I basically keep this blog to amuse myself and you. As always, I give you permission to laugh at my expense. I hope this post makes you laugh as much as I did when it all happened.
Side note: I always go early enough to see the openers. Local H is great; I highly recommend.
Anyway, after their set, Center Stage turned up the lights. Not such a great move. Lots of middle-aged folks out on a school night. (Many drinking shots, but that’s another story.)
I asked Eddie if we looked as old and used-up as so many of the people around us.
He looked horrified and practically yelled, “No!”
So I tried to take a photo of us to make sure.
So I tried again.
So clearly, Eddie is wrong, and I fit in well with the crowd.
I either take decent photos or really bad ones. This night was the night of the living dead, photo-wise. Apparently. No good would come of my attempts.
Y’all know I have no shame.
So I leaned into it.
Hard.
Does this angle make my lip look big?
Beth = Ghostface from “Scream”
Maybe if I find my light …
I started laughing.
And you know me: Once I start, I can’t stop.
I started doing that wheeze laugh I do. I laughed so hard I started crying.
I laugh-cried off all my (nickel-free) eye makeup. The people next to us moved. For real.
Once Soul Asylum started playing, I shuffled my dried-up husk of a body to the front.
Dave Pirner has some miles on him too, but he brought his A game.
Not as much energy as the gondolier guitarist, though.
One good thing about a show with lots of old people around: You can get close to the stage without worrying about compromising personal space. Or finding yourself in a mosh pit.
Soul Asylum played their new stuff plus all the hits. Of course. Including that song EVERYBODY knows.
It was a good show with good photos of everyone but me, apparently.
Thanks for hanging out with me at the AEW event Wednesday night. I know it won’t be long before the last thing you want to do is hang out with your mom.
To be honest, though, not many of the moms we know would want to watch professional wrestling. Er, RASSLIN’ (as it is known in the South).
(You know, if I knocked out some of my teeth, this and the taxidermy would give me the redneck trifecta. You would never know I had a doctoral degree. Yes, I know I’m stereotyping.)
But you and I have watched AEW since it started last year. We HAD to see it live.
Luckily, we like the same characters.
Jungle Boy (i.e., Luke Perry’s kid), Luchasaurus and Marko Stunt (Jurassic Express)? Yes.
Sammy Guevara, who always has his tongue out? Hell no.
Our seats were decent, and we got to sit in a group of folks who were ALL IN for Moxley and Hangman Page, whose beer-grabbing is killing us (in a good way).
When they chanted, “This is AWESOME,” we did too.
When they chanted “Asshole” as Wardlow appeared for the cage match against Cody Rhodes (oh the cage match), we didn’t. You’re 13.
When one dude behind us shouted to Rhodes getting his butt whooped in the cage match,” Do less of that!,” we laughed.
We both marveled at Rhodes’ epic finish.
It was a great night watching men in panties fight each other.
I’m so glad we spent it together.
I’ll meet you on the couch for AEW Wednesday night, unless you have baseball practice.
Love,
Mama
At the Marta station, we spotted the lucky fan who scored the shirt Cody Rhodes ripped off his body.
Warning: This post contains graphic images of a dead animal.
Dear Eddie, Dominic and Gideon,
Thank you so much for giving me the best Christmas gift ever: a taxidermy class at Rainy Day Revival down the street. It is the gift that keeps on giving, as I learned two things:
I really like practicing the art of taxidermy and not just admiring it.
It appears I’m good at it.
You know I’ve been trying to take a taxidermy class for years — since before we moved to Atlanta. The ones at Graveface kept getting cancelled as they didn’t fill up.
Not so with the RDR one: It sold out quickly.
Revell, the man in charge of my hair, and I have similar interests. His boyfriend bought him a seat in the class for Christmas too!
We practically rushed into the room as soon as it opened. Revell chose a fluffy black bunny, so I picked the one across for convenience.
The instructor, Nina, had us start with painting or staining our plaques. Then we had to massage our still-partially frozen yet “ethically sourced” rabbit. (No, I don’t know what that means. Various websites say various things. I didn’t ask. Ignorance is bliss.)
Here’s my rabbit, Roger (of course), lying in state — massaged and thawed.
Next we had to turn our rabbits inside out to remove the skull.
You would think this would be gross, but all the Borax we put on them helped dry things out. Plus, you know I watch plenty of medical and forensic reality shows.
Nina came by to check on progress and gave me props for not popping the eyes and keeping my lids intact.
See! I’m a natural!
Nina then announced this, which is something I never thought I’d hear:
Once you take your face off, stop: We’re going to take a break.
