Al Gore Rhythm

Maryann, a very good friend of mine, whom I contacted very shortly after transforming my thoughts about leaving The 11th Hour into word and deed, told me that things would be alright. Though I don't recall the words exactly, she even insinuated that things would be better than I imagined, that the stars would line up, that opportunities would come my way.

It was if I'd jumped in ice water and she reminded me to breathe. That was why I wrote and then called her. I needed help breathing and she'd jumped in that ice water before me. She knew what it was like.

Today, I accepted an offer to become the co-publisher of Georgia Music Magazine. Without getting into detail, I can tell you that the offer was a complete and total surprise to me, but after that first meeting, talking with Lisa Love, my new boss and the director of the Ga Music Hall of Fame, I couldn't stop thinking about the opportunity.

This is not a job that will make me rich; that isn't why it's such a great opportunity. But it is a new set of challenges and hopefully a chance to make an impact.

In short, I'm being asked to help GMM reach its potential, to help it grow by focusing on non-editorial aspects, namely ad sales, distribution, subscriptions and marketing. Considering how solid the writing and art direction is, I believe most of my job will simply be letting people know what it is, where they can get it, and how they can become a part of it.

If you've ever had a conversation with me, you realize that I'm a little nutty about Macon trivia. It's gone from a curiosity about my hometown--not knowing anything of its history until after I left--to a point of pride. It will be very similar for me thinking in a broader sense, Georgia vs. the World. We're awesome and everyone else is merely okay.

Right now, I'm just getting my feet wet, going over the materials, researching the world of glossy magazines, gathering my thoughts. In the interim, I want to say this: I'm glad that it isn't a writing job. I've been enjoying writing more as a personal hobby, a conversational means via blog or email, and I hope to continue that way. I think a large part of that means not writing for a living. At least until I write the sequel to the movie novelization of the Great American Novel.

Either way, as I hung out with Maryann today and told her the news, hearing her remind me that she was right about everything, I couldn't help but think: Wow, Maryann sure was right about everything--it is all going to be alright.

Let's all move to Easton!

Since I've already upset the Macon-Bibb Convention and Visitor's Bureau this week, I figure I might as well just go off some more.

(No, I do not hate the CVB, nor am I picking on them. They aren't the problem in Macon -- several bear that responsibility. Plus, I happen to LOVE Ginny, Ruth, Janice and all the other lovely ladies, but I'm pissed right now about the leadership and direction of Macon, and I'm about to tell you why. )

My interests sometimes swing wildly between opposite ends of the spectrum. Every spectrum. I'm a man of extremes, an ADHD-addled human pendulum. Right now, I want to move to Easton, PA. And I want you to move with me.

Here it is in a nutshell: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Easton,_Pennsylvania

If you knew me a few years ago, you know that I fell in love with Bulgaria and wanted my friends to set up a colony of Macon expatriates. Having been devastated financially by the fall of Communism and the Soviet Union, Bulgaria is a bastion of cheap booze, cheap smokes, cheap rent and cheap eats. It's also really pretty in springtime (and frigging cold in the winter). It was not really a noble daydream.

Well, my fiancee was an undergrad at LaFayette College, on the hill overlooking downtown Easton, which is why we were just there and how I fell for the place. In the last Census, the city (it's three townships and three boroughs) totaled a population less than 30,000 people.

Despite the much reported dwindling population, Macon (just the city, not including unincorporated Bibb) claims more than three times that number: 97,000.

Easton never abandoned its urban core. Even in the harsh economic reality of this recession, they only had a handful of empty storefronts or residential spaces open between the bustling and VERY historic downtown and its neighborhood on "The Hill".

And there's this: New York City is less than an hour and a half away. It's a $19 bus ride. Philly is about 70 miles away. Plus, Easton's homies in the Lehigh Valley, separated by about 30 minutes each, are Bethlehem (founded by Moravians, home to two colleges, and was the birthplace of The Rock, so you know it's cool) and Allentown, which is bigger than both.

