CityTown USA

It’s been a little bit crazy these past few days; running around, house-sitting for Arthur, who is now in Italy, and of course, getting caught under the heavy thumb that is late summer in Atlanta. Hauling recycling to the curb of Arthur’s Virginia-Highlands house at two a.m. becomes surprisingly sweaty, no matter the brevity of the exertion, or lack of sunlight. A stale breeze is gently moving candy wrappers down the sidewalk, but doing very little to cool the backs of necks.

This presented the perfect opportunity for a late-night summer activity: a late movie, to be viewed in a large, darkened theater with the air conditioning on full-blast. However, Talk to Me was only showing at one theater. Atlantic Station. A shopping-living anomaly that is lovingly nicknamed CityTown. Atlantic Station haunts my nightmares. The ones where I wake up in a cold sweat, fearing that this will be how people live in the future.

It is, by design, not a new idea: people living above stores. Not a hard concept. Who wouldn’t want to wake up every morning in their charming little flat or studio to the smell of freshly baked break wafting up from the street; or hear jazz from the nightclub below in the cool of the evening?

Atlantic Station takes that brilliant concept of space conservation and shits all over it. In Atlantic Station, who’s tagline is “Life Happens Here” people have the option of living above the following: one or two overpriced restaurants, or, chain stores such as Express or Banana Republic. I have no desire, and I worry about the fact that it is a coveted living locale.

If you do decide to brave the bizarre, cardboard-cutout feel of Atlantic Station, be my guest. It sports a decent movie theater, and if you absolutely can’t live without those bitchin’ Guess capris that went on sale and you’d rather go to human hive of weirdness to buy them, that’s fine too. BUT REMEMBER. If you go to visit and not to live, you must validate your parking. Or else you will be forced to live there, on a neverending quest for the parking office in the lower bowels of the parking deck.

DAMN GOOD ADVERTISING

Ok so let’s take a break from Where-The-Players-Play and watch an awesome commercial. You’ve probably already seen it, but let us re-celebrate it here.

Little Ghost

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story:

The Tale of The Morse Code Ghost.

Last night was the second-to-last of house-sitting for the Smiths. Ay and I spent a quiet evening making dinner, drinking, and watching the Simpsons marathon. (I later did as the movie promotional commercial instructed me and tried to Simpsonize myself. It did not work.) By all accounts, this was an enjoyable, lovely evening to begin drawing this venture to a close.

About one, we went up to bed. I was pretty beat, so I fell asleep first, while my counterpart stayed up to watch a little more TV. I woke up about 4 hours later. Ae had dozed off, as he so often does, with the television on. I turned it off, and rolled over to go back to sleep.

I have always felt that there is something about the country that has an effect on people, and therefore the places in which they live. I have been tent camping with my mother nearly every autumn without fail since I was a toddler. And every year, I get the same sort of feeling when the sun sets over the orange Appalachians. Bumpkin-desperation mixed with the cold and throw in a few weird noises, and I’d have myself a regular creep-fest. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it, all through those years out there. Even when my aunt bought a cabin in Rabun Gap when I was fifteen, and our mother-daughter fall foliage outings moved indoors, it was still there. Desolate sensations; no-one-can-hear-you-scream, someone is watching me.

In the sudden darkness after the television’s doused light, I could hear something, and I felt that old fear settle on my brain like a cold blanket. A was fast asleep, snoring gently, while my heartbeat was quickening and sweat was collecting in my eyebrows. It was a clicking, popping, cracking, quiet at first and then louder. It would go on for a while, then stop and start again quietly. It was coming from the ceiling, in the corner furthest from the bed. The rotation of the ceiling fan was cooling my sweat, and I shivered but couldn’t move. I was completely terrified.

Who had died such a grim and untimely death that their restless soul felt that they should come back, here and now, to torment me? Who did I owe anything, and why now? What had happened here? Beaten to death and crammed in the attic of the farmhouse that stood in this very spot, on the very farm that was bulldozed to make way for this neighborhood, sometimes she returns, sometimes she clicks…sometimes she clicks…

By six a.m., I had spun the whole sad story in my head, and I was petrified. I shook A awake and, though my throat was clenched as tightly as my clammy hands, I squeaked, “Do you hear that?”

But he was dead! Killed right next to her in bed, and she felt the sticky blood and screamed, and the ghost kept clicking —

“Turn off the fan.” He muttered, snorted, and went back to sleep. I steeled myself, opened my eyes as wide as I could, curled my toes, and shuffled over to the wall and flipped the switch. The clicking stopped immediately.

All things considered, I slept great this morning. I am a bit dissapointed, though. Because I know deep down, the whole reason I feel the way I feel, whether it’s huddled in a sleeping bag or wide-eyed in the darkness of a huge house, is because I want to hear the ghost. I want to let the countryside effect me in that way, because it’s fun, and it makes this region even more special to me.

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Tomorrow afternoon, I have the rare treat of escorting an out-of-town guest around The Big Peach. Now here is something that I think I will be very good at, and I really look forward to it. How often do I get to take someone around my city and show them everything I love about it and try and get them to love it too? Though of course, like everything else in my life, there is bound to be some weirdness. Like the fact that my out-of-town guest is not REALLY from out of town. He’s actually a resident of an Atlanta suburb, Kennesaw, and has never, in fact, been to Atlanta. How this is even possible is beyond me, but it will certainly be interesting to show him what he has been living a mere 20 minutes from all his life, and never seen. And hopefully this will ignite some sort of desire in him to get out of that suburb up there where there are still occasionally public KKK rallies and camouflage is always in style, whether it’s on a shirt, a cellphone cover, or even use as a paint substitute all over your car. (coming in handy, of course, for hunting.)

Theresa asked me a few days ago if I knew what a ‘lifer’ was. She talked to me for a little while about the people in Alaska that will never move, and will remain in the place of their birth for the rest of their lives. As I thought about it, I realized that, no, I do not want to live in Atlanta all my life. I have no desire to move right away, but I will if called to do so by some illusive job op.

And what about location? Being a lifer in Atlanta must be very different than being a lifer in Kennesaw. Though some people love their small towns, and don’t want to change anything. They love the people they see every day, and have no desire to leave. In a city like The Big Peach, you can go anywhere and get lost in the heart of it. In the city, you can hide.

I think this little town where I’ve found myself house-sitting, Sugar Hill, consists mainly of lifers. And I think they must be out of their minds. But it’s their home and they love it. And even this place is going through it’s own changes. In 2000 the census took the population, and it was 11,399. That must be almost doubled. There are so many subdivisions here now, McMansions everywhere, and even upscale condos right on The ‘Hooch. Where there are suburbanites, there are liquor stores, Publixes, banks and restaurants. And that means mini-malls, and shopping centers.

Curious as to what this little town used to be, I did some research. This is their logo:

The city of Cumming, to this day, does not have a rail line. And back in the late nineteenth century goods were transported by wagon. Well, one of the wagons, overloaded, on it’s way from Buford to Cumming, (traveling on what we now call Buford Highway) lost a wheel while going over a large hill. The wagon overturned, spilling a few huge bags of sugar. From then on, it was known as “The Hill Where The Sugar Spilled,” and was used as a reference point on the road between Buford and Cumming. Then it became Sugar Spill, sometimes Sugar Hill, and eventually was a Georgia Militia District and finally was named Sugar Hill, and charted as a city on March 24, 1939.

One of the Outer Limits … of Atlanta.

Sugar Hill. Located about three miles to the West of 985, or, Lanier Parkway, (that’s what 85 splits into about 30 miles outside of the city.) this is probably considered one of the last suburban outposts before you get north of the lake, into “Banjo Territory.” (that’s what I call it anyway.)

My mother’s neighbors, a darling young thirty-something couple, has been paying me to house and dog sit for them for almost five years now. The last of these house-sitting ventures concluded about a month and a half ago; but it did not conclude without mishaps that, for some reason, occurred this time, as opposed to the last four-odd times I’ve stayed there.

Here is a invoice of the things that I owe my neighbors:

-One beach-themed plastic plate. (microwaved, when not microwave-safe. This is a very important loss to them, due to the fact that they eloped to the Bahamas about ten years ago, and their ENTIRE HOUSE is beach-themed. Shit.)

-One green, plastic colander. (microwaved, when not microwave-safe. During a drunken hunger-fest, I decided that the Pop Secret! Super Butter! would be too buttery, so I opened the package, rinsed all the pseudo-butter off, and threw it in the colander with a little salt and tucked that safely in a microwave; not even considering, of course, that all the salt fell right through the holes. I probably should have kept the result and called it ‘art’.)

-One Crate and Barrel Storage Table Unit. (gorgeous piece of furniture, and handy. It stores books, DVDS, remotes, and goes with just about anything. Unfortunately, it’s finish does not necessarily stand up to spilled nail polish remover. There is a much more interesting story behind this that I am simply too ashamed to share, but regardless: it was a gorgeous piece of furniture.)

- One wooden toilet seat. (no telling what exactly happened here. According to my boyfriend, it was whole one minute, and the next, it was split in half. This was also a crucial beach-themed ornament for their house. Or, at least, the top of the seat was, not the wooden, put-your-cheeks-here-part.)

Despite this poor couple’s multiple costs to their love nest, the female of the two recommended my dog/house sitting services to her sister, who lives here, in Sugar Hill. Thusfar in the week, things have been going just fine. Their dog is sweet, so is their cat, and the area is filled with wildlife. They even have a zip line out back that proves faster than I could ever imagine.

But the house is located in a subdivision that should probably be right out of The Stepford Wives. As a matter of fact, this neighborhood is so ’secure’, that they felt it necessary to instruct the people that live two doors from this house to re-paint the door to their house, which is red. Apparently the Neighborhood regulators claimed that it looked, and I quote my semi-employers, ‘like a house of ill repute.’

Besides the ridiculousness and the shitty weather, I’ve been having fun out here. It’s nice to be outside of the city for a while. I actually saw some deer, and an enormous rabbit. The ‘Hooch is a little low, (that’s slang for the Chattahoochee River to all you Yankees) but it’s been that way for a couple of years, due to the drought. I still would like to float it maybe later in the week. I’ll have to ask around, see if anyone wants to blow up a ‘tube and float on down with me. Of course we’ll have to design some sort of rudimentary device that will be capable of floating a cooler full of beer.

It’s good to be a-breathin’.

Third Fav blog K? Thanx bai.

This is purely for my own ridiculous sense of humor, and has nothing at all to do with class-related things. I luv lolcatz.

…aaand it won’t let me post a link, for some reason. But anyway.

http://icanhascheezburger.com/

Tuesdays are Spoken-for.

I completely forgot to mention that that last entry was incomplete. I bet that last sentance was a little bizarre. I will have to check with Alissa on the ‘unfinished blog’ etiquitte.

Tuesdays are Karaoke night at the Famous, and for the life of me, I cannot understand why people hate Karaoke so much. Worst-case scenario, you show up just to watch, and everyone that gets up and sings sucks worse than anything the human ear has ever encountered, and you get some free entertainment that can, if you so desire, be magnified by the SAFE usage of alcoholic beverages. What’s the down side here?

Even if it’s not for some, I think the reason that the Famous is such a perfect venue for this long-running bar activity is because, as I explained in my last entry, the Back Bar (the ‘Sports Palace’ to some) is outfitted perfectly to accomodate this sort of thing. I’ve been to one or two Karaoke nights at assorted bars all around town, and I must say that being on a stage has a real effect on one’s performance. It usually seems to make the suckers suck harder and those with real talent shine brighter. I think it’s the best entertainment you can find at a bar.

It could be that I’m partial to Famous Karaoke because of the sweet little troll of a Lemmy wanna-be that runs the whole gig for Bob’s Karaoke. (we will call him ‘Jay’)

However, he can grow to be a little weird and plus he cut the Lemmy ’stache recently. A few months ago, a friend of mine used to work behind the bar on Tuesdays. She has since been fired, but that also has not stopped me from attending nearly every Tuesday without fail. Or maybe it’s that one girl that always sings old country songs and hits the notes with a better, more mellow and buttery tone than the originial singers. I like watching her apply her God-given talent to Whitney Houston songs and matching the And Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeaaaaaiiii perfectly; and due to the fact that she can actually turn “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” into a pretty song, well, she’s pretty much a goddess among mere mortals.

I go for the combination of all those things, of course. But I think the highlight is living in the whole shadow of the Cheers legacy. A lot of people know my name. Not only the string of assorted acquaintences and co-workers that I have Pied Piper-ed in to coming with me every Tuesday, but also a lot of the staff and regulars. It’s a comfortable comradery that I think we lose when we leave High School and College.

So is that it? Is that what kept Cliff, Norm and Frasier always coming back? Why do we want everyone to know our names?

This coming Tuesday is going to be pure Roman debauchery. Whether I decide to drink or not, I’ve already got a fairly lengthy list of songs I plan on butchering, and I’ve been practicing in the car. One of my co-worker regulars is finally going to be over his tonsil/adnoid removal surgery, and I plan on a Misfits duet. Life is sweet.

Getting Along Famously

So if it was not clear from the description, this blog is focused mainly on Atlanta and the places and people here. It will act as a product review outlet, a critique on mankind making his way in the heart of the South, and lastly, a memory album of sorts, in case I do have to leave the city of my birth. Or, at least, that’s what I hope it will become.

Let’s start with Decatur. I’m sure we’ll return there, and for now we can use it as a launching pad. Tucked in the Toco Hills shopping center on North Druid Hills Road, this dive-y bar doesn’t appear to have a lot going for it. Once through the front door, you will feel much the same way. If you order the chicken fingers, they will probably taste like many other chicken fingers you’ve had. The wait staff is courteous and fairly attractive, and the pool tables are in good condition. You’ll find a decently-sized, Emory-laced crowd there just about every night. At first glance, there is absolutely nothing special about the Famous Pub what-so-ever.

You’d probably totally miss the back hallway altogether if the bathrooms and the old Asteroids machine weren’t back there. Above the double doors is a neon sign declaring, in tacky relief, that the darkened cave you’re entering is known as the “Sports Palace.” Now if you want a good place to go, drink a Miller and strain your neck to watch one of the 4 wall-mounted projection T.V.s, then this truly is it. But if you find yourself in the Sports Palace on, say, a Saturday night, well. You’ll probably be the one person there that isn’t dancing.

Of course you could go to any old club to dance, but why pay for entry and over-priced pink drinks? At Famous, you can walk right in, go to the back and get your groove on. There are tables, for the less-adventurous, (or those just looking to be entertained) and of course there’s always the bar back there, and even two more pool tables. But for those with a wild hair, there is the tiered dance floor with the twin stripper poles at the back. Most come in with noses in the air when they see the poles for the first time. And I will freely admit, their presence can, on occasion, cause one to re-evaluate one’s presence at the Famous. However, they are rarely used, and when they are, the occupants are usually too drunk to realize that their performance is not going to cause ‘it’ to ‘rain’, nor is anyone remotely aroused. Therefore, the situation goes from laughable to downright priceless.

Now. With all this having been said, you can probably discern that I highly recommend the Famous Pub as a socializing locale just about any night of the week. But I have not yet mentioned Tuesdays.

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Welcome to Atlanta. More to come.

Also, the first two of my favorite blogs so far:

This guy takes pictures of dogs tied up to things. It’s pretty hilarious.

This artist is really great – plus he helps show you how to bend your own wire!