And we're off...did someone say, bar crawl?

Ramblings Post #249
Do something different. Start the new year off with a bang. Let's try not to make those just words and phrases. It's time to hit the gym, cut out the sugar, and focus on the next step we're taking to get where we want to go. But...changes don't just go one way. Change the things you do to enjoy yourself, or at least try. Because you never know what you might enjoy. But if involves spiders or heights, keep it to yourself.

One of my old partners from back in the day hit me up a few days ago with the idea for a start of the New Year's Bar Crawl through Castleberry Hill to start off 2014 with a bang. I reminded him that this, first, is not New Orleans and second, although Atlanta appears to be in the south it really is just less north than a lot of places, as evidenced by the cool breeze that has a tendency to pop up this time of year. He swore it would be fun, sent out an invite on FB, and low and behold the party was arranged for Friday night.

Castleberry Hill, for those not from Atlanta (and those from Atlanta who only live in the suburbs) is one of the cities hot new districts, with lots of small restaurants, bars, wine shops and lounges. Whereas most clubs in Atlanta strive to be Super clubs - with massive dance floors, vast rooms, and crowds pressing to get in, this area is at a different pace. Most of the spots are the size of large Starbucks. They are neighborhood spots, designed to attract the residents of the expensive condos and town houses that they were placed near. But, it's still developing so, for a couple of the stops planned, it was not a hop skip and jump, but a fairly long little walk.

 Know this, cold as it is had there been as much as 1 mph of wind, I would have stayed home.

Instead I dressed semi-warmly, on the idea that I would be in and out all night, found some gloves I knew I had and headed out to the first stop, a spot called Smoke Ring. It's a chic little BBQ spot at the north end of the district, all woods and rustic, but very open and bright. And bereft of any revelers. I was the first to arrive. Please note that at this point I was twenty minutes late. I contemplated the idea that if nobody showed up by the time we were scheduled to move onto the next spot, I would simply order dinner and go home.

A few minutes later people started showing up, in droves. What I thought might be ten people at best
quickly turned into a group of twenty to twenty five. Spanky popped up, as well as few Game Night originals, and some shots were quickly ordered. The original plan was to show up at the various spots, well, invade might have been a better term at this point, get a libation and move on forty five minutes later. Although late starting, the crawl proceeded right on schedule, pulling out in a long line of chilly participants at eight forty five sharp.

The next stop was a little burger+sushi spot called Bottle Rocket, a brisk two block stroll south. It's a perfect little neighborhood spot, if say, you're hanging out with a friend or want a quick jaunt out with the significant other. If you're in bar crawl, the previous use of the word "little" is very appropriate. After stepping in for a few minutes and getting a feel for the place, I decided that my time would be better spent on the sidewalk, meeting people not with our party. While a few of crawl members who had missed out on a drink at the first stop got a quick one, I met with members of the band who had just played and few other fun characters.

Because of the growing crowd, a newly met trio and I decided to ...er, scout ahead, yes, that's it, scout ahead at our next stop - The Pearl - to check things out. This is was probably the best spot on the route to eat, as a delicious aroma of seafood greeted us upon entering. We got some drinks, and then settled into the semi-private room in the back to wait for our comrades, who when they arrived a few minutes later now probably numbered closer to forty. We caroused, we met new revelers, we probably all told multiple lies.

Now, more closely bonded, my trio and I made our way south one door to the 255 Tapas Lounge, the spot where many years ago I figured out that there is no such thing as a quick jaunt out.  This another spot that was ready for us on arrival, opening a second bar in the back in preparation. Moments after my arrival, the bulk of us finally swarmed inside a large warm tent keeping the back patio habitable. 

Blu Cantina, formerly M Bar was the next locale, and it was conveniently located right next door.  Upon entering I realized that they'd only changed the name, and nothing else. It was and still is the about the size of a two bedroom apartment. And since it was already kind of full, our arrival only cranked things up to crazy. It was here Spanky found some guy...I have no idea of his name...some guy willing to buy shots to infinity. At one point I think he bought fifteen shots, one for everybody she pointed out of the crowd. This meant it was time for me to move away from the bar. Because the place was so small and our crowd now so large, the atmosphere suddenly seemed a bit more "rowdy" for some reason. This is the one spot I was happy to move on from.