It takes as long to get to Atlanta from Macon, and almost three hours to Savannah. Hardly the same, plus you pretty much have to drive because public transportation just isn't a priority in The South, so once you get to Atlanta or Savannah by bus, you'd be stuck. Not to mention it costs $32 bucks each way by Groome, which only takes you to the airport. A Greyhound ticket, if you feel like braving that bus station, is $27.

There is only one major celebrity from Easton, boxer Larry Holmes, and he still lives there. (Writer Stephen Crane is a LaFayette graduate, I'm told.) The community reached out to him and he's stayed invested, financially and in terms of marketing.

We have oodles of famous people from Macon, and none of them live here--nor can you imagine them doing so. Gregg Allman is in Savannah and Little Richard chose a little town in Tennessee. Someone is just now doing something with the Allman Brothers Big House (the non-profit Big House Foundation), it took about thirty years for an Otis Redding statue, and NO ONE HAS DONE SHIT with Little Richard's house, which is still standing. I dare you to find any other modern American legend who has been so ignored by his hometown. Find ONE thriving town and/or tourist location that hasn't marketed the hell out of their famed alumni.

Meanwhile, you'd think the only thing that's ever happened in Macon is a Cherry Blossom Festival. (Not to say it should cease but that there needs to be a major recasting of our image. SERIOUSLY. There is no place that can claim what Macon can claim from Sidney Lanier to Emmett Miller to Little Richard, James Brown, Otis Redding, the Allman Brothers, Mike Mills and Bill Berry of REM, Lucinda Williams, Lena Horne, Jimi Hendrix, as well as guys like two-time Oscar-winner Melvyn Douglass or acclaimed music writer Stanley Booth.)

Let me tell you what the heart of my hopelessness is: The majority of the things that we all like about Macon has been propped up by the private sector. The culture of this town has been heralded by? The 11th Hour, Bragg Jam, MaGa and a handful of other loose screws. The music heritage has been showcased by? Mostly by the above and the Ga Music Hall of Fame, which we're in SERIOUS danger of losing because our local officials won't fight for an institution that has 30,000 visitors a year (aka - enough to exceed the size of Easton, PA). The downtown area and all its charm? Kept alive by Mercer University, developers and non-profit organizations like Historic Macon, the Peyton Anderson Foundation, the Knight Foundation and NewTown Macon.

What has our city leadership been waiting on? Why are they so content with just REACTING to situations that arise instead of proactively looking for ways to improve our city? What vision do they have for Macon over the next five, ten, fifteen years? Do they even have ANY vision for it?

I know the private sector does. And it only took two days in tiny Easton for me to see that they have a vision for themselves. They know their resources, what they can be and what they want to be, and they've gone after it.

No, from what I can tell, their artists, musicians and other creatives aren't as edgy and interesting as Macon's. They have no real art or music scene to speak of. But remember that these things for Macon have developed of late, and quickly, and in spite of leadership that doesn't care, doesn't get it or doesn't want it. Plus, if you all move there with me, they'll have a killer scene!

Frankly, I love Macon and I don't ever want to leave... but only if I have enough reason to stay. I want to want to stay, and the powers-that-be aren't doing a real good job of making that happen--for me or anyone else. As I think about starting a family, I realize I'm not responsible just for myself. I'll be thinking about my wife and my kids. If things continue as they have, we will be faced with a situation where we won't be able to stick around waiting any more. We'll be deciding between struggling for change in Macon or going to a city that actually wants us.

That's what has me so mad.

the real reason why I left the 11th Hour

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.)

Design Matters

{Note: this is a preview of an article going in tomorrow's paper because the public meeting is tonight and you really ought to be there. Newton Chapel at Mercer, 7pm}

Design Matters: Interface is all in yo face!

by Chris Horne

"Macon is an amazingly beautiful city," Scott Page says. And he doesn't seem to be blowing smoke just because he and his company, Interface Studio, are responsible for the master plan that will guide the College Hill Corridor into its early golden age.

