Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Atlanta events’

Dear Union EAV:

Thank you for being the bright spot in an otherwise dim evening. Mistakes were made.

Mistake No. 1.
Going out on a school night. My friend Kalen and I thought the Star Bar would be hopping with people grooving to DJ MP3PO and Quasi Mandisco. Yeah, not so much.

Mistake No. 2
Thinking 529 or The Earl might be more lively. They were as dead as some of my favorite GoT characters.

Seen in the Star Bar ladies room

Mistake No. 3
Investigating Mary’s. It was voted Best Karaoke in Creative Loafing but I’m not sure why. We walked in the door then right back out.

But you, Union EAV, lured us in and salvaged the night. I never would have chosen a rap open-mic night, but there we were, packed in a 20-by-20-foot room with about 30 30-something black men. I’ve never felt so white. But also I felt welcomed, as we all were there to see young artists perform.

The first rapper we saw was this guy:

It was like “Showtime at the Apollo.” He introduced himself in a thick Eastern European accent. The crowd was prepared to boo this dude. But then he began rapping and earned respect.

Me: Where did he say he was from? Belarus?
Kalen: Bosnia!

This woman was one of the best of the night: a true master of the form:

Everyone was clearly having a good time. It could have been the performers. Or it could have been the result of something that formed a cloud with a distinctive odor. Or it could have been the effect of what we suspect was in the container guarded by the Punisher.

Didn’t matter. Still chill. Great fun. Like “8 Mile” without the conflict.

Then the Lyft driver for my ride home turns out to be a Peruvian opera singer.

I always have the best time when I say, “Yes, and …

So thanks, and maybe I’ll see you again.

Sincerely,
Beth

Read Full Post »

Ladies and gentlemen, I present “How I spent my first St. Patrick’s Day back in Atlanta.”

7:46 a.m. Wake up to the doorbell. Apparently, it is playtime in the neighborhood. The hooligans I live with head outside to terrorize each other and assorted friends.

11:30 a.m. Finish watching the last episode of the last season of “Game of Thrones.” I’m excited, aroused, worried, repulsed, mad, sad — all in equal measure. I need to talk to someone about it. I’m so far behind in finally seeing it, though, no one wants to talk to me.

2:10 p.m. Nap while watching recorded episodes of “The Voice.”

5:30 p.m. Make the soup that we like for dinner. Compliments all around. Pregame. Realize it is too early to pregame.

7:10 p.m. Take Nap Two. (I’m elderly. Leave me alone.)

8:50 p.m. Dominic notices that I’ve put myself together. The following conversation ensues.

Dominic: “Are you going out tonight?”
Me: “Yes. Rene and I are going to some thing called ‘Psycho Disco.'”
Dominic: “Well, don’t get murdered by a psycho. If someone comes up to you, turn your usual reporter mode off and run.”

8:51 p.m. Document the conversation on Facebook (because if it is not documented, did it even happen?).

8:55 p.m. Tell René I’m on my way. He tells me I’m early; he is not ready. I tell him I’ll cool my jets. Men.

9:02 p.m. Amuse myself by reading responses to the FB post.

9:15 p.m. Call for Lyft. Help Tarrant find me as I am on the side of the road (getting into apartment complex is a pain). Fetch René.

9:44 p.m. Arrive at The Music Room. It’s not open yet, but the barbecue place next door is. 9:49 p.m. Celebrate St. Patrick’s Day like I always do: by drinking an Irish Car Bomb. It’s tradition. Usually, this tradition involves The Royce, but he is in Savannah with Mike Pence and Mother (barf), so I had to carry on without him.

10:22 p.m. Go next door (now open) and meet René’s friend, DJ Tracy Levine. She is tiny, impeccably dressed and energetic. She also plays amazing house music for the seven people in the bar. It’s still early.

10:30-11:45 p.m. Listen to DJ Tracy upstairs. Go downstairs where there are more people to watch, but then have to endure a DJ that is not as gifted. Go back upstairs to dance. Go back downstairs to watch. Lather, rinse, repeat.

11:54 p.m. I’ve lost René.

12:30 a.m. Take Uber to Atlanta Eagle. I am the only one of my kind there. Also, it’s leather night. So.

