THE HAUNTED

I gathered with little more than 100 or so metalers the other night to catch the staggeringly splendid, thrashy, Swedish metal band, The Haunted, at the Masquerade in Atlanta. Despite the not so great turnout, the band played a pulverizing set to a youngish crowd, which had a lot of heart and made the Swedes very welcome, like they tend to do here in the South. My imaginary friend Eddie didn’t show. The heaviest music he digs is Limp Bizkit and No Doubt. I was surprised that the crowd was so youthful and pint-sized. More often, your average headbanger is tall and skinny like the members of the Haunted or short and buff with tattoos. And almost always, they are ancient-style old and Geezer Butler-like. In the mosh pit (not sure if that that term is still in use), there was a plump young lady holding on to a large purse and a little skinny stick figure boy who was so rambunctious that some other dudes knocked him to the floor. The spastic stick figure boy was fortunate that the security guys with the big hoop earrings pulled him away ‘cause one of those other little dudes was going to sock him. You could see that coming. There was also the bearded, long-curly-haired troll-like man wearing a skirt. It could have been a kilt, but it looked more like a skirt. Either way. He was not in the mosh pit, but jumped up and down doing the devil horn finger salute.

The singer of the Haunted, Peter Dolving, was very charismatic and grateful for the warm reception, while the rest of the group were your classic, garden-variety metal dudes of the long, wavy hair and monotonous headbanging. My wife has a friend who has dated ten or so of these guys, almost always with the long, wavy hair (usually Dutch metalers, ‘cause she lives in Holland). We can never tell them apart.

The Haunted play speedy, complex thrash and also have some soft-loud, Poison the Well-type songs. They are not dissimilar from fellow Swedes Arch Enemy, but faster, more pissed and a bit uglier. If I may offer a criticism for one of my favorite bands, I would suggest that they spend a little more time on the lyrics. There’s too much black heart/rotting carcasses/immoral savagery/human debris/sickness and scars metal clichés in their screamed verbiage. What about a song about a favorite kitty or what a pain it is to take out the trash? Those subjects can be dark and evil too.

http://www.myspace.com/thehaunted

MY IMAGINARY FRIEND EDDIE

Since moving to Georgia, I haven’t made a whole lot of friends. Being a married male in my late 30s, I have no idea how to go about making a new friend. I imagine I should probably get involved in some group or organization where the people have similar interests as me, but that would likely require a lot of wasted time and energy for perhaps, one measly, half-ass friend. So rather than join some pathetic group like Westside Jews with Ambivalent Feelings about Living in the South or Gay Death Metalers Who Fancy Squirrels or Homogenized Milk Drinkers, I thought it much easier to conjure up my very own imaginary friend, and that is Eddie.

I call Eddie more often than he calls me, usually about twice a week. Typically, he calls me on Sunday when there’s nothing much to do in the whole state of Georgia except go to church, have a barbecue or shit on a log.

“Hey. Ya wanna have a beers and watch duh footballs,” says Eddie.

“Sure,” I say.

Eddie comes over and gets so comfortable on the couch sometimes that he passes out and drools, but I don’t mind because he’s my pal.

We watch a lot of TV, mostly it’s the jewelry-selling channel or Emeril, the cooking genius, or sometimes we watch the golf channel for hours. Eddie doesn’t ever demand the remote, but sometimes I say “Eddie, why don’t you decide what we should watch?” and pass him the remote and he takes it and inevitably we end up watching a poker game with some guy wearing a big, stupid hat, a gal with enormous boobs, a billionaire in a baseball cap, pink shirt and tie and some pseudo celebrity like El DeBarge, but it’s not really him. Eddie always roots for the girl with the big boobs, but she never wins.

Sometimes, I go over to Eddie’s to watch TV. He has a gigantic bong that we call Bongosaurus, though I must admit the bud Eddie gets is pretty weak. I usually have to pretend that I’m stoned or smoke for a half hour straight to get high. We like to watch the music videos with Eddie’s other pals (I forget their names) and of course, Emeril, or really the same crap that we watch at my house.

When we get restless, we go for a drive through the city on Eddie’s ATVs. He has two of them. Lucky bastard. But he always gets to wear the camouflaged helmet with the deer antlers attached to it. He’s never offered that maybe I could wear it once. Selfish prick. One time, we got pulled over by the police, who told us that you can’t drive ATVs around on city streets and Eddie pretended to be a backwoods hick that was lost in the city and they bought it hook, line and sinker. He had them eating out of his hand. They even pointed us in the direction of the North Georgia hills, so we could git duh hell outta there. Eddie’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but when the hammer falls, wait, stop that!

I think my wife has mixed feelings about Eddie. She likes that I have some social life and have stopped conversing with the air conditioner, but she finds Eddie to be somewhat dim-witted. One time, she called him “dumb” and another time she called him “Beavis.” Not to his face! She didn’t like it that one time when he asked her to bring him a 7-Up. I didn’t like it because that was the last 7-Up in the fridge.

Recently, I had a baby, a little girl, and that takes up a lot of my time. The other day (I think it was Sunday), Eddie called and asked “Hey. Ya wanna have a beers and watch duh footballs.”

I said, “I can’t. I’m covered in baby poop.”

He said “Ah, really, OK,” and hung up the phone. He sounded sore.

I really was covered from head to toe in baby poop. I wasn’t trying to blow him off.

But now the baby is sort of my friend and I can talk to her about all sorts of stuff and we can watch Emeril together. On Sunday, we like to just lie around and she usually poops on me.

Sometimes, I feel guilty that I don’t call Eddie anymore. He doesn’t have a girlfriend and some of his friends are also married and one of them I think has six babies from at least two women. Everybody in Georgia has four to six babies. It’s ‘cause of the Christianity and the general stupidity. Even babies have other babies.

But I digress. What was I talking about?

INSULTING A SOUTHERNER

I in no way condone insulting anyone based on where they are from or their ethnicity. That sort of behavior is reprehensible and uncalled for. But... if you ever find yourself in a heated argument with a Southerner, may I, suggest, you might call them... a Waffle House motherfucker!

Just keep that one in your back pocket if you ever need it.

GRANT PARK

Atlanta has many distinctive neighborhoods such as super-gay Midtown, hipster-dipster Cabbagetown, fancy-pants Inman Park, slightly grungy East Atlanta, boutique-happy Virginia-Highlands, post-hippy Lake Clare and the neighborhood I live in, Victorian-era Grant Park, which is the largest historical district in the city. Just east of Downtown, Grant Park is a large, attractive, hilly park, which contains the city zoo and some recreational facilities, but mostly is about lazy strolls on curving paths beneath giant trees. In the middle of the park near the zoo, you’ll often find the guy who plays the trombone not so well next to the guy who does not so great portraits. Many of the homes in the neighborhood that surrounds the park on all four sides are from the Victorian era (I live in a big pink one) and they range from those restored to gleaming perfection to ones with overgrown lawns and junk strewn all over the porch. But neighbors are chill here. It’s somewhat racially mixed, mostly white and black; though I haven’t noticed many Asians or Latinos. There are a lot of young families and, for one of the older neighborhoods in town, not so many old folks.

I’ll keep it short, but Grant Park has a decent amount of history. It’s named after Lemuel P. Grant, not Ulysses S. Grant, which wouldn’t make any sense if you think about it. Lemuel was on the other side of the war and was in charge of constructing defensive lines around the city. The high part of the park, near where my house is, was a lookout spot called Ft. Walker, not really a proper fort, though, a few original fortifications remain. There was no fighting in Atlanta proper, but plenty in the countryside north of Atlanta. The city was starved out by the Union until it was forced to surrender. Lemuel owned most of the land around here and gave or traded most of it to the city in the 1800s. It became a residential area in the 1890s when many of its distinguished Victorian homes were built. In the 1960s, the top part of Grant Park was cut away from the rest when Interstate 20 was constructed and the neighborhood fell into disrepair. In the late ‘80s, Grant Park started to come back and is in excellent shape today, though lacking a good taqueria.

There are three major attractions in Grant Park: the zoo, which has some giant pandas, Xi Lan, Mei Lan, Lun Lun, and Yang Yang, the Cyclorama, and the Oakland Cemetery.

I’m not into zoos (animals in cages of any sort doesn’t do it for me), so I haven’t been there, but that’s the park’s main draw, along with the usual jogging, strolling with babies and massive family barbecues.

Next door to the zoo is an odd attraction, the Cyclorama, a circular painting (the largest oil painting in the world) that depicts the Battle of Atlanta in the Civil War. There are dioramas in front of the painting that create an optical illusion where you can’t tell where the dioramas (horses, soldiers, etc.) and painting start and end. But is this something that you really need to see? I can’t say that it is, unless you particularly fancy Civil War kitsch.

No photography allowed in the Cyclorama, but this photo of a painting in the adjacent mini-museum gives you the basic idea

The Oakland Cemetery, which is at the northern most point of the neighborhood, is one of the first spots I bring folks from out of town. It’s a fascinating, characteristically Southern cemetery with large monuments, and a few notable residents including Gone with the Wind author Margaret Mitchell and golfer Bobby Jones. There is a whole section of Jews buried there and nearly 3,000 Confederate soldiers, who are guarded by a Narnia-like lion statue.

