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I never had a chance to visit New Orleans before the hurricane. I took my first trip two weeks ago for a Mardi Gras event with the hash house harriers. The revelry and hedonism of Mardi Gras was compounded by the Saints’ Superbowl victory, and the entire city was one giant party, practically from the minute I arrived.
True, the purpose of my trip was Mardi Gras, and that consumed a lot of my time. But when I was not drinking, running, drinking while running, tracking down a port-a-potty (as a result of the drinking), or avoiding concussions from flying beads (those suckers hurt!), I was consistently in awe of the city’s sheer beauty. I did encounter a fair share of abandoned neighborhoods, but the jazz-era flair of New Orleans is ever present; the buildings and streets practically ooze joie de vivre.
I was enthralled by the architecture, but moreover I was impressed by how beautiful the people are; the locals I encountered were genuinely friendly, gloriously optimistic folks, with a true sense of love and pride for their city and all it has been through. Although man-made structures are flimsy, man’s spirit is not something that can be destroyed by a flood.
New Orleans is definitely on my list of cities I’d consider moving to, whenever I get the urge for a change of scenery.
Over the summer, one of my dearest friends introduced me to an activity called hashing. I believe the phrase he originally used was, “Do you want to come to a hash tonight?” My mind ever in the gutter, I assumed it was something involving drugs. Well, not quite– although the use of mind-altering liquids is not only encouraged, it’s enforced.
This activity has been around since World War II, so it’s nothing new, although most people have never heard of it. Basically it consists of one or two people (”hares”) laying a trail through the woods (or, as often in our case, urban jungle) and everyone else following the trail, with the intention of either catching the hares, or simply making it to the end with life and limb intact. Oh, and everybody gets a sexually suggestive or embarrassing hash name, which is bestowed upon them after saying or doing something particularly memorable while on trail. At the end, to reward the pack’s efforts, there is the drinking of beer and the singing of lewd songs.
Hashing appealed to me for a whole lot of reasons. I’m a runner, but a bad one. I need motivation to move my legs, so running with a group is ideal. I also hate treadmills and I generally hate running on asphalt, so being outside AND off-road is great. (It reminds me of when I was little and used to run through the woods behind my parents’ backyard. Of course, back then I was doing it barefoot, but now I’m all grown up and kind of a wimp, so I wear shoes.) Add beer to this, and I’m there. Running a hash does involve an exchange of currency, but it’s usually very cheap. Being unemployed, I’m always down for an inexpensive way to get a buzz.
Hashing in Atlanta is interesting. It’s amazing how you don’t have to drive very far to end up in the sho’ nuff middle of nowhere. Run faster, I hear banjos. I’ve waded through waist-deep swamp water (which is how I got my hash name, incidentally), jumped through sticker bushes that make razor-wire look soft and cuddly, been attacked by hornets, and almost shot by hillbillies. Well, I made that last one up, but it could conceivably happen.
At the end of a trail, individuals are called out and required to drink a beer, based on things they may have done while on trail, or… really just for any arbitrary reason. In fact, I may be called out just for writing this blog. Oops. Anyway, are you going to refuse a chance to drink a beer? I thought not. The more egregious the offense, the more… shall we say, creative, is the drinking. For example, while hashing in Boston, I witnessed a woman drink a beer out of her shoe, after the beer was filtered through her sock. One of my favorite Atlanta hashes involves an ice block, and if you’re called out, you must remain sitting on the ice block until your beer is finished.
So, it’s really a wonder why I can’t get any of my friends to come hashing with me.
As if I needed another online writing forum to keep up with, I was recently invited to write at Atlanta Metblogs. Since people tell me that I’m, like, funny and shit (I think they’re lying), and I do enjoy exploring and writing about my city, I figured I’d go for it. Some of the content may be slightly similar to previous posts here, but hopefully you’ll find it entertaining anyway. I may end up cross-posting a lot of content, and for that I apologize.
…Because I’m about to do it right now!