Our last stop was next door at the Spinning Pie, a spot that looked for all intents and purposes like a scene from a old school rap video. All that were missing were bomber jackets and rope gold chains. Seriously, two dancers on the bar and camera and we would have all been on BET. Maybe it's just a Friday night thing, I don't know. Here though, I dialed it back and shared a pizza with some fellow revelers - old school FAMUans - to get my mind right. And because we it was the last stop, then, in the small space near the door, Spanky and her gang of friends made a dance floor appear. Ah, grand attempts at recaptured youth. I finally abandoned them to their grooving the night away probably around 1am or so, which is not to shabby for an old man.

I like stuff like this, new and different things, which involved exercise and camaraderie, with the nip with new friends and old serving as the carrot to entice us all. When I have more time in the Spring hopefully I'll be able to do this all again.

Barkeep, I'll need some hair dye and the address of a good barber. 

The Personal Festival

Ramblings Post #210
If you're gonna be a bear, then be a grizzly. That line is from some movie of my youth. I want to say Cannonball Run for some reason. Anyway, what it means is that if you're going to do something, then be the best you can be. Which isn't that much more difficult to say, now that I think about it, but lacks the folksy wisdom feel of the grizzly thing. All that said, I know a lot of grizzlies.

Girlfriends - The successful black woman's ideal

Most of my personal dealings are with a specific sub-set of black women - financially independent, childless, early 30's to mid 40's and out doing the damn thing. The number of women on my Facebook page whose daily updates include gym check-in's, marathon finishes, photos from trips abroad, career sucesses, stories of their charity work and etc., must surely be above average. And living this life means they don't have simple birthday parties - they have Birthday Festivals.

What is a Birthday Festival you ask? It's just like it sounds, a festival. They usually have four or five parts over three or four days. It usually involves multiple group activities, various locations, clubbing, and lots of drinking. One I remember had it's first night start with a "Wine and Paint Hangout", where we would all go to a group painting lesson (Learning how to paint say, a still life wine bottle) while sipping the aforementioned wine. Another I one I was invited to, but didn't attend, started with a Saturday morning 5k "fun" run for some charity before heading into the north Georgia mountains for white water rafting. These festivals sometimes include T-shirts, commemorative CDs and gift bags. This all comes to mind because I just finished Serve's Birthday Festival. 

The Festival of Serve started with a Friday night of Indian Food at Bombay Cafe and then smoking hookahs at Therapy Coffee Bar. Dinner at an Indian restaurant seems to both lack and have a certain something about it in group situations. I think due to the size of our party, the service was more personable - the belly dancer kept circling the table - but the it all lacked a certain intimacy. But that may have been because this was the first Indian spot I'd been to that wasn't half empty. Therapy Coffee Bar, on the other hand, was like finding a revelation in a closet, as the tiny spot had a live jazz trio and served a mean Old Fashion. I'm not too crazy about hookahs, but when in Rome...eh? the whole thing felt like a cool scene from a late 80's urban romance movie. Now, there was a final part of the evening that I did not attend, but from which I did get calls when people were headed home at 3am.

The festival resumed Saturday at Senor Patron, a Mexican grille in midtown. Well, that's when I rejoined, there may have been a day activity, but I had "thangs" to do. The Mexican food was supposed to be the start of a bar crawl, something I swore I had outgrown since I realized that I was way too old to be even drinking and walking any distance more than to the bathroom. I wasn't even going but Spanky begged me to come because she didn't want to be the only one to leave early and get talked about later.  However because this is a Fest- tee -vaal, the "surprise" group activity was a Midtown Scavenger Hunt. The women on my team were very competitive, but this was surprisingly fun, although I'm certain that various parts of this whole thing weren't fully thought through. Finding people to do the Mission Impossible theme, or one armed push ups, or even gathering napkins for bonus points wasn't that hard. In fact once we showed the list of items to strangers they were oddly eager to help out. No, it was the shots and drinks. At every location. By the time we were done (my team took second place), we'd "participated so throughly" it was no longer cold out.

The finale was Sunday at the Giants-Falcon game. And although me and Serve go back a decade, I wasn't about to kick out for a ticket to watch two teams I only care about in passing. There may have been something after that, but by then I was in the wind and trying to get my study vibe back on track.

I have a feeling in 2015, Serve's Festival will involve costumes.

I'm not sure what the deal with the Birthday Festival is. Maybe it's a need to get it all in while you can, as a lot of these single women are still planning on getting married and  becoming mothers at some point. Or maybe it's just a "why not go all out" attitude, that got and flaunt thang. Or an excuse to do something different with their friends while folks are in a good time mood. Or, and hope this isn't it, it'a an ego trip because they think that they're just that awesome and everybody should want to go all out to celebrate them. 

In any case I'm certain a Festival or three is around the corner. They do have their moments.

Barkeep. Water. Tall glass. It's holiday season, and all this drinking ain't even cool.

Gimme a Beat!

Ramblings Post #198
I don't go out anymore. I got out of the habit going to school at night, and now I've gotten comfortable sitting home at night watching TV and playing video games. You would at least think I would be reading or something productive, working on one of my projects. But no. Anyway, the truth is this house is kinda empty, and the city is teeming with life. So here we go. Again.

Atlanta, despite reports to the contrary, consists of more than Waffle Houses, strip malls, chicken joints, circular highways and gentleman's clubs. There is a bit of arty crowd here, with the High Museum, a symphony, a branch of the Savannah College of Art and Design and that eclectic little district known as Little Five Points. And once a year, the good folks at Jack Daniel's sponsor a show called Art, Beats and Lyrics. And no, I didn't go just for the free Jack Daniels.

They held it at The Compound this year, one of the ATL's hotter clubs, which has undergone a major renovation since the last time I graced their doors. Originally it was three installations with a open air garden in front, now the first buildings have been combined and they've added a lot more couches and polish to the whole thing. It was rather impressive. Like out of a music video impressive.

Art Beats and Lyrics is the kind of show I would have to had dragged Sporty too, but once she got there she would have been like 'cool'. I've been a few times, met a few artists - some of whom's art now adorns my walls - and had a very good time. It's a combination Art show, mini-concert and party. There are little attractions, like the light graffiti wall you can "paint on" and a visualizer of some kind I didn't want to get into to do something(?), and this interactive thing hooked up to an XBOX Kinect. Spaced throughout the venue are the art installations, some adorned with price tags (didn't see the artists this time though) from up and comers with proper art names like Kaz, Hebru Brantley, Doubleyoo, Dres13, and A Squid Called Sebastian.

Oh, and free Jack Daniels.

Here are a few shots from show. I like how it all wasn't one style, but an good mix.

In the end though, I got "Ritz crackered".

This is a reference to the old Eddie Murphy joke where he compares not having sex long period of time to not eating for a long period of time, to the point where if someone gave you cracker, that same cracker would be delicious, possibly the best tasting cracker ever. Maybe even a Ritz cracker.

Now, because I had not been going out as of late...to pretty much anywhere except a friends house or two...I forgotten something very important about this city. I believe author Dan Jenkins put it best, in saying "That if in Atlanta on a Friday night you can't meet a woman you'd leave your wife for, then you didn't leave the house." What that boils down to is that there are some very attractive women in Atlanta. But in my many years of going out, I had developed a more refined taste. I needed more than just a cute face, I needed personality, intelligence, a sense of purpose, etc. A whole woman (.i.e., Sporty). But at ABL, it was like I hadn't eaten in months.  And then someone put a whole sleeve of Ritz crackers in front of me. Have I been out of the game that long?

In the end, good night out. True, I was home by 10:30pm...on a Friday...in Atlanta. But baby steps man, baby steps!

Side note: The show goes through DC on November 16th.

So was a good night out. I realized I'm little too old to be doing this regular. I got other priorities , other things I need to focus on. Shole was fun though. Maybe I'll just dabble a bit.

Barkeep. Yes, I will be have the Jack and coke. No, not in the cool pre-mixed bottles, but in a glass. Age has it's privileges.

Not Drinking...The Rules.

I've been reading back through my own posts...smelling my own shit as it were... and I realize now that a blog about life stories, witty bon mots, philosophy and drinking where the author is temporarily (and it's only temporary for real) not drinking has turned this into a series in which I am apparently wallowing in perceived personal failure. Oh woe is me, boo hoo hoo. One might ask as I lay my cards out on the table, why not just speak to her. But there is no need for two to be miserable...or in an even a worse possibility, at the end of that talk there still only be one of us not feeling good. That would be very bad.

I would say I need a drink to clear my head, but in reality I need to drink to blur my vision. I am amazingly self aware and self conscious.

I used to drink a lot. A whole whole lot.

One morning drinking in the shower I realized that I might have an issue. Okay, this story starts when I was still in college, where pizza is a breakfast food and prices a usually quoted in six pack denominations of your favorite inebriant, but I recognized that maybe waking up and having a drink might indicate a growing dependency. Or that I needed to keep juice in the mini-fridge. Either way, I decided what I needed were some rules. Fairly basic rules.

The first rule was "No drinking before noon."

This was easily doable, or so I thought. It wasn't too long before I was on vacation...okay, I was still in college, we were on a "road trip", which to the uninitiated is like a vacation but costs way way way less, sometimes as little as $25 round trip if you can find a dollar menu and drink whatever is offered...but anyway, I was on "vacation" and realized that since I wasn't doing anything why not have a drink. Well it was only 10am...er 9:30ish, so I had a problem.

So the first rule was amended to read "No drinking before noon, unless you're on vacation."

Which worked out pretty smooth. Until I attended one of those "All University Study Sessions", er, bring your own cup, which allow students of diverse backgrounds, majors and relative flexible morality to associate in the time honored tradition of educational institutions everywhere. Sometimes we'd break off and "study" in a more private setting with other like minded students, or wander out and end up "studying" with like minded coeds if we were lucky.

So final adjustment read "No drinking before noon, unless you're on vacation OR it is a continuation of the night before."

Now, as your average college male with roommates, drinking implements were kept at the apartment at all times, and thus after a grueling three or four hour day of classes and hanging out talking about classes, it had become habit to wander into my abode and help myself to a nice cold one. My apartment was also reminiscent of Grand Central Station, three people paid rent, only god knew how many slept there. But still I would occasionally find the spot empty and still get that beer. Which felt creepy. And by the time the inevitable other people showed up and you were already tipsy...and by yourself...it looked even worse.

So the second rule became "No drinking alone."

In my humble opinion, I now view drinking alone for guy as kinda pathetic. For a woman it's okay, don't ask me why it just is. A young lady at home sipping on Cosmos or Martini's watching Sex and the City or chatting on the phone with a girlfriend seems saucy and sexy. A man drinking by himself at home indicates he had no friends and may have a drinkie drink problem. Maybe one drink is okay if you've had a hard day at work, but if that's the case James Bond and Jason Bourne better be your office buddies, cause your day better have pretty damned hard. Saving the world, blowing up shit kinda hard. Or raising a kid, same thing. It's a gender thing. And yes, in a pinch, the bartender counts.

That settled I thought about it and I realized that drinking has never been the way to solve a problem. Any problem. Unless the problem was that you were sober, in which case drinking would in fact be the only fix...and this has happened a number of times so I'm not crazy, but in the grand scheme of things, the reality is drinking doesn't fix anything. Except the aforementioned being sober. It especially does not help feeling sad, which is when you're mostly likely in want of drink. And if you've ever been a sad drunk...well...I'm a fairly talkative, er, ...inbrientee and ones I do remember...ouch.

And so the third rule is "No drinking when depressed."

If you thought you were unhappy before, trust me there is a whole lot you've repressed that you can be much more sad about after five or ten drinks. And with luck everybody else will be too drunk to remember any of this, but that's now how it works. Somebody will remember. There will will pictures. Your peoples will never let you live it down. Now I've found that I'm a horrible sad drunk. And as a sad drunk is sad sad person indeed, well, you kinda see where this is going. So that's like a double rule with cheese.

The fourth rule is "Drink because you WANT to drink, not because of peer pressure."

Why is it the day you're not drinking, everybody is buying? Or that's the one day they pouring top shelf at half price because the manager is feeling good for the first time in 15 years? Or your friends are drinking so you figure how much harm can one do? Looking back I didn't want to drink anyway and it sure would have been cool if the officer had at least one sober person to reassure him that we weren't all gonna die of alcohol poisoning. Why drink on a Tuesday when you know you've got that big meeting on Wednesday at eight am? Trust me, not a good idea. I wouldn't do it. Again.

I came up one last rule, primarily because more than five is hard to remember - which makes you wonder which of the Ten commandments you're breaking now, don't it?

The last rule is "if you don't know what's in it, don't drink it."

This is much more an operational rule than the others, most of which come into play as you're considering that first drink and not four or five drinks in. It's a handy rule to have, and probably would have saved me and Chuck that night we accidentally drank that rubbing alcohol...which doesn't burn as much going down as one would think - this being after we had already pre-burned them earlier that evening. This rule is one you should pass on to Bungee Drinkers...those folks who want to "try" that new drink at the club. I do all my drink experimenting at home, so I can tell the barkeep what to put in the glass. In the bar is not the place to discover that tequila thinks you're great dancer, or that gin thinks you're a great comedian. Trust me, gin is lying.

So those are the rules. I've lived by them since 310 Westwood (a way way inside joke) and with luck someone else can use them. And if I'm really lucky...this chapter of my life will be a scant few pages that get stuck together when I read back through years from now.

Barkeep...Grape Koolaid please.

Bye Buckhead

July 2007 ends an era, as the last of the Atlanta bars in that adult playground that had become part of the city's identity closes it doors and the "Developers" take over. The city's former sin district - Buckhead Village - is no more. By September the razing of the empty buildings will begin and at the end of 2008, the homogonized and professionally bland will have completed sucking part of the soul out of our fair city.

When I first moved to Atlanta in 1998, I moved to Buckhead. It was vibrant and full of life, Friday nights the streets packed with people roughly my own age drinking and flirting and wandering the streets. True, few of them looked like me as I was black and they were other, but found place after place that let me wander in and spend my money freely. Drinks at the World Bar were $2. All of 'em. On Sunday night's Otto's looked like something out of music video. The Havana Club had a live Latin Band that jazzed up the place. The Backroom at CJ's Landing. The place simply known as Bar. Goldfinger's with the continous Bond films on loop in the basement. The rooftop decks and back alley stages and that little guy in the cart that sold $3 hambugers and $2 sodas at 3am and made a killing.

I had regular forays on Fridays at the now razed to the ground club Liquid Assets, a club that on a given Friday night would 1) let you in free 2) give away free drinks until 10pm and 3) serve a free breakfast buffet at midnight. Many an evening found me a friends with 20 or more to be drunk drinks on the table easing through another warm Georgia night. When I was "between postions" me and similar situationed friend spent many an afternoon after interviews in the Buck ensconsed in a little wine bar before we wandered down to Fellini's to finish off.

At it's height, the Village had over 100 businesses with liquor licences in less than a 4 block radius. I think I went into all of them.

Then things went downhill. The popular consensus was that the infamous incident involving Ray Lewis' friends started the downfall, but it began before that. And as much as I hate to admit it, we finally finished it off. And when I say we, I mean we as in the black people. At least the young black people.

Now we didn't start the problem, the area had always had issues - DUI, rape, assault. It was nothing to see five or six folks hauled off everynight. But one of the cool things about Buckhead in the late 90's was that everybody there, could get into everyplace there. However when "we" showed up, you would have thought the party was in the street. Underage patrons abounded and as far back as 2004 I stopped hanging in the Buck simply because of this. I still hit Mike & Angelos from time to time, but the Friday nights were a no-no.

Older brothers had been hanging out in Buckhead off and on for years. But the younger, wilder crowds eventually followed seemed to believe that sitting on the corner was preferable to actually going in anywhere. Provided they could get in. And their reluctance to leave an area once they realized they couldn't get in scared off patrons who might actually spend money. And so the clubs went away.

I hate to say it, but it's the truth. The change of club hours by the city in a blatantly obvious ploy to build up their own dying venue - the underground - was merely the final straw.

You can blame a certain degree of racism, but that's simply the world we live in. This not to say that all black people or gatherings do this, but once the standard is lowered, the downfall is inevitable. Even among black events. Freaknik. First Friday. We as a social group have a tendency to crowd and then overstay our welcome. And though the places we patronize respect our dollar - which is just as green as the next man - they're in it for the long haul, and we are a fickle bunch. See Shout, Twist, Dave and Busters, and so on. We come, party hard and disappear after having run off their other customers, and wonder why we get strange looks.

So bye Buckhead. Sorry about that. But we still have Midtown. For now. At least until Trump gets here.

Barkeep...gimme and old gin and tonic. For an old friend.