Down for the Year 9-5
In 1995, I was so into...
• ..."New York Undercover" (Malik Yoba, specifically)
• ...working out on treadmills as OJ-mania raged on CNN
• ...blasting R.E.M.'s "Monster" endlessly in my ride
• ...those $10 dark blue Converse Chucks I found at JC Penney's Outlet
• ...East Coast hip-hop
• ...meeting deadlines at my college newspaper
Right makes right
A friend long ago once told me "If you've got right on your side, you can't go wrong."
Six years and counting
Today marks my sixth year here at the newspaper. Aside from working at Turtle's back in college -- I was there seven years -- this is the longest "steady job" I've had and I don't plan on leaving anytime soon. I got a sort of cheesy laser-printed "In Appreciation of Five Years' Service" certificate last year but today just came and went (or is still going on, actually). The most excitement? Waiting on a parking spot in our always-crowded lot closest to the building. I was 15 minutes late because of that. Oh, the drama.
Aside from The Big Six, I heard back from the contact at Atlanta Rollergirls about the volunteer DJ thing. I was right on. They're pretty set for this season but she was nice and said she'd pass my name along to Demi Gore (ha - good one), who's in charge of Everything ATLRG. It's all good. At least I gave it a shot and that's something.
Hang on a sec. How could I forget this? My good friend and former co-worker Nadirah was here at the paper this afternoon, visiting the old crew. She's back from Ghana, where she'd been living and working for the past year or so. Few things brighten a room like Nadirah's smile and just being around her gives you this feeling that things are going to be OK. I'm glad she's back in the States. Ghana's loss is definitely our gain. I've missed my friend.
Anywhere I hang my hat
Last night I headed south on I-75 and hit a store that, just a few years -- no, scratch that -- months ago I'd have never even entertained the idea of venturing into. It's a western wear emporium called Horsetown. There are maybe four of them around metro Atlanta and they're just big ole places to get your redneck on. Like, literally.
OK, fine. So the ATL isn't exactly the mecca of rodeo culture but walking around Horsetown you'd never know it. They sell everything from jeans and spurs (SPURS!) to western shirts and really cheesy tees with yee-haw slogans (like "If Barrel Racin' Was Easy They'd Call It Bronc Bustin'" - dude please; the only barrel racin' happening here goes on when the DOT is doing interstate roadwork during rush hour traffic). I went to Horsetown with a single purpose in mind: to find me a cowpoke hat.
And I did. Within five minutes of walking in this barnlike structure (no windows, which has gotta violate like six Georgia fire codes) I saw the little "corral" where all the hats, expensive and cheap alike, sat side by side. Pricey Stetsons mingled with... with... with hats so no-name that I didn't bother to catch their names. But all were available to Just Plain Folks like me. So I tried on a Stetson and after realizing that $235 doesn't go with any of the cheap Target-bought t-shirts and jeans I own, I put it back and kept on scanning the wooden shelves.
Finally, I settled on something that was, well, just so... "me." Not too horsey but not too urban. I tried on a 100% leather chocolate brown Minnetonka Australian Outback hat, mildly floppy, that was the perfect mix of cowpoke meets hillbilly - which is just what I wanted. My thinking was that I'd buy a cowpoke hat to take goofy "Yeehaw" fotos in with my friends at concerts or while just hanging out this summer or whatever. Or if I ever get an actual DJ-ing gig, I'm gonna wear it when I spin.
I love my new cowpoke hat because it's rustic looking - not super swank and trendy like those stupid Kenny Chesney straw "I Resurrected My Flailing Career By Turning Myself Into The Country Version Of Jimmy Buffett" hats that everyone thinks are so cool right now. My hat isn't like everyone else's. There were only four of them out there, one in each size: S, M, L and XL - as opposed to the Wall of Straw, which tells me that I've got something special.
Why leather? Leather lasts. Me and this hat, we're gonna make memories.
There's gonna come a day
Buck Owens died today at 76.
Well, hell.
A penny for...
...your thoughts?
...your record collection?
...your car?
...your friends?
...your favorite t-shirt?
...your soul?
Out like a lion
Today I left work early. It was good to get out of there and go do some much needed Peachtree Road Race training.
As for March, it's leaving Georgia cold and windy. Weird.
Stepping out
Don't laugh. Please don't laugh when I tell y'all this.