So we took a break.
Revell and I had fun with our gross puppets.
After the break, we made a new skull out of the kind of foam stuff that goes in the bottom of funeral arrangements. Apropos, no?
Roger starts to look more like himself again.
But see how his nose is a little mushed in? I got the bright idea to plump it up with some clay. Nina’s mom, who helps with the classes, was skeptical. Then she saw the end result.
Oh! You were totally right! That looks much better.
I’m an artist, I tell you.
Once we were done, we lingered in the shop waiting for Nina to mount them on our plaques. (Power tools + expertise = much quicker to get through all 30)
I had plenty of time to admire the wares — and dream of bigger projects.
Finally, Roger and I were reunited.
It will be two weeks until he “cures” completely and his bandages come off.
And you three will be forced to look at enjoy him in a place of pride at home.
So thank you for this gift. I had a great time, and I’m proud of myself.
One of the best things about my job is meeting new people and finding cool opportunities for students. As a result, I’m getting to know my hometown of Atlanta and its residents even better.
There is a big difference in terminology in the higher education world versus the professional world. I go back and forth between the two, so I hear plenty of jargon in both.
I went to a presentation about Atlanta’s workforce last week. Plenty of discussion of past, present and future.
While it was interesting and productive in general, I heard a ridiculous amount of lingo.
Here’s a taste:
“We have to incent someone to learn new skills.” Please. No. Can we just provide an incentive? Or encourage someone?
“I talked to someone offline.” Good LORD. Can you just talk to someone? Let’s leave “offline” for tech.
“We wanted to internship these students.” Internship is a noun, not a verb.
“Pre-skilling,” “re-skilling,” “up-skilling” and “out-skilling.” Oh. My. God. Can we just say “training” instead?
“Workstream.” I’m OK with “workforce” (barely) but not “workstream.”
“Internal ecosystem.” Really? This is unnecessarily complex. Company culture is slightly better.
In fact, one of my dissertation advisors yelled at me for not “elevating my language” like standard scholarly journal writing. I replied that the “elevated language” is why most people don’t like to read these journals. Especially professionals in the industry of interest.
Black Flag performs in Hell at the Masquerade in Atlanta.
Dear Show-goers,
Auntie Beth is here to make sure you have a good time at a punk concert. Your favorite aunt went to see Black Flag this week, and noticed that some of you need some guidelines.
Lest you think Auntie Beth doesn’t know what she’s talking about, be assured AB is an OG.
Here are some rules to follow to ensure a good time for all:
DO wear comfortable clothes, including shoes that can withstand stomping — yours and others. Auntie Beth was practically in her pajamas, but wore steel-toed boots.
DO dress for the crowd. Concert Ts from the band you are seeing and similar are fine. Auntie Beth saw bands such as The Cramps, Suicidal Tendencies and the Misfits proudly represented.
DO prepare for loud music and contact with other humans.
DO NOT go to the front if you don’t want to slamdance or be slamdanced on. Auntie Beth took her old ass straight to the balcony.
In this crowd is no place to be if you don’t want to be jostled and shoved.
Look how angry this girl is! She should have joined Auntie Beth in the balcony.
DO NOT throw punches. Look, the mosh pit is a place for folks to get out some aggression by flinging themselves at others. No need to get upset or start a fight. If you don’t like it, don’t go near it.
If you aren’t ready to crowd surf, DO participate by standing on the outer edge and pushing the “dancers” back in when they are flung out.
DO pick up your fallen comrades. It’s just the nice thing to do, plus you won’t trip over them.
DO take your children (and proper ear protection) to see bands that are important to you. Auntie Beth’s boys saw The Police when they were still in Pampers.
Some of you may disagree with Auntie Beth that it’s OK to bring kids to a concert. Of course it depends on the children and the concert, but Auntie Beth is a fan in general.
DO appreciate bands that start and end earlyish on a school night. Auntie Beth was home by 11. (That’s still past her bedtime, though. Look. Listen. She’s elderly and needs her beauty rest.)
DO support live music. It’s good for the bands, the venue, the economy, the arts and your soul. Think of it as community service!
I’m so excited that my badgering has paid off. Here’s another guest post. The Royce had a birthday last week, and it prompted some reflection.
I’ll be back next week with a story about the eldest. Parents with teenagers will relate.
Love,
Beth
This is The Royce in his natural habitat.
