The things I mean to do

Timing is everything. It really is. And good fortune, I think, exists in how you look at the series of events that've led to where you are. People are lucky in retrospect, always.

For instance, because my life to this point has been built on a foundation of spring weather in Macon, baseball and driving, I found myself experiencing total euphoria as I rode home from a late dinner with my girlfriend. She'd just given me a copy of the 2007 Great American Short Story Collection, a gift she picked up in Indiana. Thanks to her generosity and the fact that Braves games are being broadcast on 105.5 The Fan, I drove home with the windows down, smelling the clearing humidity and basking in the still warm air, thinking that nothing else could be as nice as that.

If I could have, I would've bottled it. I would've shaken that bottle up and taken a big drink, and then I would've drawn my own blood, laced with the feeling, and I would've dried it out so I could smoke it. Then I would've mixed the ashes with water and shot it into my veins. It felt that good.

For the past two afternoons, I've gathered with the Macon Improvement Authority for softball practice. Boy howdy, nothing compares.

After a couple of practices at other fields, we've settled into a routine at the Masonic Home for Children, which is one of Macon's hidden gems. Hidden in that you drive through Shirley Hills thinking that the rows of nice houses will never stop until you're face-to-face with this hulking brick building and acres of land you never knew existed. Its neighbor is the backside of the Barnes Estate, a near-mythic ode to garishness, glimpses of which you can see through the brush and collapsing fence around the property.

This land is my land. This land is your land. This land is weird as hell, and we don't recognize that enough. If you haven't made friends with resident aliens--people who have come to Macon from somewhere else--do so immediately and get them to point out some of the things you've been missing. It's totally worth it.

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.