"I work in a lot of tough neighborhoods. I work in a lot of neighborhoods that haven't seen investment in decades, in cities that are 60% vacant. Those are the kind of problems we're used to," he continues. "Macon certainly has its challenges, but considering what there is to build on, Macon has a lot more than a lot of other small cities."

From its introduction, the College Hill Corridor Commission (CHCC) has threatened to change the scope, feel, function and coolness factor of downtown Macon by reuniting it with its closest student body, Mercer. On Wednesday, November 19, Interface will have a big public meeting where they promise not to reveal much of anything.

Why? They want to hear from the community before they set their plan in stone.

"When people did a master plan in the past, it showed the city from 3000 feet up and it showed where everything was built and it was very, very rigid," Scott says. "Those were also the days when you had a mayor—or a king, in some cases—lording over the landscape. These days you've got neighborhood groups and banks and foundations all over the city who have their own agenda."

Those agendas are good things too, especially as he means it, because they reflect the involvement various community members and organizations have taken in the improvement of the downtown district as well as its Intown brethren. There are some in the city affectionately calling downtown "everybody's neighborhood", and that's starting to grow from slogan to reality.

That said, it's going to be a chore trying to balance all the wants and desires that we (the people) have accumulated for this city and in particular this area. But at this public meeting, they are inviting the community to further overwhelm them with even more of that very input. That's how they're going to build their plan.

As Scott says, "Our objective is to put together a living document that everyone can get behind with some pragmatic short-term ideas as well as long-term ideas to get people talking."

They aren't drawing up plans for one big home run idea or multi-million dollar project. There will be suggestions in the master plan—which isn't due until January—that can be implemented immediately. They're building this plan believing it'll actually be used in the very near future. That's pretty bold considering the stacks of unused plans collecting dust in non-profit and government closets all over the city.

"We want to keep momentum going," Scott says. "Cities have always evolved. What we try to do when we put together a plan is remember it is a set of ideas for one point in time. We're building on the things that have been done in the past and we're planning for a hopeful future—but, in five years, the plan should be re-evaluated."

They believe the Corridor can draw in young professionals and the creative class, as well as retain (and get more out of) the people that are already here. According to the Interface website, they're lending their vision to a master plan of the Wicker Park/Bucktown area of Chicago, which is—if you don't already know—very hip. One element of "the city" that they hope to enhance with the help of Land Strategies is to make the Corridor friendlier for pedestrian and bicycle traffic.

"The entire community seems to be behind becoming more walkable/bikeable. Before (the gas price spike), you'd hear a lot of lip service about making cities more walkable and bikeable, but now it's gotten easier to convince people to restore priority to peds and bicycles," Mark says.

Doing so in Macon would physically connect downtown with the area to and around Mercer, which then could be developed with specific stopping points along the way. To hear Scott and Mark talk, one of the biggest obstacles they usually face was taken care of before they even stepped foot here. That is, getting the community—its leaders and affected citizens—to buy in. If this continues, the chances of their ideas becoming realities increases greatly.

"We're looking at this with fresh eyes. I think not being from Macon gives us that perspective," Scott points out. Then asking if we're responsible for the Thriller Dance that he saw on YouTube, he admits he showed it around the office to which his co-workers remarked, "Macon's so cool!"

With any luck and their help, that just might become our motto.

a dude surfing a wave of lava

A month ago, maybe six weeks ago, I was eating at New China Buffet 8, reading The Watchmen, and contemplating the end of days. Whether it was the doomsday comic or the hodgepodge full belly, I don't know, but I wasn't feeling real swell about my place on the planet. When the check arrived, I snapped open the fortune cookie with one hand and ripped out its lovely guts, a ribbon of white paper sunshine that read: "You do not have to worry about your future."