Across the street is the popular seafood restaurant Six Feet Under, named with the graveyard in mind, and Ria’s Bluebird, Grant Park’s best breakfast/lunch, ultra-hipster spot. There are about eight restaurants in Grant Park, mostly at the northern end of the neighborhood.

It snows once in a while (not very often)

If there is one criticism I have of Grant Park, it’s that there is a lack of commercial property considering how many people live here. In the whole neighborhood, I believe there are two gas stations, one bedraggled 24-hour pharmacy and just a few corner markets, no supermarket. This is hardly a big deal, though. It’s only 10 minutes to Moreland Avenue, where there are a couple of supermarkets, a bank and lots of other junk. But Grant Park has vast amounts of unused land surrounding it especially on its Southern fringe in the direction of the penitentiary and the hood, but also to the west and east (not natural spaces that need to be saved, but old railroad and factory areas that could be developed into something useful). There is no shortage of recently constructed condo and loft spaces on Grant Park’s fringes surrounded by very little. I know some of this land is supposed to be a part of Atlanta’s ambitious beltline project, which will create a ring of parks, trails, transit and affordable housing around the city.

Spring in the park

There’s also a lot of small, neat-looking historical properties around the neighborhood that used to be small grocery stores, but are now unused. They are almost all on side streets and it would be great if they were actual stores and businesses, but more likely, I can see them being converted into small gallery spaces (there is one new, small gallery space on Boulevard).

Open your business here

Some things I’d like to see in the neighborhood: an authentic taqueria, a store that sells Victorian antiques and some antique stores in general (it’s amazing that there isn’t one in a neighborhood that has so much old stuff), a thrift store, a bank with an ATM, a bookstore (I can keep dreaming), some vintage/junk/whatever stores, and a supermarket on the edge of the neighborhood (preferably a Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods or a local Farmer’s Market type store). Some ethnic grocery stores would also be swell, but I think there would have to be some Latinos or Asians in the area for that to happen.

This is my favorite house in the neighborhood, the Burns Mansion. It is often part of the Grant Park Tour of Homes. Three gay fellas live in there and have restored the interior to perfect, Victorian splendor with some amazing themed rooms (sorry, don't have any photos of the interior).

This is another mansion in Grant Park owned by a gay couple. They have a spectacular backyard.

This looks like it was formerly a store with a house attached to it



A lot of stained glass in Grant Park

This is a modern Victorian across the street from the Burns Mansion. I believe it was built in the last ten years. Fooled me.

This used to be a Masonic Lodge, now a restaurant and real estate agency.

A lot of babies in Grant Park

This is supposed to be converted into a B&B. But restoration looks like it may have been stalled.



This is my house


The parlor

This is the porch after it snowed

CALIFORNIA DREAMING

Much like a New Yorker who moves to L.A. and complains that there is no snow and no proper seasons and that people are shallow and dress like bums, I am forever a transplanted Angeleno hundreds of miles away from my homeland, lacking sunshine at times and ocean breezes and not truly adapting to the relaxed pace of things.

I haven’t managed to get beyond my narrow Angeleno point of view despite ordering sweet tea with just about any meal and attempting to drive like I don’t care where I’m going or when I get there.

One thing that I can’t get used to in Atlanta is that in L.A. it seems there is always a taqueria down the street. When I lived in Pasadena on Los Robles Avenue, there was Puebla Tacos (location #3 2057 N Los Robles Ave), one of the finest taquerias I have ever been to nearby. Head east from there down Washington Boulevard and there’s Burrito Express (1597 E. Washington Blvd.), another exceptional little takeout place. Though it didn’t use to be the case, there are now numerous taquerias in West L.A. and practically everywhere in the city.

Here in Atlanta, there actually is a taqueria down the street that I live on. But it is the dumpiest little hovel and the burrito I ordered there was uninspiring. Most people would be afraid to go in this place. There was also a faux taqueria run by a small Mexican restaurant chain on my street, but it closed a few months ago, and wasn’t what I was looking for anyways. If I really want the authentic taqueria experience, I have to drive a half-hour to Buford Highway, where there are blocks of taquerias surrounded by Chinese and Vietnamese eateries, an unparalleled abundance of scrumptiousness. You can find boba over there too. My favorite taqueria on Buford (though I haven’t tried that many) is Taco Veloz (5084 Buford Highway NE), which is a little shack with an eating area that is basically a tent with some tables inside and a drive through. They make a spectacular spicy green salsa. There are even a couple of taco trucks in the area and though I haven’t eaten at them, I always start clapping and yelling “taco truck!” when I see one. You are definitely an Angeleno down to the marrow if you get sentimental over taco trucks.

