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 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.

Only as old (school) as you feel

The reason I didn't do much of anything last Friday is because I had an incredible time on Thursday. That night at the Cox Capitol Theatre, with Doski Wo and The Revival and Al King and Robot Folk Junkies and Y'all Street and the unfortunately named 2 of a Kind, was a flash forward to where I'd like the Macon social scene to be, and a flash back to time when I drank for fun, not self-destruction.

Having been out of the drinking thing for so long, I over did it, and so, Friday was a day of suffering. I felt fine until after I'd showered. Then I vomited for the next several hours, sometimes screaming through the process, a half-yell, half-yack thing that was truly disgusting and disturbing. Every hackneyed cliché about hugging toilets and praying to porcelain gods rang true with each trip from my bed to the bathroom.

I'd do it all over again if it meant having that Thursday night again.

Hopefully, there is no direct correlation between my alcoholic overindulgence and having the variety of entertainment and people that was at the Capitol that night. But if there is, I will lay down my liver for it.

If you were there, you know why. (And thank you for being there.) If you weren't, you should get your second chances soon. In fact, the following Saturday was a more reserved (for me at least) version at the Tic Toc Room with Riddle and Dirt Dog throwing their second Black Card Party.

From what I gather, it is becoming a monthly event. Right now, it is invite only but it looks like that list is growing so maybe they'll open up for the general (but appropriate) public. The idea is to have people who actually like to listen to music show up. In the paper, I made the comparison to having a wine expert pick out their favorite bottle and giving it to you for free. That's the gig. Riddle and Dirt Dog play what they really want to play. You get the best.

That brings out an interesting crowd. It was as diverse and progressive as anything I've ever seen in Macon. While both those adjectives are absolutely correct, they're also disgustingly liberal sounding terms that mean something good but have an unfortunate pallor of political death about them. What I mean by that is that this isn't a political event. Neither was Thursday at the Capitol. It was just folks getting together without pretense or fear (or at least, getting together despite their pretense and fear). It was getting together because the function was too good to ignore. THAT is what we need more of.

In between both, Angelic and Riddle took me out to Twiggs County—WAY the hell out in Twiggs County... so far into Twiggs County I wasn't sure we were ever getting back to any place that wasn't in Twiggs County. Anyway, we went because someone put together an Old School All-Star concert. Doug E. Fresh, Slick Rick, Chubb Rock, Big Daddy Kane, Whodini, Sugar Hill Gang, Rob Base and several more including Fab Five Freddy.

So yeah, it was worth being out in the middle of nowhere.

What struck me at this concert is that hip-hop will be, for me, what "oldies" are for my mom and dad. They may have been young adults when Woodstock broke rock music into a thousand tie-dyed, psychedelic little pieces, but what they remember most fondly is shit from their idyllic childhood. Idyllic, I say, not because it was perfect but because they were innocent in the world. That's what that music reminds them of. That's what they hear when Leslie Gore sings, "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to." They hear "Back when I didn't have to worry about anything because I was a kid."

So when Slick Rick and Doug E. Fresh finally unleashed "La Di Da Di" on us, I was all tingly inside because that was the stuff I liked when all I had to do on a Saturday was cut the grass and play wiffle ball in the front yard with my friends.

And that reminded me of what I thought about the black kids I played with growing up. I knew—based on the way I saw adults act, based on what I heard some of them say—that there was supposed to be a problem between us white folks and them black folks. I knew that there was supposed to be a difference, that we weren't supposed to get along for some reason. By and large, we got along anyway. We were kids. We did what kids do. We played. We did that without much of a problem until we got older and adopted everyone else's prejudice.

I remember clearly the day I got too old to be innocent anymore, the day I became tainted by this shit. My bike got stolen, and one of my white friends said it was probably one of the black kids who did it. We walked around the neighborhood, off Shurling Drive, down Alandale and Clinton and Walnut Creek, back to Kensington. Never found the bike but that idea that someone would steal my bike because of their color stuck.