Instantly, I felt better. Whoever put that fortune in my cookie had done me a service that day. It was the best part of the Sermon on the Mount, without the preachiness, in a simple sentence. Gloom be gone. I was cured. I slipped it in my wallet, where it remains today, and stopped worrying about my future because I don't have to. The fortune cookie made it so.

In the time since, I've been busier than I've probably ever been with the only possible exception being when I had three jobs: waiting tables, working as a youth minister and running an after-school program when my shift at the daycare was done. I was younger then and was ate up with free time because all my friends—including my girlfriend—had moved away, and I hadn't yet moved in with The Establishment, a Scotch-swilling former Marine who joined the National Guard for a reason to keep guns in the house.

Yeah, so for the past month or so, I've been crazy busy. With extraordinary help from Macon State faculty (like, so much help that the word help doesn't seem sufficient for describing what they did)—Drs. Braun, Whiddon and Young-Zook—Macon got its first ever writers' conference. Two weeks leading up to that, I spent three nights at the Georgia State Fair emceeing various events, including the kazoo world record attempt (about which I've already blogged). And of course, we've put out two issues of The 11th Hour, meaning two deadlines which I met with sporadic success. All the while, I had that reminder in my wallet that I am not required--by grand decree of the stars over China--to worry about my future. That was pretty handy.

Having emerged from this period, which really stretches out before Bragg Jam in terms of increased civic activity, without burning out, I now look at things very differently. The same energy I expended at the bar with the intention of forgetting why I was going to the bar is finding another path. Like water does. It has to go somewhere, and this is where it's heading. Somewhere.

This city. It still amazes me. The other day, I saw a guy driving a big honkin' tractor down Vineville in the afternoon. He was wearing purple nurse scrubs.

Tuesday night, I was at City Council again because knowing things has become important to me and there are several things that go uncaptured by the daily or the news stations (or by The 11th Hour). Like the woman who stood up before council to ask that the city government stop harassing and oppressing her. She labeled herself a freedom fighter and a slave. Everything else she said bubbled and spun in waves of non-sequiters and tangents. It was funny for about twenty seconds, and then it was just sad. Earlier in the day, I was reading about the argument between members of the Bibb County Commission on how to help Riveredge Mental Health Facility, who lost $1.5 million from their budget because the State of Georgia is stupid and cruel.

And the more I think about the way the Bibb County government runs, the angrier I get about them. I'm meeting with them all this week whether they're running for office or not. I'm asking them all the same questions to be fair. What I want to know, though, is what good are they for the city of Macon, which contains two-thirds of Bibb County's population. They only seem concerned with the people of unincorporated Bibb, and for too long, the citizens of Macon have been fine with that. Well, it pisses me off.

Then I got a call from a friend who'll remain nameless because I didn't ask if I could make this tidbit public. She went to the Joshua Cup--you know, the Christian coffeeshop that refuses to let our paper in their store because they're so much more like God than we are—and she asked if she could hang posters for "All That Jazz", an event that raises funds for educational programs at The Tubman Museum. The owner balked, saying he'd have to think about it because they have to be careful about what they allow in there and he'd seen that movie about Bob Fosse and he wasn't sure if he approved of that.

Yesterday, I stood in the back of the Library Ballroom, a completely restored and absolutely gorgeous historic building that once housed Macon's first public library. At the front, NewTown Macon was giving its annual update on its progress, talking about the millions they've invested in downtown and how it has helped bring millions and millions more in development projects. I left, with my boss Brad, before they handed out their "Partners In Progress" awards because we were pressed firmly against deadline with pieces to our puzzle still missing.

Turns out that Bragg Jam won the "Creating a Sense of Place" award and the praise was directed at Brad. The superintendent of the Bibb County School System, Sharon Patterson, was there to present the award and she said—we watched the video online—"Come on up, Brad, and let us talk about you some." The room was silent; hardly anyone had seen him leave. The camera panned wide, and heads turned right and left, trying to catch a glimpse of this elusive do-gooder to no avail.