1:11 a.m. Wait for Uber outside because now we are going to Blake’s. A woman rushes up to me: “Hi! So good to see you!” I don’t know her, but I see a guy right behind her. I quietly ask her if she is OK, or if she is trying to get away from this guy. Girl code. Then I see another woman with them. I ask her if everything is OK. She says, “Oh yeah, they’re together. She’s just drunk and friendly.” Aha. Then our Uber chariot appears.

She’s adorable, right? And extra.

1:24 a.m. “Do not pinch me. I’m wearing green,” I say to the fellow who has just tried to pinch me. I show him my shamrock. (My necklace. Come on!)

1:35 a.m. Blake’s is THE place to be, apparently. Let the mingling, chatting, dancing and whatnot commence! No, I do not want another beer. I’m good. Thank you very much.

2:21 a.m. Surprise stop at Waffle House on the way home. Scattered, covered, diced and capped, please.


3:11 a.m. Shower and go to bed. I’m too tired to take the towel off my hair.

8:53 a.m. Not taking the towel off last night was a mistake. My hair looks like a fright wig.

9:13 a.m. Text my friend Brian to tell him I went to the two gay bars he’s been telling me about. Without him.

9:30 a.m. Brian decides I’m going with him to see “Love, Simon” this afternoon. But that’s hours away.

Next weekend, René and I are supposed to go to the Northwest Georgia Bantam Club Winter Classic —  a poultry show. No, I’m not kidding. I can’t wait!

Stay tuned,
Beth

Read Full Post »

Dear Tommy Stinson,

You now have the distinction of being the star of two of the weirdest nights of my life.

One was back in The Replacements days in the ’90s. You and I shared a moment, but that’s a story for another day.

The second was Saturday night at the Atlanta show of your Cowboys in the Campfire tour.

My usual partner in crime was indisposed, so I drug my long-suffering husband out to the luckily very early (7 p.m.) event.

I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this:

There’s a reason I don’t like Bob Dylan. WTF are you singing, Tommy? You were a bass prodigy. Besides The Replacements, you were the bassist for Guns N’ Roses and Soul Asylum. What are you doing? I do appreciate wanting to try something different (I’m president of that club), but …

Sigh.

When the merch selling began, I knew what I wouldn’t be buying. (I’m so sorry; it’s just not for me.)

You know what I did buy? Your Co-Cowboy Chip’s spice blend.

That’s right.

I went to a concert and bought Uncle Sippy’s Seasoning Blend. And because this wasn’t strange enough, I decided to get it signed too.

Apparently, Chip used to be a chef.

Here is Chef Chip telling me that this is NOT a rub, and I should not use it as a rub.

While you were signing my souvenir, one of your people said I should let you take a selfie of us.

“He takes the best selfies,” the guy said.
“OK. Sure,” I said.

So you took a selfie. This is the result:

It certainly was not what I anticipated. But you were so nice to amuse a long-time fan.

Anyway, thanks for an odd night. We are two for two.

And Eddie and I were home by 9:30.

See you in another 25 years or so.

I’ll expect the unexpected.
Beth

P.S. Tell Chip the seasoning blend is delicious!

Read Full Post »

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Let me share mine through music.

FRIDAY

Out Tonight
From “Rent
René and his partner Cris accompanied me for more recon for my PR project. I actually changed out of work clothes this time to go out. That’s commitment.

All Night Long
Buckcherry
There were three bands scheduled for this venue: The Sagas, Dank (formerly Dank Sinatra) and Casual Cadenza. We had an interesting conversation on the Lyft ride over about the word “credenza,” which would have been a better band name. The ride to the bar also featured this quote from Cris about my college drink of choice:

There’s nothing good at the bottom of a bottle of Boone’s Farm.

So true. Did you know they still make it? (Did you get a case of the clap from just thinking about those days? Just kidding. It was herpes. KIDDING. Maybe.)

The Sagas

The Sagas: The best band of the night. I’m bummed I didn’t take the photo before the singer took off his gold tablecloth.

Deadbeat Club
The B-52’s
I really didn’t understand the audience for many reasons. They paid to see these bands, yet they stood like recently reanimated corpses, dressed like they were going to a casting call for L.L. Bean catalog work. The men outnumbered the women at least 10-1. And all of these guys seemed like they were one drink away from switching sides.