So, I have recently returned to the dirty south after spending a week in the frozen north; more specifically, Boston. Anytime I grow weary of Atlanta– be it due to the combination of soul-crushing heat and lung-crushing pollen, or the never ending traffic jams– traveling out of state always makes me appreciate Atlanta more.
Yes, Boston’s public transit would kick MARTA’s ass in a cage fight. But public transit in Boston is actually boring. Efficient, but not as entertaining. People just sit on the train and stare blankly, either at a newpaper, cell phone, or inside their coffee (maybe they are reading the grounds and trying to predict the future– who knows!). On the other hand, one of my favorite pastimes is taking out-of-town friends on MARTA because it seems like that’s when all the good stuff happens. People break out into spontaneous rap battles. Random dudes start preaching about the apocalypse and how we’re living in the End Times. Bums regale me with elaborate stories in an attempt to coerce a dolla’ dolla’ bill from my pocket.
And speaking of panhandlers; I think if you can deal with them in Atlanta, other cities are no problem. They are passive by comparison. Our bums are the stuff of legends.
The drinking establishments in Boston are way too homogenized and sanitary. I understand that smoking is uncool (I’ve never been one of the cool kids) but what else is a bar supposed to be if not a safe haven for people with vices? I have yet to find a northern equivalent to the Earl, El Myr, or MJQ, and that’s because I don’t think they exist. Part of the atmosphere of dive bars is that you leave feeling like a toilet and smelling like an ashtray. Sure, there are a lot of great non-smoking bars in Atlanta, but I like that we have options. In Boston, there’s no option, except to stand outside and suck on your nicotine stick in the snow. Amurrica is about FREEDOM! And that means the freedom to pollute my body as I see fit, dang it.
On the other hand, they do allow alcohol sales on Sundays, so… you win this round, yankees.
We also don’t have an Atlanta equivalent to the Harvard Douche. The worst you might encounter is a particularly intoxicated Tech student. (But at least they will fix your computer in exchange for a 12-pack of Natty Light.)
Probably the biggest thing I noticed is how people in Atlanta are much friendlier to tourists. Maybe it’s the Southern hospitality, or maybe people here are just tired of the entire South being stereotyped as backwards, so we’re enthusiastic about showing that Atlanta does indeed contain culture and history (well, the parts Sherman didn’t burn during the War of Northern Aggression). But mainly I think it’s because we actually feel bad when people visit here, given that the urban sprawl is atrocious, the highways are deadly (at best), the surface roads are all named Peachtree, most of the cool stuff is inaccessible by train and the bus routes make no sense. We want to help out tourists, not shun them. People in Boston, on the other hand… not so much. There is a disdain for tourists that floats in the air so thickly, it’s almost palpable. And I’m not just talking about the fanny-pack-wearing, “I’m going to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and block the flow of pedestrians so I can get a new Facebook picture in front of this old building” types of tourists. They seem to dislike anybody who might want to see (and, gasp, photograph!) some historical sites.
Also, Boston accents are not sexy. If I had to hear another person say “lobstah chowdah” I might have jumped off the Charles River Bridge. I’ll take a drawl any day!
Yep, I’m glad to be home.
http://atlanta.metblogs.com/2010/01/26/american-by-birth-atlantan-by-choice/
I’m a bit delayed in posting this (uh, yeah– try over a month delayed), but I’m very excited about the photoshoot I had with my recently-acquired friend, Mark. For once, I was the person in front of the camera!
More photos; follow the link!
I was a little apprehensive that day, because I couldn’t get my hair to behave (it was channeling Robert Smith from The Cure) but fortunately it doesn’t look too bad. I had a lot of fun pretending to be a model. What a shame, if I wasn’t 5-foot-nothing, I could maybe do it professionally! (Those are also my favorite shoes, because they make me four inches taller.)
Sadly, though, I feel that the entire shoot is rather dishonest– because normally I look like this:
(And, clearly, it rubs off on others.)
I was inspired to write this entry after a conversation wherein I attempted to explain the difference between various groups that white folks fall into within southern culture.