Aging vs. Old: A Rant
Guest post by The Royce
So, yesterday was my birthday. And that’s good because, hey, another trip around the sun, right? But somewhere along the way — in the last, oh say, few years or so (I don’t know whatever) — it occurred to me that, while I am not old (yet), I am, in fact, aging. Maybe I’m finally “of a certain age” — whatever the hell that entails — because, while I’m definitely still an easygoing person, little things are starting to grind my gears just a bit.
Like those damn neighborhood kids walking in my yard! LOLJK. (Note from Beth: I don’t think he is, in fact, JK.)
Though it’s commonly *cough* invariably *cough* attached to middle age and miracle creams, signs of aging actually applies to things other than crow’s feet and smile lines.
I’m talking about the less-obvious, non-physical signs of aging. Because like it or not, every day of every year, you’re aging. You just don’t notice it.
Until you do.
And then you notice it again. And again. It’s a lot like buying a new car that you thought was unique and rare until you drive off the lot and there’s three of the same vehicle waiting at the first intersection you get to.
On Jan. 13, 1974, the Super Bowl was on my seventh birthday, and I got to watch my favorite team, the Miami Dolphins, become two-time world champions against the Minnesota Vikings. Not a bad day for a kid.
In 2020, the game is three weeks later, two hours longer, and the pre-game show lasts half a day. WTH?
When did that happen?
You see, that’s not old. That’s aging.
Recently I went out with my lovely wife to meet some friends visiting from out of town. We arrived a few minutes early and looked over the drink menu while we waited.
I’m sorry, but WTF?! How did a cocktail get to be $14 in this town? (Note from Beth: They live in Savannah.) Did I teleport to Manhattan when I walked
through the door to this place?
Again: Not old. Aging.
You know why people don’t go out as much when they get a little older? It’s less about being tired and more because we don’t want to get bent over paying those ridiculous prices every time we feel like having a nice meal somewhere. Hey, how about we go out for dinner and have a couple glasses of WELL SHIT THERE GOES A HUNDRED BUCKS.
No, it’s not denial. Old will, with some luck, arrive eventually.
But for now … nah, not old. Merely aging, just like I have every day of my life. And considering the alternative, I’m fine with that.
Seriously, though. Would it kill the little cretins to stay off my lawn?
Dear Friends Who Were Shocked I Didn’t Call Someone Out on Chauvinist Crap,
Y’all (rightfully) pointed out that it was not like me to stay quiet when someone says something backwards or dumb. I defended myself in this instance saying that the fellow in question was about 90 and deaf, and I’m a new member of the organization.
Still.
At the very least, I should have just made a joke about it right then and there.
But here’s a followup:
I had lunch yesterday with the female past president who was sitting next to our elderly subject when he made the comment. She was the first female member and first female president of this organization. And, in fact, some members left the organization when she joined. Granted, this was 30 years ago.
I shared with her my mortification. She said she was shocked too, as this man has always been a huge supporter of women in the club, herself included.
We talked a while. In short, our 94-year-old friend may have some cognitive decline that caused his commentary.
So.
Saying something wouldn’t have made a difference. And I know everyone else at the table felt the same way I did, so no education needed there.
But still, I’ve learned a valuable lesson.
See/hear something: Say something — anything!
It’s a good reminder for everyone: Things won’t change with silence.
At one point, Amy says she is going to be an “ornament to society,” and I was reminded of something that happened at the weekly meeting of this professional group earlier in the day.
The group is mostly older white men. (Typical.)
The leaders of the membership committee solicited ideas for increasing membership via distributing selected topics at each table. My table had the topic of how to increase membership among women.
The oldest dude (about 90 and deaf) at a table of four men and four women actually said this:
Their husbands are working 8-10 hours a day bringing home the bacon. It shouldn’t be too hard to recruit more women as their schedules are more flexible.
Right.
And there was silence.
Now, I’m a brand-new member of this group. I didn’t feel comfortable barking at this man that I work 8-10 hours a day bringing home the bacon. Instead, I got up to get coffee from the coffee table.
A woman who is a past president of the group was sitting next to him. She looked properly mortified. I don’t know if she said something to him privately later. I’m going to ask her at the next meeting.
When I shared this anecdote with my boss, who is a former member of this group (and an older white male, it should be noted), he also was mortified.
But he asked a crucial question:
He wouldn’t have said something like that about an ethnic minority group or the LBGTQ community. Why did he feel it was OK to share outdated views of women?
Why indeed.
It’s time to stop being “ornaments to society.” How do we do that? What should I have done? What about the other women at the table? What should I do now?
Please share your thoughts.
And go see “Little Women” whether you have read the book or not.
“The world is hard on ambitious girls.” That’s right, Amy.
Observe and report 