A Toe Needs a Shoe
The Replacements
Apparently, Dank was the main attraction. I couldn’t see why, but all the stiff white people were THRILLED that this band had gotten back together after a reported six-year hiatus. In that time, they clearly did not give much thought to their stage wear for the big reunion. Or maybe they did. (That’s worse.)

IMG_1022

What is going on here? This is a true wardrobe malfunction.

Mean
Taylor Swift
When I read “Southern rock sound” in the Casual Cadenza bio, I thought I would like them. I did not. They sounded like a bad lounge band. Like I could smell Nick WintersBrut by Faberge. René should be happy he had to leave early because he had an early-morning flight.

Little T & A
The Rolling Stones
At some point in the evening, I got the booking manager’s email on a napkin (for the aforementioned PR project). I stuffed it in my bra for safekeeping. Somehow, it went missing. (I don’t know how; I promise the only hands in my bra were my own.) I got the email rewritten on a piece of register tape. It also went missing for a bit. It turned up the next morning. When I relayed this story to my “client,” my friend Simon, he called it “the Narnia Bra.” That’s bloody brilliant!

Seen in the ladies room. Nicky will what?

Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow)
The Monkees
For the second time in a month, I was still in the bar when they turned the house lights on. No one looks good when the house lights come on. No one. Cris and I scuttled away like roaches.

SATURDAY

Morning has broken
Cat Stevens
Sweet mother of God, that came quickly. Got to get up, because …

Take Me Out to the Ball Game
Jack Norworth
My youngest son is into baseball. I’m not into baseball. Yet there I was at his AAA game. Early morning. So early. Bundled up, sipping coffee, hiding behind sunglasses, and waiting for the Tylenol and English muffin to kick in. The game was a nail-biter. His team was up 6-1 going into the fifth inning of six. Then the wheels came off the cart. They went into the sixth down 7-9. My son managed to score the eighth run, but then the tying run was called out at home plate. The kid looked safe to me, but what do I know?

Gideon gets ready to score.

During the game, though, the coach used that classic line from “A League of Their Own” with a couple of the kids:

Lay off the high ones!

Pumped Up Kicks
Foster the People
My sons went to a paintball party for a neighbor friend. I dropped them off then dropped my top (of my convertible — come on!). Loud singing commenced.

I love my home town.

Don’t Leave Me This Way
The Communards version
When I got home, I resumed binge-watching “Game of Thrones” with Eddie, who had just gotten home from work. I know I’m late to this party; I’m only up to season five. I said to Eddie:

I really like Davos. I guess I’d better not get too attached to him.

I’m still attached to Jon Snow. I know, I know.

Chicken Fried
Zac Brown Band
I’ve lived in the South almost my whole life. I cook all the time, yet I’ve never made chicken and dumplings. Until now. Damn it was good.

Temptation Waits
Garbage
On Friday night, the bartender’s friend told Cris and me about another live-music venue we needed to try. Cris is only in town for a few days, so we decided to check it out. We agreed to go easy; our “check liver” lights were still on. The bar looks super shady from the outside, real dive-y on the inside, but we knew immediately it would be fun.

I love this photobomber.

Don’t Stand So Close to Me
The Police
Cris and I carved out a great space for ourselves off the dance floor, protected by a long table and a load-bearing column. We could dance in peace and still watch the excellent band — the Wasted Potential Brass Band — and people in the bar. So many interesting humans. It reminded me of the George Clinton concert: a medley of shapes, ages, colors, proclivities. We heard an older man say to a younger woman, “Can I pay you?” We watched a lady pull a whole wad of money out of her own Narnia Bra. We observed one fellow creep on every single female in the place. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my waist. Guess who!

Him: You have a way of galvanizing the troops.
Me: What?
Him: You are fantastic.
Me: Um … thank you.
Him: Do you want to dance?
Me: No, thank you.

And I slid closer to Cris.

Props to Creeper for creativity in opening lines, though. Here he is with his final score and her poncho.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said to him. Yes, SHE said that to HIM. And he had just grabbed her by the hair, all caveman style!

Closing Time
Semisonic
After the band’s second set, the atmosphere changed. It happened quickly. Suddenly, patrons were sloppy and desperate. Cris and I had enough. So had these guys, clearly:

Go home, fellas.

SUNDAY

Sunday Morning
No Doubt
Oof. That is all.