While re-reading the Atlanta Rollergirls booklet we got a couple Sundays ago at the Apocalypstix-Sake Tuyas jam I went to with my nieces, I hit upon this interesting sentence: "VOLUNTEERS: We need DJs, referees, etc., to help us at meets. Contact blahblahblah for more info."
DJs. They need DJs.
OK, so it's a volunteer thing. No payola in it for Your Friendly Neighborhood Rekkidbraka but... it's doing something I love to do - DJing. Mixing. Putting music out there for people. Having fun. And Atlanta Rollergirls is really just kind of getting started as a league so who knows where it's going? Plus, these folks who come to these jams are involved in the local club scene and they like my kind of music - old skool country, rockabilly, '70s-'80s rock (Joan Jett!), hip-hop - all that. You never know what might be in the offing, just as something for weekends to help offset the cost of working my regular 40-hour job that is a great gig but pays nothing. I need something else. At the bare minimum I need an outlet - something to get me out and about, making new friends, meeting new people, DOING something fun.
DJs. They need DJs. Besides working in the Album 88 studio and DJing my friend Rob's wedding back in 1998 (with help; didn't have my own gear) I've never DJed publicly in my life. They have their own set announcers for ATL Rollergirls so they just need someone to play music to keep the crowd pumped. That I can DO.
Talk me into this, y'all. Because in my dusty CD collection there's a copy of Cheap Trick's "Southern Girls" that is just dying to be jacked as loud as it can go over the speakers at some ATLRG jam to get the gals ready to rumble. Tell me I'm not down for this action.
Lazy Sunday
It never fails. I lie down on the sofa, put my head back on the pillow, close my eyes just for a minute and then wake up an hour later.
But it was raining. And cold. So where else was there to be? What else was there to do? Ah, laziness...
Feliz cumpleanos
My neighbor, Cristian, turned nine today. He was all dressed up, looking so cute - but he always looks cute, and we gave him $20. He thanked us and really meant it, smiling when my mom handed him the bill. Then he ran back across the street to jump on his trampoline with his friends before it was cake and ice cream time. Nine - what a great age.
When he moved in, he was six. Where does the time go?
Sundown downtown
"Hey, how are you?" some random guy from Marketing asked my friend and co-worker Kim this morning on the elevator.
"Oh, you know," she said with her ever-present smile, "not bad for a Thursday."
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day and we're all excited because a group of us are heading over to a local pub, Sidebar, for after-work libation and celebration. If you don't live or work in downtown Atlanta you just don't understand how starved for pub/bar action or any kind of social scene the area is once 5 p.m. rolls around. People hightail it to their cars and tear off for the interstates to what they believe to be the relative safety of the suburbs. Or else they hit the tonier parts of the city: Midtown, Buckhead, Virginia-Highland -- anywhere that isn't Downtown.
Downtown dies with the sun.
But tomorrow evening, our AJC Sports Crew is going to do its part to breathe some life into old Fairlie Street, once a thriving area. We're going to eat, drink and be merry. We're going to wear green. We're going to get silly and take drunken photos so we'll remember... something about the night. We're going to say things like "Kiss Me I'm Irish" and probably tell stories we'll wish we hadn't come Monday. We're going to enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.
I'm having a black and tan. Or two.
I need this. Too often I also die with the sun.
Rennes
I'm dedicating today's blog to Janna. Because she's going to France next year to study and yes - that IS something big.
You go, girl. Literally and figuratively. Congratulations.
Breaking the Omerta
Last night I screamed at a co-worker who was about to spoil the sixth season debut of "The Sopranos," which I haven't yet seen, for me by going on loudly about one of the most pivotal parts of the episode. Well, I heard enough so that the scene he blabbered about absolutely now won't be a surprise. But I got a laugh out of the entire copy desk by totally losing it for a split second after he got sort of smarmy and said "Oh, so we're not supposed to TALK about it all NIGHT because YOU didn't SEE it Sunday?" in his Long Island accent, which is usually cool but just struck me, as a native Southerner, as somewhat patronizing right then.
"YOU'RE BEING AN A**HOLE!" I heard this voice, apparently coming from my mouth, yell. "F**K YOU!"
Right. For. The. Whole. Newsroom. To. Hear.
I was kidding and he knew that, thankfully. We laughed it off but that can't happen again. I don't talk like that.
Still... we're talking "Sopranos" season premiere here. It's been two years. He knew the risks.
myopinion
The following is the author's personal opinion and does not represent Blogger or any other entity:myspace? sucks.
