a good drink is hard to find

There's this thing about the future that I'm bad about believing. In my head, it always seems like there'll be a moment "in the future" when you'll cross a finish line with your arms raised in victory, bright yellow tape clinging to your chest as you barrel through it, conquering that final obstacle.

As if every goal has a definitive moment, a time to pause then celebrate.

Despite the long, drawn out process of believing and acting in the faith that Macon not only can be cool but one day will be cool, I continue to think of it like crossing a threshold. Like today Macon sucked but then tomorrow we've reached our goals, defeated our demons and now Macon is totally rad. "Whew! Glad that's done now!"

No, it'll happen subtly, without our having really noticed it until we're taking stock and collecting knick-knacks for the Way Back When Museum.

Roger Riddle has stepped down from public displays of rocking the ones and twos. He went out with a bang and there was no way I could miss what might be the last time I ever get to one of my favorite people perform. Favorite and among the most influential in my little life here.

The problem with going in like that, with that mindset, was that I was primed for nostalgia and its way-bad misdirection. Though I don't go out to the bars expecting to write about it later, I did choose to sit on the sidelines like before, watching and taking notes, mostly mental.

(Not that I'd have to write down something as easy to remember as "There are a lot of frat guys here" or "Why is everyone dressed like they just came from a meeting with their banker?" or "That guy must've come from a post-grad clam bake in Cape Cod.")

The Hummingbird ain't what she used to be, which might be good if you squint your eyes and tilt your head. It isn't the place you'll find me getting drunk, dancing badly and behaving worse, but way back when, there weren't as many people present either. A bar could go broke like that. Not a concern of theirs anymore, apparently. I hear it's pretty full every weekend now.

This weekend, my group was completely outnumbered, the best of them out where Nigel's hand-painted hummingbird picture used to be, waving their metaphorical freak flags, doing their little dances, making plans to make a little love. Meanwhile, a steady stream of pastel-clad college kids trickled in from the back patio, past Riddle and his dancing minions, to the bar and back, sometimes as they engaged in a scrum or two.

Isn't this what we asked for? Didn't we indiscriminately say we wanted the "college crowd", which in this case seems to be constituted of dudes who keep golf visor companies in business and the chicks who settle for them.

This is what a college town looks like, right?

Not that there's anything wrong with the kids that were there (I used to absolutely LOVE polo shirts, braided leather belts, tucking my shirttails in and wearing socks with my sandals... seriously, I did) but what became apparent to me is that there's got to be more than just coaxing the college crowd out to get plastered.

I mean, get plastered but realize there's an art to that sort of thing. My friends and I perfected it.

Sitting there with a table full of people once considered most likely to cause troublel, walk out on their tabs and somehow still be likeable, I suddenly felt an overwhelming amount of empathy for Hank Williams, Jr. He'd grown used to a life where all his rowdy friends were coming over (because they were ready for some football) but now, as he famously sang, these same rowdy friends have settled down.

Except I am settled down now too. (Mostly.)

There and then, I wanted my youth back, but just for a second, and only because I didn't trust those college kids with it. There was no rage in them, no restlessness. Yeah, they get mad and get in fights but that's all ego. We had a bunch of hurt feelings and weren't those more interesting? We got drunk and went exploring, using alcohol as anesthesia so we could pull back the layers without feeling it too much. We were curious and pissed off, and ignored, crying out in the wilderness like John the Baptist, making wishes we weren't careful about only aware of the mistake now that the headman's plate has been passed around.

Bah.

I shouldn't be so negative about it. I should be more open-minded. I'm just getting old. And I'm tired. It's after 1am. Past my bed time.

Besides, some of my best friends were in a frat.

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."