Belle – This is a specific type of woman; groomed from an early age to be the epitome of Southern grace, class, and charm… at least to your face. Behind your back is another matter entirely. Most Belles come from (or marry into) well-to-do families. The most distinguishing factor of Belles is how they will never, under any circumstances, leave their homes without immaculate hair, make-up, and clothing. Even in the sweltering heat of summer, not a hair nor eyelash nor hemline will be out of place. Most likely to win “Miss Teen” pageants.
City Slicker – Usually this is someone who grew up in the country, but for one reason or another (sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not), was transplanted to civilization. I’ve noticed many City Slickers eschew certain aspects of urban life, such as public transit; they would choose to sit for hours in traffic gridlock driving their F-150 rather than take the train. On the other hand, they might also spend several hundred dollars on designer cowboy boots, despite never having ridden an actual horse. Most likely to know the Cotton-Eye Joe dance.
Good Old Boy/Gal – These are the people you want on your side in the event of a riot or zombie outbreak, because they live in the middle of nowhere and likely have a gun collection that would make the government nervous. Good Old Boys/Gals may not necessarily be “formally educated”, but they usually possess plenty of common sense and practicality. Generally they are nice people, despite their tendency toward social conservatism. Most likely to carry a bowie knife everywhere, even to church.
Hillbilly – For whatever reason, Hillbillies don’t trust the trappings of modern society and instead choose to isolate themselves in the country or the mountains. Most likely to sport a mullet (and survive the apocalypse).
Redneck – A term best described by self-proclaimed redneck Jeff Foxworthy: “the glorious absence of sophistication.” Similar to the Good Old Boy/Gal, but Rednecks seem to enjoy going to great lengths to convince others that they possess money, except all the means they employ are just classic signs of being a Redneck. “You might be a redneck if the tires on your truck cost more than the actual truck.” True Rednecks are often blissfully unaware that the rest of society believes they are everything BUT classy. Most likely to attend a NASCAR event.
Rockabilly – I kinda made this one up, after multiple encounters with a certain type of person in Atlanta. Rockabillies were likely born and raised in the city, unlike the transplanted Slicker. They may embrace Redneck traits, but unlike Rednecks, Rockabilly folks acknowledge the humor and irony; they’ll fly the Confederate flag, but they do not truly believe “the south will rise again.” Because they are Southern urbanites, Rockabillies feel comfortable eating fried chicken gizzards and drinking moonshine, or eating sushi and drinking lattes. Most likely to have a full sleeve tattoo.
White Trash – Sometimes this term is used interchangeably with Redneck, although they are not always the same; Rednecks possess a relatively harmless lack of tact and social graces, but White Trash take it to a ridiculous level. People who qualify as White Trash are usually lazy, with no desire to better themselves, be it through education, hard work, or wise management of money. They are ignorant by choice, but have convinced themselves that their poor choices are the fault of Liberals, non-Christians, and everybody who isn’t Caucasian. Most likely to appear on Jerry Springer.
I have a confession: Despite being a born-and-raised, country fried southern belle– up until recently, I had never wielded a firearm before. Call the police, I need my Redneck Woman card revoked.
Like any red-blooded American girl, I feel that I must undertake moderate preparation for the impending zombie outbreak, wherein accurate shooting is a necessary survival skill. One of my dearest friends decided he would take it upon himself to teach me how to properly exercise my Second Amendment rights. Southern gentlemen sure do know the way to a gal’s heart. I love the smell of gunpowder in the evening!
It was my first trip to a firing range, and I really loved how hassle-free it was; all we needed to do in order to rent a pistol was sign a waiver. Yes, the state of Georgia is indeed awesome.
Not only was it a fun and exhilarating experience, I think I did rather well; with a bit more practice, I might survive the apocalypse after all. Now I know I can at least shoot a zombie in the head. (”And knowing is half the battle!”)
I also very much enjoyed stumbling upon this photo:
Martin, GA
Because after we were done at the firing range, my friend and I went to a gay bar, where we danced the night away to Madonna remixes with a bunch of fabulous, shirtless men. God bless the USA!
That first hint of autumn has finally reached Atlanta, and you know what that means! For your viewing pleasure, some photos from my recent visit to the North Georgia State Fair.