What I only sensed as a kid started becoming, in that moment, a part of how I thought, which was cemented by a friend who got it from the adults around him. In bits and pieces for a long time after that, the idea grew, the prejudice and bigotry grew. White people did good things and black people were shady. That isn't to say I was an ardent racist at any point in my life, but I certainly had a particular set of lenses on. After a while, my friends came in colors: black and white.

My black friends changed too. It was obvious that something had gotten into them. They came around less, started calling each other "Nigga". In one of my least enlightened moments, I asked why they could call each other that and I couldn't. Didn't get an answer but I did get punched. From then on, it was the default worst thing to call a person. Once, I got into another fight and called the guy a "Nigger." Angry and hateful, that word transcended race. It was the just the meanest thing I could say.

Thankfully, eventually, it just made no sense to me to think or feel that way, and ever since then, I've been trying to unravel that ball of knots. But being in a city that willingly (and often just ridiculously) segregates itself socially, makes it hard. It’s hard to just see a person—not when you’re one-on-one or in a small group. That’s fine. That’s easy. It’s when you see a big group. Boom: there’s the black club; there’s the white club, which is tantamount to "Stay away" if you're not of that race. And that's tantamount to stupidity. It's one thing to not dig what someone else digs, but it's another to pretend you don't because you're not the right color for it.

The feeling I had at the Capitol last Thursday, the feeling in Twiggs that Saturday afternoon and in the Tic Toc that night, was a lot like when I was just a small kid. I knew there was supposed to be—based on the way folks here act—a big difference between us white folks and black folks, but I wanted to have fun anyway so I disregarded it. Just like being a kid. That's what made it so great.

There was a while at the Capitol when the room divided itself pretty clearly. No one was dancing or mingling much. I asked Riddle why and he said, “There’s too many black people in here,” meaning that’s what the white folks were thinking. And I said, “But the black folks seem uptight too.” He said, “That’s because there’s too many white folks in here.” Fortunately, as Riddle predicted, that broke down when Doski took the stage.

I get the sense that the kids coming up now are dealing with this less, and I hope that’s true. Thing is, as much as I think they’ll keep straightening this shit out, I don’t want to wait on them to do it. From what I’ve seen, the folks my age want to be done with this BS, and I think with the way things went Thursday, and again on Saturday, we’re getting damn close.

If you build it (and advertise Flying Elvises), they will come

There I stood, with the masses, at the "new mall" under gray-blue skies, as fun-killing winds whipped up, forecasting a storm on raindrops that advanced like an old, angry man's spit. When I told my downtown-dwelling buddies about my plans to go to the Grand Opening the Mall at River Crossing they reacted as if I were the Great Satan, or perhaps the love child of Judas Iscariot and Benedict Arnold. (Actually, it was definitely the latter, but I have never been able to write "The Great Satan" before and so...)

Worse, they reacted as if they didn't hear me say that the good people at River Crossing had contracted the E-Team Jumpers, a motley band of skydiving Elvis impersonators, to make a "patriotic jump" in the morning with a pyrotechnic version at night. These hard-headed, fear-mongering, knee-jerk reactionaries had decided that this constituted support of the "new mall", which, translated, means I'm just stabbing poor downtown in its barely beating heart. (Maybe I'm overselling this characterization of them a little bit.) They couldn't see past their silly alliances long enough to understand that the most important part of this whole thing is that a team of Flying Elvises was set to descend on Macon, an event that comes 16 years too late, in my opinion.

That's right, while other people were wishing that Macon had more to offer in the way of fun and financial security, I have been hoping that we'd get some Flying Elvises up in here. And I have ever since I first saw Honeymoon in Vegas, that movie about James Caan sleeping with Nicholas Cage behind Sarah Jessica Parker's back. (By the way, she was smoking hot in that black bikini—fellas, you know what I'm talking about—and that's the only reason I ever watched Sex in the City.)

Well, you know what? The damn weather made officials postpone the E-Team jump, which really cheesed me off. That's like false advertising or entrapment or something, right? Sure, Miss Georgia Leah Massee was there, but why do I care about that? Was she dressed up like Elvis, jumping out of an airplane while Nic Cage waxed poetic about love and marriage? NO. She was not!

They're going to reschedule it for sometime in the next four days, which is fine, I guess.

