Sunday, April 10, 2016


8:45 am Introductory religious hate speech and cake making with Pastor Wendell “Chip” Slattery

9:30 am Carlotta Ramona’s Grace of God Zumba fitness class

10:15 am Glad-handing and back slapping with the Good Ol’ Boy Jessup Brothers

11 am Slave cabin tiny tykes ballet

11:15 am Camp Cloister Fox hunting

12 pm Kayak shore lunch of marigold peas

2:30 pm Rainbow Island racist yoga

2:40 pm Exploitation of slavery legacy and touristical profiteering for plantation owner grandchildren group discussion in a golf cart

3:30 pm Fish dissection and dock fishing in a golf cart

3:45 pm Beach Club Theater Presents “The Birth of a Nation” PG 154 min.

4:45 pm Jackson “Skip to My Lou” Reynolds’ Ladies golf fundamentals and white power clinic

5:30 pm Plus-sized pilates

6-9 pm Live at the Colonial Lounge: Bare bottom bluegrass with the Stinky Toe Boys

Tuesday, October 27, 2015


Now that we've lived here for this long, we might as well make our own molasses. We have no choice.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014


As for who to quote on a billboard about educating kids, Hitler was a very bad choice. Herbert Hoover is also someone you don't want to be quoting, but Hitler was well, really not a good choice.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014


Georgia, you are a bore a lot of the time, and a dependable bore at that. However, you are, for the most part, well mannered. And there, you have something over snotty Angelenos, I guess. People in L.A. can be jerkamabobs. Let’s not pretend otherwise.

For example, throwing a party in Atlanta, where I live, and throwing one in Los Angeles, where I’m from, is an entirely different experience in almost every conceivable way. I have only been to a handful of children’s parties in L.A., where I have only thrown adult parties in the somewhat distant past. Here, in Hotlanta, I have only thrown birthday parties for my daughter. But I’m pretty sure the differences in party behavior still apply. If I’m wrong, please correct me.

If you throw a kid’s party here, people will arrive at either the exact hour of the party or maybe a half hour late. If they plan to come any later, they will email you ahead of time to make sure that’s OK. Nobody in Los Angeles would ever do that. Almost everyone that says they are coming will show up at the appointed hour. One or two might not make it. They will likely email apologetically and explain that they or their child has the stomach flu. And they really will have the stomach flu. If say, the party starts at 3 pm, the party will begin winding down around 4 with people starting to leave and thanking you profusely for inviting them and by 5 pm, all will have left. The same amount of people who said they were coming on the Evite will have shown, off maybe by two at most.

Though, I have done no research, I think this formula may not just apply to Atlanta or the South, but to most of America, or at least, all the places where strangers say hi to you when you pass them in the street, either out of friendliness or nervousness.

Not the case in L.A., though. If you have a party for adults that starts at say, 8 pm, you shouldn’t expect anyone until 9:25 or so. But people will really start ringing the doorbell ten or twenty minutes later and pop in at any old time throughout the night. Someone will show up at 11:45. You can expect maybe a half or a third of the folks who responded uproariously to the Evite to not show up at all.

Then there’s the person who shows up and leaves after ten minutes. You will not witness them skedaddling stealthily out the door. You’ll just wonder where they are. It could even be a pretty good friend. They will have gone off to something more fun, no doubt. I’ve done it. There might actually be something more fun to do in L.A., not so in Atlanta, no way, no how.

Friday, October 4, 2013


This New York Times story explains how Republican governors, mostly in the South, have excluded their states from Medicade expansion, leaving the very poor and predominantly Black population of the South still with no healthcare.

Sunday, April 21, 2013


Since moving to Atlanta, I have frequently been afforded the opportunity to attend a variety of events that go well beyond the norm of lameness and breathtaking melancholia. It’s now that when I choose to attend anything that I arrive with such low expectations as to rarely be disappointed.

Earlier this year, my family and I went to a neighborhood puppet show at a church that was very well attended. Now, I know one shouldn’t have any expectations of a puppet show for kids. I mean, it’s clearly not for adults and it should stink. Still, I found myself aghast at the older puppeteer shaking his thrift store puppets about, inviting kids up onstage and then forgetting what it was that he wanted them to do. He seemed to have arrived possibly inebriated from a nearby bar and was making everything up on the spot. Had he just handed these puppets to any random four year olds, the kids would have surely come up with something more coherent and entertaining. At least, it was only about fifteen minutes long.

