain slightly wounded but not terribly depressed. I'll just go hungry and let my hair grow.
The Jazz Association of Macon, which is made of people I can honestly say are super cool, provided a "VIP lounge" in Dr. Clark's garage with various libations, snacks and treats (including some good Indian food). Well, I downed about six whiskey drinks in no time but then was scared straight when a guy invaded my personal space in a drunken stupor, pushing his expired JAM membership card in my face, repeatedly breathing his hours-old gin into the raspy words "Where to do I get my renewal?"
"Dude, I have no idea." Other people throughout the day asked me where stuff was and I was without an answer in almost every circumstance. I'd been given a very thorough script to work from, but it basically only told me where the bathrooms were, that people should buy more raffle tickets and that the sidewalks should be kept clear in case of emergency. As emcee, I knew surprisingly little. In general, I know surprisingly little.
Like announcing the headliner. It was my last real responsibility as emcee, besides thanking everyone at the very end, and I thought, "I'll really do it up big... lots of energy!" So I did. I was screaming into the mic while the band set up, doing a lot of call and respon
se stuff, getting the crowd so worked up that some of them tore at their clothes and were throwing articles of undergarments on stage. They were in a frenzy, all 2000 of them. Having done my part, I stepped aside to let the band, Bill Prince and the Paupers, ride the wave of emotion that I helped bring to its rabidly foaming crescent. Dr. Prince thanked the audience and they went wild, then he counted down and his band produced the softest, sweetest, prettiest elevator musak jazz you've ever heard. That's when I realized just how dumb I am. You don't work the crowd at a jazz festival.And that brings me to the water. Once I'd decided not to pass out before sundown, I started rehydrating as much as I could. The only bottled water I could find was in the VIP lounge and it was all marked with--I shit you not--a label from Hart's Mortuary and Crematory.
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