When I get hungry and I’m driving in downtown Atlanta, I am always disappointed that I can never find a taqueria amongst the many takeout spots, as I would in downtown L.A. It’s always wings or hot dogs or wings and messed-up Chinese food or fried chicken and wings. It may seem a small complaint, but being an Angeleno, and not having good burritos readily available is maybe well, a little less worse than being a French gourmand living in Uzbekistan (I imagine it’s hard to find foie gras there).

Another petty gripe that I have is that there is no ocean here in Atlanta. There’s one about four hours east, but that’s hardly convenient. Personally, I don’t care for beaches, which are sandy and gross and even if it’s okay to lie or walk on one for a little while, you always end up with sand between your toes and then it gets in your car and then eventually in your bed. You can shower, whatever; there’s no way to avoid at least a little bit of sand ending up in your bed. But it is always a relief to at least know there is an ocean nearby. In Atlanta, I have no such comfort. On the Westside of L.A., there’s a fantastic ocean breeze that cools the air on a hot day like ice cubes in a glass of cream soda. This ocean breeze doesn’t reach Pasadena or even Hollywood, but it can make the Westside of L.A. seem heavenly at times.

It’s not right to complain about the weather in Atlanta. The winters are for the most part mild. Fall features a dramatic change of color that one cannot find in L.A. Spring is gorgeous, though it sometimes leads too quickly into summer, which is inevitably brutal. Everything is soaking wet. There are bugs crawling on your eyebrows. It becomes hard to tell the difference between one’s eyebrows and bugs.

There are some lakes beyond the suburbs of Atlanta, but those are no substitute for oceans. I’m from L.A. I don’t know what the hell to do on or around a lake except get bitten by mosquitoes. If there’s fish in a lake, I couldn’t care less. What would I want with them? Lakes are to oceans what speed bumps are to mountains.

I know people live in really shitty places like Texas or Michigan and I have no right to whine about lacking an ocean breeze or that I have to drive a half-hour to find a decent burrito. I don’t have to scrape ice off the windshield of my car or eat crabs or talk to some moron wearing a cowboy hat. But I am a goddamn Westside Jew and I want a vegetarian burrito with guacamole right now and some very spicy hot sauce on the side and some horchata and I’d like to eat it outside, perhaps reading the L.A. Times, with a nice ocean breeze cooling me off and no bugs on my eyebrows please!

SIGNS OF THE SOUTH II

I love the Hot Dog King (But his kingdom is dwindling)
Greenville, S.C.

Um, no thanks. I think I will shop somewhere else.

Grandpa Store: Gizzar $3.99

Fresh Meat Skin, North Georgia

North Georgia Cheap Grub, Chicken Biscuit $1.25

Kreeze Bings (?) apparently available at the Northside Tavern, Atlanta

Pass me dem tax forms mon

The Hair Shack Dawsonville, GA

Denture Repair, Decatur, GA

Bo-Nats 7-11, Greenville, SC

Beefalo in North Georgia

Jesus is Mr. Popular

CHICO & CHANG

I don’t know why I became determined to eat at the grubby looking takeout place called Chico & Chang on Ponce de Leon. I guess I hoped that it was Mexicans who had come to appreciate Asian food (there are often a lot of Mexicans working in Chinese restaurant kitchens), though it was much more likely to be Chinese people making Mexican food, as Chinese folks own numerous little takeout places in the area, where they specialize in wings and burgers. When I came up to the takeout window, there was a Chinese lady who told me that my car was facing the wrong direction. As I drove around the place, there were signs that I should back out while I still had the chance. I ignored the dead guy sprawled out in the parking lot clutching a fortune cookie, as well as the scent of steamed broccoli waiting to be added to Mexican dishes like burritos and fajitas. Though I had hoped for Mexican food, I played it safe and ordered cold sesame noodles, a dish that is only occasionally found on Chinese menus. The lady warned me that the sauce came on the side, which just didn’t sound right. As I waited 25 minutes or so for my food, I scanned Chico & Chang’s expansive menu, which includes a fajita chicken sub, bbq burger, stuffed jalapenos, their “famous” chili, as well as two “exclusive” East meets West dishes, the moo shu chicken burrito and the Mongolian beef sub. The wrongest sounding thing on the menu is the veggie chimichanga with broccoli, mushrooms, bell peppers and onions. The sesame noodles turned out to be vegetable lo mein with a container of sesame sauce. Possessing an iron-clad stomach, I ate it anyways. It was bad, but I have eaten worse things in places like Tunisia and North Dakota. Afterwards, though, a sick feeling lingered in my stomach for hours. My advice to Chico & Chang: Chang, don’t try and be Chico. I have cooked plenty of crummy Chinese food in my time. My wife even refuses to allow me to cook my “famous” curry noodles ever again. You, Chang, make Chinese food in a wrong way that Chinese people would shake their heads at. I do not want to consider what your Mexican food is like. In fact, I won’t. Blechh! Yuck. I did.