Today, I went to pick up the papers for my route, which is significantly smaller than its ever been. No one was at the printer's place. While I waited for someone to show, I drove over to Macon State to deliver the cooler and sandwich board sign that we borrowed for the conference. The Dean of Student Life and the Director of Student Life, from whom we borrowed this, were walking away as I was walking in. I thanked them for their kindness, and the Dean told me that she saw a student this week who said that, because of our lil' conference, she'd decided to become an English major. That was pretty sweet.

After I grabbed my stack of papers, I hit the road. Briefly. Then I went to New China Buffet 8 to eat. It was exactly 4pm and the dude wanted to charge me $3.50 more to eat there whereas a minute earlier he wouldn't have. Fuck them. I went to Golden Corral instead and read from Mark Leyner's "Et Tu, Babe" until it hurt to eat any more banana pudding.

I don't know if I had a point.

Let me clear my throat (Honkmaster Chris Remix)

"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.

Bah! I know for a fact that most of the members of the local media—the writers and reporters—(with a few exceptions) are smart enough and more than capable of doing the work that used to define the old school journalist. I believe the problem is their leadership.

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.

"Burke said there were Three Estates in Parliament; but, in the Reporters' Gallery yonder, there sat a Fourth Estate more important far than they all. It is not a figure of speech, or a witty saying; it is a literal fact,--very momentous to us in these times. Literature is our Parliament too. Printing, which comes necessarily out of Writing, I say often, is equivalent to Democracy: invent Writing, Democracy is inevitable. Writing brings Printing; brings universal everyday extempore Printing, as we see at present. Whoever can speak, speaking now to the whole nation, becomes a power, a branch of government, with inalienable weight in law-making, in all acts of authority. It matters not what rank he has, what revenues or garnitures. The requisite thing is, that he have a tongue which others will listen to; this and nothing more is requisite. The nation is governed by all that has tongue in the nation: Democracy is virtually there."

– Thomas Carlyle, On Heroes and Hero Worship

The History of Things Rising and Converging

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!

We Give Our Gifts from the Second Hand

Roger started rapping at me when I came through the door on Thursday and knowing why, I smiled. It was a panegyric measure from a respected friend and rival in the Rock n Roll High School art department. A moment later, alone at the top, I ruminated on my small success, watching Roger on the way out. (There is no intentional metaphor in that, but your inference is as good as mine.)

"There's a present on your desk," he said shuffling down to the street.

My first instinct is that I'm the proud new owner of Bulleit Bourbon, but my second instinct is stronger and I know I'm not. It isn't that Raj couldn't afford to do that -- not that he can either -- but that I haven't earned that yet.

We've got a running bet that whoever strikes a major item from the Big To-Do List will receive a bottle of the good stuff as their reward. In the world of merited whiskey gifts, my accomplishment ranked somewhere around Ancient Age or Heaven Hill and therefore, I was hoping he'd found a different way to convey his pride in me.

And there it is, "Practical Demonkeeping" by Christopher Moore, who happens to be among my very favorite writers. Inscribed inside: "Congratulations on your cover story! R.R. D.J. M.R.C. PS - Be careful with this one. It's a signed copy. Roger Riddle." That being the joke of the week since I caught him thumbing through the only signed first edition book in my collection.

On the cover, 'Demon' has been X'd out, replaced by 'Chris'. I can feel the dig. It's no secret that I've been absent from the social scene, the gold dust of our epicurean adventures now just nostalgic grain left clinging to my empty hands.

And it's there again when I check the infamous Top Ten on his myspace page. The back-handed compliment of being #1 on the short list of good things with the question, "Could this mark the return of our favorite missing in action beer drinker?"

