the Countdown to old age begins...

For my dad's 53rd birthday, I drove him to Augusta to see my brother and his family. We went shoe shopping, ordered pizza, drank beer and watched Al Green get the BET Lifetime Achievement Award. This was during halftime of a game between the Atlanta Falcons and the Colts. Afterward, we watched Harold & Kumar Can't Live Up to the Original, then tried to fall asleep on couches covered in microfiber suede while Sportscenter ran all night, like a looping highlight lullaby.

For my 30^th birthday, which is less than two weeks away, I have slightly different plans, which may still involve a road-trip to Augusta and microfiber suede—though only if I have a REALLY good time.

Saturday, August 30th, there will be a big-ass party beneath the Riverview Ballroom on Walnut Street, next to the somewhat dodgy, gray and maroon motel. It's called The Underground, when it's called anything at all, and this is where I hope to be surrounded by all my favorite people, who I hope will be surrounded by all their favorite people, who I hope will be introducing us all to interesting folks we haven't yet met.

There will be, like, a bunch of my favorite musicians, bands and other sentient noise-making devices... AND WE WILL GO UNTIL DAWN (if we please). Though I'm still awaiting some definites, I know that Nomenclature, Trendlenberg, Al King, Oh No They Didn't, Scott Baston & the News Architects, Oh Dorian, Aaron Irons, Doski Wo and Hank Vegas all want to be there performing for you. And maybe more.

But why? Well, it seems like a good time to celebrate ourselves, which would make an excellent excuse for me to have fun. And why not? We've got this big, beautiful, growing community of weirdoes who register semi- to full-bohemian on the strangeness scale. Plus Monica and Heatherly are going to be hitting milestone birthdays during that same stretch, and don't they deserve to have a bunch of drunk assholes scream-singing Happy Birthday at them too?

Of course they do. And what's better, you deserve to be there when it happens. You deserve to be able to say you were a drunk asshole, that you were singing shit that didn't even make sense at the time—that, in future hindsight, you were just having such a good time that you didn't notice how crazy you got. You deserve to feel like apologizing to people who will probably tell you not to worry about it because they were just about to call and apologize to you too, and then they'll ask if you've seen their keys because they can't find them and they had to sleep on the porch of their place because they passed out trying to break in while the church crowd was driving by. That's what you deserve.

In conclusion, I was raised to believe that Sunday is a day of rest, and I want to make sure that everyone has a damn good reason to still be asleep at 3pm on Sunday.

More details will be forthcoming, I swear. Just go ahead and mark the date, time and location. Saturday, August 30 until sometime Sunday, August 31 at the Underground (beneath the Riverview Ballroom). They'll be serving fried catfish dinner and such at 7pm if you want to come then.

Flirt with disaster and tongue kiss death v.2

Ladies and Gentlemen:

After spending a week with bronchitus, I was reminded of one of my favorite things in this whole world. Intense pain and the calm that follows. I love a bad fever and more when it breaks. Sweat rolling, muscles shaking and aching. Seems like forever too. Just burns and burns.

Then nothing. It's gone. No fever. Clothes soaked to the skin, a roomful of stagnant air feels like a sweet breeze. Being incapacitated becomes a peaceful, easy feeling -- too weak to do much, so relieved to be done with it. Oh my god, that's a terrific moment.

Though I rarely do this and wouldn't plan on it, I love those convulsive puke sessions on a morning after a good, long night. Same thing. So much hurt and chaos ending almost suddenly, giving way to a large, open pasture where it's okay to lay your head down on a cold, splattered porcelain rim.

I mention this, not to be gross but to say that's one way I feel about Macon. Usually, the anguish is a fierce hangover before laying on the couch remembering all the good shit. Or, the hard work that goes into doing something cool and the relief when it is well-received. Other times, it's having an awesome offering ignored and fighting through that anger to find something redeemable. Those times, there are no phoenixes here -- just tailbacks: heads lowered, breaking tackles and scampering for two or three little yards for a first down.

It is no secret that I was (am) pissed about there not being 5,000 people at Bragg Jam. I've heard I did two things at the end of the night (I vaguely remember them). Nasty reports trying to get me to go home because I was ripping branches off the trees on Cherry and yelling "Fuck you, Macon!" He stopped trying to help when I hit him with one of the sticks. The Fish says he saw me throw a portion of the metal fencing into the street, screaming as I did probably what I was yelling when I went home. The next morning, I nearly cut my foot wide open because I'd apparently smashed a coffee mug against the fireplace in my bedroom.

But I've cooled off since. My bags are no longer packed. In fact, I've metaphorically purchased beachfront property here. I'm not blaming or abandoning the folks who didn't attend Bragg Jam. Rather, I want to know why they didn't and see what we can do to trick them into something good next time it rolls around. Mostly, I want to love on the creative, interesting, curious and adventurous group that I've already found here, and I want to find whomever else fits that description.

Bragg Jam was amazing fun. There were a few things that could've gone better that had nothing to do with the lackluster turn out. But mostly, it was a gigantic party with a bunch of my favorite people. Same goes for this First Friday. So I can't give up. I won't. I love what it feels like when the absence of pain feels like pleasure. It makes the real pleasures even more pleasureable. And that's where I want to live: in a place where my goodtimes are colored, textured and framed by the work I've put into it. I've never been anywhere that required more work to have fun than Macon. I've also never lived anywhere where my imput could make such a big difference in my experience. It's a big, empty canvass, y'all.

Oct 28th -- The Thriller Dance. Whether or not you've already told me or anyone else, let me know if you're in. Send me a message. Put it in these comments. We'll be rehearsing soon. It's going to be a blast. If you don't know what's up, pick up the next 11th Hour. Ask me, ask someone. Just do it.

The opportunities for fun will keep appearing. If you don't want to wait on one, make one. Dig? When you're ready to make memories, jump onboard. The revolution won't be marketed. There will be no focus groups. It will not get good ratings. But it will fun and we are still accepting applications.