In the meantime, I took a gander at the stores and such, getting a feel for what this behemoth new neighbor will do for and to Macon. As soon as I saw representatives of the Convention and Visitors Bureau, I remembered an element of this project that few folks discuss: drawing people from outside of Macon. (Neighboring counties, most likely, but still.) Don’t ignore the stores and restaurants they're bringing or have brought. A lot of it is stuff we don't have and can't experience unless we go to Atlanta: Wild Wing Cafe, Sticky Fingerz, DSW Shoe Warehouse, etc. What's wrong with that?

My gut says that this "new mall" won't kill downtown, and that it probably won't even really hurt it. Yes, thirty years ago, the old "new mall" emptied our urban core, but times were different. The majority of white America, which in the 1960s and 70s was synonymous with affluent America, emptied out of inner cities all over the country in favor of the suburbs. The mall wasn't wholly to blame.

Plenty want the mall—both old and new—but many are choosing downtown. One reason is that you can live in downtown. There's a culture here. If you have a job at the mall, most likely, you're selling food or clothes, which is fine, but in downtown, you could be a doctor or a lawyer, a small business owner, a politician, a construction worker, or a person who sells food or clothes. Downtown is a living, breathing thing. While it'd be nice if it were in better shape, I really think it's doing fine.

That's the problem I have with blind loyalty to downtown. (Not necessarily my friends, per se... probably more of a condemnation on myself actually.) The blind loyalty reveals a fear that downtown really isn't strong enough to make it work, that it really doesn't have enough to offer, that it can't compete, that it needs our pity and compassion. Does it need our TLC? Yes. Our patronage? Yes. But we don't need to treat downtown like it's the fat, pasty kid who sits in the corner picking his nose while everyone calls him Horney Toad. Wait... that sounds familiar...

Seriously, if we are blindly loyal, to the point that we'll support any and everything that comes to downtown and oppose anything we think that threatens it, we're just going to end up with a lame-ass downtown. Think about it. There's some truth and beauty in economic Darwinism. We're at a point, I think, where downtown has plenty to offer developers and business folks and the like. It's only a matter of time.

Case in point: when I returned from the Grand Opening, there was nary a parking space downtown to be had. And finding one during lunch is nearly impossible, and the US Conference of Mayors just hosted a small business forum at the Capitol Theatre. We're not doing so bad... though it would be nice if we had a couple Flying Elvises.

Happy Song

Most times, this blog and its contents will more directly reflect the title it's been given: things I remember not despite of the hangover but because of it. That is, I like going out and drinking, and then writing about it so strangers know a little something of the life that's available in Middle Georgia... and also so my friends can remember the shit I saw them do.

But to put a spin on the title, the "tamed hangover" part--and yes, this is a stretch--I'm sometimes going to go out and still enjoy myself without doing stuff that leaves me hungover. In other words, by taming the instinct to get plastered, I'm taming the hangover before it begins and thusly giving myself a chance to experience a life here that I tend to neglect: the sober nightlife.

This is going to be one of those posts: Hey, I was sober and this is what happened.

Last night, I didn't expect to be -- not with the presence of an open bar and a lot of Otis Redding's music in the forefront. In fact, I envisioned a night of free booze with some boogie thrown in for good measure. That I didn't get that doesn't mean I was disappointed by the Otis Redding tribute, but that it was something different.

Turns out, getting lit on gin n tonic the night before upped my tolerance for gin n tonic, which is what I wanted to drink because I was dressed up and it felt like a dressy drink. I had a few of those, but they didn't come home to roost so I stopped worrying about it and switched to water.

Yes, I was dressed up. It was a chore, but I was excited about it. The week leading up, I didn't shave and my last public appearance, at the infamous Cocktail Hour, I made in holey jeans. I wanted to make sure that my image as a slacker bum was solid before giving myself a makeover.

It worked. Walking up, R.S. was guarding the door and addressed me like a stranger, not recognizing me and saying so, which was just the first time all night I heard that. Several folks had the same revelation. And pictures of it are limited, if they even exist. That was half the fun for me. I like dressing up from time to time, and surprising folks is a form of entertainment in of itself. Plus, I had a lovely lady on my arm, so to speak as I couldn't imagine actually carrying anyone around like that.