Being a parent provides one with all sorts of fish out of water experiences, where one is adrift in a sea of uncomfortableness marked by balloons, cake and banal conversation. It was there that my wife and I found ourselves at a birthday party in a music school vexed that there was no safe haven for adults. Along with the kids, all parents were expected to saunter around barefoot and dance whimsically to kiddy music. If you were to refuse, you would be the only one standing and scowling amidst the revelry. There was a cat puppet, name of Mrs. Squiggles, who the children were encouraged to pet. The cake arrived, the music stopped, we managed to live another day.

Adult parties can be just as insidious, especially if the occasion is a jewelry party. Yes, I went to one. Perhaps you have never heard of or pondered such a thing. A jewelry party is where someone who makes handmade jewelry displays their wares and ladies (I was the only guy there, except for a three year old) drink wine, buy jewelry and do lady stuff. If that sounds like your idea of fun, take a hard look in the mirror. Why did I agree to go to this party? I don’t remember. There isn’t so much to do here in Atlanta. Still, one should be able to live their lives, even here, free of jewelry parties.

At one point, when I was stressed out, I thought a meditation session might help. I convinced my wife to  go and we got a babysitter, though I was embarrassed to tell the babysitter where we were going. In Atlanta’s scruffy alterna-neighborhood, Little Five Points, in the back of some building, in a tiny carpeted room with no windows, an uninspired man lead us and a couple of other desperate folks in a meditation session that would make the Dalai Lama want to self-immolate in protest. I remember that someone was doing something very noisy in the office below us and that we somehow escaped before the session was through. Getting out of there did relax me some.

On another occasion, I accompanied my wife to a downtown hotel for a meet and greet at a gender studies conference. Now, I’m aware that that doesn’t sound like an event that portends liveliness. I wasn’t expecting a DJ or strippers. But this event was a real stinko: ladies, a couple of male professors sitting around conference tables, no cheap wine, no cocktail weenies, only popcorn to nibble on and such palpable gloom and conversational bewilderment that time stood still and farted. Even the jewelry party had decent appetizers.

But large events in Atlanta that have been planned and executed annually by eager volunteers can be just as shitty and dreary as private parties or events for preschoolers. Many of the city’s large public spectacles and street fairs center around beer and to a lesser extent, fried, greasy food that goes well with beer. While these events may sometimes claim to be about art or music, it is the beer line that always appears to exceed the amount of folks in front of the stage or the tiny proportion of people interested in cat watercolors. I’m not sure which of Atlanta’s many street and park festivals is the most insipid. I have been to the Summer Shade Festival in Grant Park on an extremely humid day when the $8 falafel was disgusting, the beer lines snaked on to eternity and the bands seem to wilt in front of the eight people in folding chairs. The music stage is set up next to the street I live on and I am always amazed as I drive by at the paucity of music fans for free music even when it’s a band I have sort of heard of. This festival has actually gotten a little better now that I have a kid. There is a good amount of kid activities, so I would likely go again, as if I had a choice. That’s not the case with the much larger and more drunken SweetWater Fest in Candler Park, more of a social festival for 20 to 40 somethings with body odor and blues rock. Much worse, though, are the festivals held in Piedmont Park (Dogwood and I think another one) that primarily feature crafts and homemade, commercial, often quirky art for sale. Almost every single public festival in Atlanta includes these same artistically rendered photos of pets and painted spoons for sale, though these festivals feature them as the main attraction.

One of the worst events that I ever went to that sticks out in my mind like a cousin’s funeral is the Marietta Holiday Tour of Homes. We had been to the Grant Park Tour of Homes, which had included the Burns Mansion, a stupendously decorated Victorian, and so, for some reason, decided to go to this event despite my abhorrence of anything holiday related. The event was coordinated by a large smattering of silver-haired ladies in Christmas sweaters. I had never seen so many people wearing Christmas sweaters in one place at a time. You see one Christmas sweater somewhere, you giggle. You see one somewhere else, you stare a bit. But this was a premeditated Christmas sweater wearing event. The houses we toured were all ghastly old mansions furnished in the 1980s with beige, flowery pomposity and for this event strewn with CVS plastic Santas and dusty Christmas chachkas smelling of cat pee.

Not everything I have been to in Atlanta sucked this bad. But who knows what I have willfully forgotten, which events will resurface in a nightmare where I am being chased by bearded guys on bicycles bearing funnel cakes, their wives selling homemade soap.