The Luck You Got
The High Strung
Brunch with Brian and Cindy, two friends from high school. There’s such joy in being with people who have known you since you were a wee lass and still like you (I think).

Back in Black
AC/DC
“Black Panther” lives up to the hype. Top-notch acting, strong women, great costumes and storyline. Go see it. Drop everything.

Atomic Dog
George Clinton
Gideon and his friend Miles started a dog-walking business in the neighborhood. My older son, well … unless you can get paid for playing “Fortnite,” he’s not going to be flush any time soon.

K-9 Kids Dog Walking, $5 per dog

Celebrity Skin
Hole
Oscar party at the home of the president of my university. I’m so fancy (Iggy Azalea) that I wore a fake fur scarf I picked up at a Leek thrift shop for £2. I had a great time catching up with a friend from college (even though we got shushed by a woman who didn’t realize she was in the fun room). The host kept score from our ballots on huge pieces of paper he taped to his French doors. (Have I mentioned how much I like my job?)

Can’t wait to see what next weekend has in store. Anyone up for a mission with me? Eddie just rolls his eyes as I revert to my 20s.

Don’t “Call Me” (Blondie) because I hate to talk on the phone (Right, Trish?). Text, tweet, FB message me or comment here if you want to “Stand and Deliver” (Adam and the Ants).

See you next weekend!
Beth

Read Full Post »

Can you hear me now? Oh yes.

Dear George Clinton,

Thank you for a great show Sunday night at the Buckhead Theatre. While I was giving up the funk, some questions came up:

  1. Where does one find the sparkly mother-of-the-bride tunic you were wearing?
  2. Is this tunic available at the same place where this accountant-by-day found these pants?
  3. Does your concert rider specifically request a swivel desk chair for your onstage breaks? (Note that I do not begrudge you your breaks. I know you are 76. I’m just asking about the chair. I think you need something more befitting a legend such as yourself, Dr. Funkenstein. A throne, maybe.)
  4. Why do you need 55 people on stage? Only 16 were singing or playing an instrument. The others were taking selfies and videos.
  5. How many songs did you actually play? I know that you started around 9 and by 9:25 you had only played two. I do love that you give the audience their money’s worth. And I can’t say that I wasn’t warned.
  6. Why was Santa in this South Town audience? Don’t you perform any farther north (or any closer to Christmas)? Shine the spotlight on him to help him find the funk. (Or am I missing something?)
  7. Why can’t music be the conduit to end racism and other social ills? Your audience was made up of black, white, old, young, straight, gay, North Pole residents, Atlanta residents  — all smooshed butt to back. We were having a party, y’all.

Still feeling supergroovalistic, thanks!
Beth

Read Full Post »

Dear Patrons of the Bar I Visited Friday Night:

You are the reason I don’t go out much (though there are other reasons too). I needed to do reconnaissance for a PR project, so I willed myself to exit my home, collect my friend René, and head to Metalsome Karaoke: karaoke backed by a live band.

René and I get ready to rock.

 

This was our view during the karaoke extravaganza.

The night started out great, but quickly went downhill. Why?

The Drunk Girl
I’m sorry (not sorry) I had to hip check you. René nicely asked you to stop flinging yourself against me. You would not stop. And then you took the stage, and we saw that you were way past the point of reason.

The Bouncer
This guy took himself very seriously. It was like he was guarding U2. “Come on, dude,” I thought. That is, until the above tried to rape the guitarist onstage. And then I understood why the bouncer was on high alert.

The Predator
The girl in front of you clearly wanted to watch the band and “singers.” She did not want you humping her. I promise.

After a badly botched rendition of “Bitch,” by a friend of Drunk Girl, René and I decided to leave the comfort of our Stage Left perch and explore the rest of the bar.

That was a mistake.

We waded through the beer soup on the ground floor up the stairs to find two more floors of sweaty bodies. All the guys were short, aging, puffy frat boys. Exhibit A:

Yet the women were Size Zero model wannabes. Exhibit B:

The men outnumbered the women three to one. And there were so many people! There had to have been fire code violations.

Me trying to get out of the bar

When we finally made it through the press of bodies and landed outside on the sidewalk, I apologized to René. He looked over his glasses at me and said:

And that’s why I don’t go to straight bars.

Got it.

Still drying out my shoes,
Beth

* Reference for title

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts