The Bird Dog

As you may or may not know, this past Sunday was my birthday. (In certain parts of the rural, ’scary’ south, it is referred to as the ‘bird dog.’ As are your thirteen-or-so mutts you have painstakingly trained to retrieve various Georgia-native avifauna that you just shot.) I didn’t do much. Last year having been my twenty-first, I got most of my partying out of my system then. But that’s not to say that this gal would be turning twenty-two without a little fun involved.

Friday was the actual party. Pretty normal as parties go, with the usual attendants you see at just about every house function where there is a keg  involved.

There was the usual group of guys that find their way into every party:  a little too full of themselves, and sincerely believe that there is a specific, ceremonial art to tapping a keg of Bud Light. They are the ones who will also end up sparring shirtless with each other by the end of the evening, (they will do so in a convenient place…like in front of everyone else) and, if drunk enough, may challenge the one another to a cigarette-arm-burning match to prove who is more of an idiot, or who’s penis is larger — or something like that.

Saturday was working day, and mostly uneventful. Sunday, however, proved to be a great birthday. My family had prepared a party for me at The Colonnade.    

I certainly did get my fill of collard greens, and it was WONDERFUL. If you’ve never been to this little slice of Atlanta life, you should go. Even if you hate eating around old people, (there are quite a few there, and quite often) go just for the greens.

Overall, it was a good start to twenty-two. That being said, I hope everyone has a great Thursday, and hey…let me know what you think about that new Heineken Draught Keg commercial. That shit is LAME!  Couldn’t they have come up with a better strategy than ‘dumb green robot bitch dances the robot while simultaneously opening up her stomach to reveal the draught keg?’ If only there was a way to emote how hard I am shaking my head.

Post-Hiatus

So sorry for the gap there, my poor little PowerBook g4 is on her last legs, and I no longer have the blogging portability that I value so highly; also, I will not get the chance, at least right away, to enact a little experiment I’ve been wanting to try: blogging IN ATLANTA. Most public places have WiFi, right? And if not, there is always Word, so I can empty all my thoughts into a document and then post it later when the internets are back in my life. Sadly, this will have to be postponed.

97 Estoria. You should go, if you haven’t. Located at, surprise, 97 Estoria, in a tucked-away corner of Cabbagetown, and it sports a trendy-yet-welcoming intimate interior that—

–What? Oh, Cabbagetown? Hah, what about it? You say you want a little history?

Knock yourself out!

As I was saying, 97 Etsoria is a great place to go to meet people, see and be seen, or have a drink with a friend or that special someone. However, if you are allergic to hipsters then you might want to re-think coming to 97 Estoria. Unless you bring your inhaler, or have a plan of attack.

Last week I simultaneously discovered and got a job at an establishment that I consider one of the coolest places Atlanta has to offer. Highland Cigar Company  (the website is a little silly, I will admit freely) takes the cigar/bar environment from South Florida, and puts a not-so- gentlemanly spin on it. It’s all the sophistication of a cigar store…with booze. And if you don’t see the potential for hilarity, then you might want to check your pulse.  If you need a place to go and smoke your stockpile of Cubanos and watch the game, this is the place to do it. If you’ve got a hell of a lot of work and want a cozy place to finish it, and maybe drink a few beers in the process, I highly recommend this place. Besides the obvious people-watching merits. As for as a job goes, all I have to say is, ’At least they are training me on the bar.’

‘Cause if all else fails in this little deadtime before graduation, at least I will have bartending under my belt.

And lastly for review this evening, we come to DSC. You got it. Azul. Every Friday Raging Burrito and Azul open the doors that connect them and become Decatur Social Club. There’re two bars, the one in Raging and one in Azul, and if you can manage to move (and by move I am referring to bodily propulsion with the use of one’s own two legs…forget trying to dance) ANYWHERE in that space after one-thirty A.M, then you’re my fucking hero.  Because I found myself stuck in the same spot for about twelve minutes, unable to move due to the sheer volume of people around me. I don’t think I’ve ever been so liberally moistened from the sweat of others.

Once again, one must exercise caution when attending the DSC. You primary concern is still most likely going to be people that look like this.  (there is, of course, the exception of those scenesters that are actually cool) And of course, always remember where you left your tab open, the front bar or the back. The DJs seem to keep good music playing, both modern mixes and good old stuff that is served up as is.

That’s all I got for today. But I’m going to try and get my computer fixed ASAP so I can commence my round-the-city blogging. Hope everyone is enjoying their humpday appropriately…by humping something.

Technorati

Technorati Profile

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.