That's our opinion. We welcome yours.
Get down ladies you got nothin' to lose
Tonight I became part of that special segment of society that can, when asked, answer truthfully and with complete conviction, "Oh yeah, I've been to rollerderby."
I want to go back and it can't happen soon enough. I want to put up the cold hard cash to fund some el cheapo knockoff rollerderby at the skating rink a mile up from my house with - I don't know - the local teenage tuff girls from my old high school just to see them get knocked down and have to get back up and skate it off and cry or whatever. I want to see girls call themselves crazy names that demand a sense of humor. I want to scream my lungs out again. Oh, the joy.
My younger niece, her husband and our little nieces, who are 11 and nine, went to support "our" team - the Sake Tuyas - as they battled The Apocalypstix in the first hookup of the Atlanta Rollergirls season. The Sakes were the 2005 champs and you could see why tonight. Our fave rollergirl, Big Red, not only did her job as a jammer - securing points for the team by getting leads and barreling through the enemy as her girls elbowed and shoved to try clearing a path for her - but she defended like the tuff bruiser she is when her teammates were in the jammer slot. The rules are complicated and I'm just figuring them out myself. All I know is, the Stix fell more than the Sakes. When we left after Period 2, the Sakes were up by like 20 points. Hee.
I bought a Sakes t-shirt and I found out that my homegirl Millie DJs at some of these throwdowns. Man, I want IN on that action behind the onesies and the twosies. Who WOULDN'T want to hang out with the likes of I'ma Getcha, Tanya Hyde, Pippi Asswhuppin', Hot Legs Hooligan, Slampira and the rollergirl with my personal fave moniker, Reba Smackentire?
But the best part of the night, besides hanging out with my family? The girl who stamped my hand "PAID" at the door was wearing the same hot pink "WWJJD? What Would Joan Jett Do?" t-shirt that I have. I told her that and we shared this knowing look. Oh yeah. Joan Jett, baby. She's classic.
Aunt Petunia
So we spent the day over at my niece's house, my mom and me, enjoying the company of my niece, her husband, their 11-year-old daughter (also my niece - my great-niece but whatever; I'm her aunt - period) and their dog Roxy. We watched college hoops (Iowa won!) and my niece (the older one who's more like my big sister) and I took Roxy to the dog park. She chased tennis balls down for more than an hour before she finally started to show any hint of being tired.
Back at the house, my young niece and I sat in her upstairs room playing guitar and having some quality girl talk time alone. Her friend and the friend's six-year-old sister came over to spend the night and girl talk got even better. (With more girls, it always does.) My niece told them that it was OK to call me "Aunt" and it is; I'm totally cool with her friends - and her little sister's friends - doing that. I really like it, in fact. And so they did.
I played the girls this funny country song I've been writing on the 3/4 acoustic guitar (named "Stella") that I gave my niece for Christmas in 2004 and to my surprise they all loved it. And not because they were just being nice. They really did like it. My niece was singing along, her friend was mesmerized watching me play literally the most basic chords and the friend's little sister jumped up and started dancing, the surest sign you've got a hit on your hands.
"Aunt PETUNIA!" the friend's little sister cried out with a lisp, smiling and laughing, exposing her absent two front teeth. "Well, that was random," her sister said with the dry wisdom and wit only fifth graders can muster.
Aunt Petunia. It's not my given name but now it's the name my newest adopted niece has given to me. Nice gift, that.
These days
Like a baseball player who can't buy a base hit, I am mired in a slump.
I want out.
1:45 a.m. thoughts
There are Girl Scout cookies in my freezer -- Thin Mints, to be exact. Like the Sirens singing to Odysseus, they call to me. They beckon me to to indulge in their rich dark chocolately goodness, their crisp minty crunch.
Got milk?, their sonorous voices croon, trying to lull me into a dreamy submission.
But now it's 2:01 a.m. and I'm tired so... back to bed. Sorry, Thin Mints. Late night snacking and the whole Greek temptresses of myth bit just don't appeal to this sleepy warrior.
Reunited
It's good to be back here. Back where people respect subject/verb agreement. Back where I can be myself.
I've missed being me. The real me.
I'm a little depressed, I warn you. But it's nothing I can't work through with some help.
This feels good, not having to pretend I'm happy when I'm not. To say what I want again.
I'm sorry I've been gone.
Talk to me.