(Yes, that carousel horse IS wearing a rebel flag saddle!)
(I really don’t have nearly enough rebel flags in my house.)
(Deep fried Oreos. Heaven… or Hell on a plate, depending.)
Really, what better way to spend an evening than filling yourself full of battered, deep fried, vaguely food-like items, and then being spun in circles and flipped upside down repeatedly? The people-watching factor was amazing. I saw folks who literally did look like cartoon characters straight out of an episode of King of the Hill. I also never knew so many articles of clothing were made in camouflage.
There are many negative aspects of Atlanta that remain quintessential: Poor city planning, urban sprawl, traffic jams, and potholes. (Oh, the potholes.) But perhaps the most unique and perplexing quality of our city involves the notorious bum population. In all my worldly travels, I have yet to encounter a city where the homeless are quite as crafty or aggressive as those in Atlanta. In Rome, for example, bums sit around with palms outstretched and merely look pathetic. In New York City, bums might stand on street corners playing music in return for donations. In Atlanta, bums walk directly up to you, look you in the face, and say, “Gimme some money.” I guess one does have to admire the direct approach.
On principle, I don’t give money to the homeless. Unfortunately, many of them are mentally unstable and will simply turn around and use whatever you give them to buy drugs. Perhaps even more unfortunate is the reality that many of the “homeless” people in Atlanta are not, in fact, actually homeless. Yes, there are quite a few bums who do possess all their mental faculties in addition to an actual roof and four walls, but instead of finding real employment, they beg for change because they actually make decent money doing it. It is usually easy to spot a ‘fauxmless’ person, because when they approach, your olfactory system is not assaulted by the aroma of dried urine from several feet away.
What makes Atlanta bums unique is the tactics they’ll employ to pry money from easily-persuaded hands. In addition to the “direct approach”, they are prone to inventing outlandish sob stories in order to guilt trip an individual into giving them change. One particular gentleman I encountered on good old Ponce de Leon Avenue. The first time he approached me, he was wearing a suit and looked clean-cut. He then launched into an extravagant tale about how he is here on business, is HIV positive, left his medicine in a cab, and now needs $14. (Yes, exactly fourteen dollars.) I didn’t have any cash, so I apologized profusely and offered to let him use my phone to call someone. He refused and immediately walked off. Fast forward to a few months later, I am strolling down that same spot on Ponce, and the same guy walks up to me again, still looking fresh and clean. I didn’t recognize him at first, but as soon as I heard the words “HIV positive” come out of his mouth, I rolled my eyes and told him to get a new story. Several of my friends have also encountered this guy, or perhaps his clones. I wouldn’t be surprised if there is a Bum University churning out more of them.
Every time a friend from out of town visits me, I usually end up taking them on MARTA (our commuter rail system) at some point. For a lot of people, especially those from small towns, public transit is still unfamiliar and therefore scary territory. People are always afraid of being accosted on trains. So, of course every time I’m riding MARTA with someone who isn’t a native Atlantan, all the crazies come out. Somehow the bums manage to get on the trains, even though they will look you in the eye and claim they have no money. They will also follow you through the train stations and attempt to make conversation with you, even to the point of trying to be physically affectionate, perhaps clinging to their last shreds of sanity or maybe employing an elaborate ruse to make gullible tourists hand over their cash.
Occasionally, if I’m feeling particularly benevolent, I will offer a cigarette to a bum. This is generally an unspoken agreement that once he or she gets something of mine, I am to be left alone. Usually this works very well; sometimes, not so much. Once I was waiting on an oil change and encountered a drifter woman while standing outside. After I offered her a cigarette, she didn’t pester me for money, and we had a fairly entertaining conversation. On the other hand, recently I was walking along Ponce (are we seeing a pattern here?) and a disheveled woman approached me and politely asked for a cigarette. I pulled one from my purse, she looked at it, looked at me, and said, “Could I have a few? I mean, to last me through the day.” I was in a good mood, so I drew 3 more from the pack. As I was about to hand them to her, she asked me what brand they were, and I replied, “American Spirit, menthols.” Her nose turned up and she exclaimed, “Ew! No. I can’t smoke that.” I put the cigarettes away and started to walk off, and she said, “Hey! I know a man around the corner who you can buy cigarettes from…” I refused politely, but it took all the tact and manners I could muster to not reply, “HELL NO!” Oh sure, I go to buy cigarettes from this dude, and next thing I know, I wake up in a bathtub minus a kidney.