The question is awkward to me for more than just the way it was worded. It implies on one level that I'm missed and worse, that I'm missed because I've abandoned. I could go into an excuse, but I'll just pray that a heartfelt "My bad" will suffice until you all get to berate me in person.

Yes, it was nice having made the cover of our bi-monthly alterative paper and more so, being considered "special to the Eleventh Hour" in the process, but there's more to this week that than honor alone. To me, what's been best is that HAVING to write that thing by deadline forced recently latent words itch for release from my fingers. It took three days before I could even get myself to face the chore then three more to make it halfway decent, still hacking and chopping a half hour before it was due.

Since then, I've kept a beehive in my bonnet.

In the past week, I became the owner of 22 books and then a hostage inside my literary smithie, working on a new short story. I even called a meeting of the Writers and Exciters but only one showed besides me. My powers haven't fully returned.

Yet.

Work will not have as strong a hold of me, I've decided. For the past few weeks, though I let the 7am start time keep me inside and far away. On the couple of nights off, I've spent it cuddling and smiling. Everything is finding its balance for me so when the phoenix finally gets out of his recliner triumphant, it'll burn brighter than before.

Again.

During the same spending spree that necessitated the addition of a new wing at the Horne Memorial Library, I managed to find some reciprocial vinyl for my goad-ready homeboy. I scribbled a note to lay atop the pile: "Congratulations on being my roommate! C.U.E.H. PS - Be careful. These are scratched copies."

And last night, I rode with dear old Sugar Booger - my dear sweet girlfriend - to the First Annual Fall Party. We ate BBQ pig, stood around the fire and invoked the spirit of haint hunting in the upstairs corridors of our hosts' home. At separate times, in separate places, Hank Vegas and I talked of Richard Ford. Luminaries of the Middle Georgia Bohemian Scene sauntered and staggered - each according to their stupidity, to each according to their inebriation. Yet Roger and the Cool Kids had yet to arrive. Hm.

Citizen Evans issued a call for a beer run and being sober, I volunteered. Upon our return and the replenishing of ice and brew to the displaced bath tub in the yard, I spotted Jewel Daddy and Big Al. They gave me shit and I took it for the chance to know their conversation again. Oh Community Capital C! I felt complete when Mad Cash made a dash to the little girls room when I recounted the many supernatural horrors we've witnessed at the Center for Revolutionary Studies. Apparently, it only takes invoking the name of "Ernest" to startle the cousin of Kravitz.

When it was time to go, I did not protest and I did not complain. Work would wait for the morning because I could still feel the cool, clean saturation of having dipped my toes back in the social scene.

The theme of Practical Demonkeeping -- and dare I say, one that runs through the entire Moore oeuvre -- is that everything works out after Rock Bottom. Fortunately, there's a cot down there with my name on it and it's always made sure that when I hit it, I get to sleep for a while before the return ascent. Better still: the landing is never as bad as it could be because of that thin padding.

A good friend-in-progress warned me that my particular employer has a mystical ability to stymie creative juices. I heeded that as best I could, still confident that I'd be fine, that all I needed was a steady paycheck and a decent schedule. Today, I know more of what she spoke. Like I've done several times before with the advice my parents have given me, I've looked back and thought, "Hm, that's what that meant."

It's depressing there. I'm cubicled off and drowning in flourscent light, tethered to the ever-needy client base by a thin wire headset that seems directly plugged into my brain. The voices never stop and there, it means I'm perfectly sane. A dozen acronyms rule by behavior and performance, each sizing me up for a number that dictates my advancement.

But I'm not quitting and shan't because that'd be selfish. Chris Horne needed another challenge and here it is: To make a life like the world around me without sacrificing or surrendering what I believe makes me whole.

Watch your asses because I'm coming back out and this weekend, I'll be in costume. Happy Halloween, mutherfuckahs, Happy Halloween.

Or...
... as Sugar Booger once said, "Tonight, I could read French Philosophy or make chili. I think I'll go to bed."