Anyway, organizers sat us four 11th Hour people -- Cardigan Slim was in town but Grizzle was not though -- with eight Telegraph people, and it made me smirk. The only Telegraph employee was the office manager, which meant there was no need for small talk about "the biz". Dinner was a nice salad and a whole cornish hen, which was my first attempt at eating what looked like a chicken without using my fingers.

We walked the red carpet in the pouring rain into the City Auditorium, finding our seats in a roped off section for VIPs. Ooo la la. It was fancypants. I made sure to give the finger to all the commoners outside of the special section for special people.

Then I felt like giving the finger to someone else, though I didn't know who. No one was dancing. Later, much later, a young couple (commoners) got up to dance, but no one joined in. I wanted to but there was no dancefloor in the VIP section and I feared going outside of our fiefdom.

Seriously though, how are you going to have the Bar-Kays -- the actual damn Bar-Kays, including Ben Cauley who survived the plane wreck that killed Otis Redding and most of the other Bar-Kays (the other surviving Bar-Kays were on a different plane) -- playing "Green Onions" and their own "Soul Finger" and not have a place for people to dance? How pointless is it to watch people get their groove on, instrumental style, without being able to get your groove on?

It isn't like I can't be happy with what I had because we all had a lot that night -- great music and interesting clips of celebrities talking about how much they love Otis Redding, including Alicia Keys and the Rolling Stones -- but it would've made sense. Other than that, it was lovely.

The vocalist for the Bar-Kays, Larry Hudson, tore it up. He came out in a white silk suit singing Satisfaction. Later, he emerged in a gold suit with coat tails. That's a man that knows the value of showsmanship. Speaking of, Dexter Redding, eldest son of Otis and Zelma, is a charismatic guy, reflecting at least some of the dynamic performance of his father's. Otis Redding III was a different matter. He isn't a bad singer -- neither sounds that much like their dad -- but he was a smoking guitar player. I didn't realize he was that good. And he had great chemistry with Taj Mahal when that blues great came out for his cameo.

The event was emceed by three people who read off a teleprompter, none more egregiously than the dude Kenny Lattimore. Maybe it wasn't noticeable from the balcony but it sure was sitting that close. It wasn't a bad thing, mind you, just a little distracting. It made it more obvious that what they were reading was ridiculously bland. "Otis Redding touched many million lives around the globe..." Blah.

One of the MCs was a former American Idol, Diana Degarmo. She sang "Respect" (or tried to) with the other female host, Alexandria (I think). But they did Aretha Franklin's version -- not a problem, just think it would've been interesting to hear the ladies duet on Otis Redding's version. The problem was that halfway through their song, Diana got flustered -- the band sounded off and the ladies didn't seem comfortable with the lyrics -- and said, "Let's start over." It was an awkward moment, watching them try to rebuild the momentum, but it seemed to make them try harder to work the crowd, which ultimately made it a better performance.

Speaking of awkward moments, when they first announced Otis Redding III, he didn't show up. Almost a full minute passed without anyone showing up, no one knowing what to do about it, and when he did appear, I had to chuckle because in a pair of dark glasses and a black jacket decked out with lots of black sequins Otis III looked almost exactly like Neon Deion Primetime Sanders.

But again, he was a killer on the guitar.

The evening only really bogged down when dedications to Otis and Zelma were being made. It was sweet but probably should've been done earlier. It ain't my party though. Other than that, it was fantastic.

Afterwards, my date and I went to CJs, still dressed up because I'd left my keys and phone at the house and my roommate had gone out after all. We walked in, got carded, looked around and decided to leave. It wasn't a CJs night, but I wish it had been. They were doing a benefit for breast cancer -- Save the Ta-Tas -- and I wanted to be a part, but it wasn't to be. That said, good job looking out CJs (and to all the area bars that donated gift certificates for the raffle). The place was packed, which is why I didn't want to stay, and I'm sure they raised some money for their worthy cause, which is why I wanted to go in the first place.