If you are going to a bar or night club, don’t be too surprised if you park your car and a bum approaches you and cheerfully offers to “guard” your vehicle– in exchange for a nominal fee, of course. e.g. Whatever you have in your pockets. Do NOT give these people money, because there is a 90% chance your car will be vandalized afterward.
After all my experiences, I’ve attempted to devise a system of guidelines for dealing with Atlanta bums:
1. Don’t make eye contact.
2. If they still approach you, don’t give them money.
3. If they try to follow you, tell them to go away. Use colorful language if you must.
4. If they refuse to leave, pull out your phone and act like you’re making a call. They will assume you’re dialing the cops and vanish faster than a cheerleader’s panties on prom night.
Although– as I mentioned a few entries ago– personally I think the best response to anybody who asks, “Got any change?” is, “Sorry dude, I just lost MY job. I might be here with ya next week.” It’s more amusing when it’s true.
My wonderful mother– who I credit for blessing me with creativity and a free spirit; since we both failed at becoming Proper Southern Ladies, I have concluded these things are genetic– suggested I write something about my truly out-of-body experience: the year I spent living in upstate New York.
Let’s go back. Wait, put down your parachute pants, we’re not going THAT far back. We’re going back to May of 2005, when I had just graduated from Valdosta State University. Shiny new degree in hand, I decided it was time to uproot myself and begin a new chapter of my life. At the time, I was dating a young lad who hailed from Utica, NY. He was planning to move back home, and suggested that I move with him since I had finished my undergraduate career. During my temporary lapse in sanity, I thought it it sounded awesome. We chose Syracuse because at the time I intended to follow up my education with graduate school, and one of my professors had recommended Syracuse University. In my naivete I thought it would be a grand adventure. Well, it was an adventure, but not of the grand variety.
As a disclaimer, I have nothing against the fair city of Syracuse. There were many things I liked about it, mainly the little Greek restaurant near my apartment. I could never understand the guy when I called to place an order, but the pizza he made was on a level of deliciousness that has yet to be surpassed in my mind. NY-style pizza is, in fact, the best pizza. I also grew fond of the little tea lounge tucked away downtown; they made the most mouth-watering cookies with matcha powder. I do rather miss these things. I don’t miss anything else.
Anyway– my first mistake (of many) was letting my witless boyfriend sign a lease for us without letting me look at the apartment first. While I was finishing up my last semester, he traveled to Syracuse to find an apartment for us. The pictures he sent me were innocuous enough. We’d be renting the bottom floor of a cute old Victorian house. Only after we moved in did I see an obvious red flag: The building didn’t have insulation in the walls.
In the beginning, I wondered why the previous tenants had stapled sheets of thick plastic over the windows. As soon as cold air rolled in, I figured it out. During the worst part of winter, I bought thermal curtains in a last-ditch attempt to keep from turning into a meat popsicle. The house was barely warm enough to keep icicles from forming in my hair after a shower. (At times I daydreamed about stabbing my boyfriend with said icicles.) The heating system was so old that warm air never actually made it from the furnace in the basement up to the first floor. The absence of insulation meant any scant amount of warm air immediately left the house. Even when we kept our thermostat at or below 60 degrees, our monthly heating bill was still somewhere in the realm of $500.
As time went on, our landlord proved himself to be absolutely useless. I kept wondering why I was giving this man my money every month, because he didn’t do a damn thing.
- You blew a fuse? Go down in the basement and fix it yourself. Never mind that the fuse box is so ancient that it was probably handmade by Thomas Edison himself, and people at hardware stores laugh at you when you ask for help.
- Your pipes froze? Wrap them in towels.
- Your porch is falling over? Well, don’t stand on it.
- Your bathroom wall has obvious water damage (plus scary black mold)? Don’t worry about it, nothing can possibly go wrong.
- Your bathroom floor is rotting out and your foot went through? All right, I guess we can send someone to fix it. But we’re not going to rip out the decaying wood, we’ll just patch up the hole. Hope the toilet doesn’t fall into the basement when you’re sitting on it!
At least our neighborhood was relatively quiet, although I recall watching the news sometime after New Year’s and Syracuse’s first homicide of 2006 was reported a few blocks down my street.
Until this point, I spent my whole life in an environment that barely saw freezing temperatures (35 degrees was a “cold” day), and moved to one that is frozen for the better part of the year– “Fish out of water” does not begin to describe how I felt. My ancestry is not that of cold-weather people, I have low blood pressure, I’m tiny, and my hands and feet are usually already freezing in summer. I don’t know how I deluded myself into thinking I could survive in upstate New York. Most people in the deep south love snow, and don’t understand my utter contempt for white shit falling from the sky. Hating snow, to them, is akin to hating puppies or rainbows. So, let me explain: There is a big difference between sitting inside your cozy (insulated!) home and watching the snow fall for a few hours, versus being trapped inside for DAYS because it’s too cold (or dangerous) to be outside. And then there are such joys as waking up at 5:00am to shovel your car out of a waist-high drift just so you can get to work, or driving home from work in a white-out blizzard, or trying to walk, well, anywhere in knee-deep slush. Even those vile flakes might not have been that bad if it wasn’t dark all the time. From late October through mid-March, I only saw daylight once or twice a week. When I left for work in the morning, it was pitch black, and by the time I went home in the afternoon, the sun had set. I don’t know about y’all, but I’m not a vampire.
It really seemed as if Mother Nature herself was trying to tell me to go back where I belonged. One morning I awoke to discover I had a patch of red bumps on one leg. The next morning, it had spread to both legs. The morning after, those little red bumps had become swollen sores that not only itched, but were weeping a yellowish-orange fluid. I started to wonder what the hell kind of alien necrotizing flesh virus I had contracted. My boyfriend’s mother took one look at me and said, “Did you touch any weeds on the side of the thruway?” Forehead, meet hand. To make a long story short: the day before my outbreak, we were on the NY state thruway (I-90) and stalled for a while behind an accident that blocked all the westbound lanes. Let’s just say nature called, and it was calling in the most excruciating way, so I finally leaped out of the car and sprinted down the side of the road. I didn’t care where I went as long as I got far enough into the foliage so I could pee in peace. Well, apparently New York is infested with flesh eating flowers. (I’m only glad I didn’t squat any lower, if you catch my drift.) This had never happened to me before, and hasn’t happened again since I moved back south.
By now you’re probably wondering if I had any positive experiences during my year above the Mason-Dixon line. To be honest, no. The job market was bleak, so instead of beginning a glamorous graphic design career, I ended up working at a department store, where I unloaded trucks and stocked shelves in the wee hours of the morning (eventually I got “promoted” to a later morning shift, where I hung signs). Because I was working part-time making minimum wage, I never had any money, so I couldn’t even visit New York City or Niagara Falls like I aspired to. I was never able to make any friends, which is not normally a problem for me. I never even got into graduate school, because all three people who said they’d write recommendation letters for me fell off the face of the earth. I can laugh about these experiences now, but at the time I was stuck in a hole of depression so deep that it took months to extricate myself.
Shortly after Valentine’s Day 2006 (in ironic fashion), my relationship with Yankee Dude fell apart. I took this as a sign from the universe that my destiny lay elsewhere, so I flew home to Georgia for a week to visit my parents and discuss moving to Atlanta. When I returned to the apartment, my now-ex had moved everything out– and when I say everything, I mean everything. This included the entire contents of our kitchen, down to every last fork. He even took the toilet paper from the bathroom. If it wasn’t nailed down or didn’t clearly belong to me, it was gone. The icing on the cake (a cake made of pure fail) was he had also disconnected the electricity, gas, and cable/internet service before he left.
Oh well, a small price to pay for sanity.
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