OutPast30

Los Angeles: Day 2 (Santa Monica)

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Fri, 14 Sep 2012 21:53:00 +0000

This is the mall down in Santa Monica. I LOVE this mall.

Los Angeles is many cities and energies packed into one. Thus it is possible to get the taste of many flavors all in one day. After leaving the morning peace of Venice Beach, we ventured about a mile or two north on Ocean Blvd to Santa Monica to do some shopping at Third Street Promenade.

When I lived here, I recall thinking nothing of traipsing down to this spot to hit up Nordstrom. It was there. I went. Big whoop. Now as a tourist, I marveled at how pristine and convenient it all was. Everything from the parking garage to the brilliance of the sun shining down in the center of the mall to all of the beautiful and extremely fit people. It was so easy to want to spend money and BE there. We were happy darting in and out of stores, snapping pictures, eating up the scenery.

I don't remember this topiary being here before.

It was funny how we could tell who the natives were. They were always well accessorized and somewhat annoyed. Annoyed with what, we did not know. Maybe they were bored with the perfection of the day or maybe they were sick of tourists steadily financing the continued survival of this spectacular mall. Had I been this way? Perpetually discontent with such splendid surroundings. Unsatisfied with my cute face and flat stomach and disposal income? I don't think I was overall, but I probably had my days. I was finding myself. I was trying to have a good time. I was trying not to be lonely or trapped in my own head. I do remember gravitating toward tourists and migrants to L.A. because their wonder with the world and its inhabitants hadn't been savagely beaten and left for dead by their own egos.

Remember that one hippie chick from The Voice? This is her.

After having a wonderful encounter with an androgynous salesperson named Pat at Barnes and Nobles (Yes, I'm so not kidding. I have no idea what gender that person was but he/she was very kind to let me use the employee bathroom.) and eating lunch, we drove down Santa Monica Blvd to Wilshire. We rode past Rodeo Drive then up La Cienega to Sunset then all the way down the winding ride of Sunset to Pacific Coast Highway where we watched the surfers try to catch a wave. These had been all of my favorite sights to see and roads to drive as a resident. Where I'd think and search for answers within myself. Where I was free to dream in waking solace. I probably looked like a zombie.

We then returned to Venice Beach and walked to Whole Foods before settling in for the night. Memories collided with the present. Some good. Some bad. Mostly funny. It's amazing and fortunate how I've grown and how I haven't changed a bit. Just like California.

Los Angeles: Day 2 (Venice Beach)

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sun, 02 Sep 2012 23:34:00 +0000

The pad on Dudley was pretty sweet.

While in Los Angeles, it is easy to get caught up in the "fuck you, pay me" mentality required to survive in style (with money) here, but I dare say that is even more enticing to make one's acquaintance with the softer, sweeter side of Golden Statery. There is a coolness here that people have. A vibe which proclaims that life is more than a rat race. Life is about stopping and smelling the poppies. Catching the perfect wave at the beach. Skating down the sidewalk instead of walking. Creating art on a spoon.

For the Southern Californian beach dweller, the day seems to pass by at a slower rate of speed. Or maybe, it's just that the day starts sooner. I know I was up at sunrise itching to go out to the coast. From our bungalow, it was a two minute stroll. The sand, still cool from the previous night, was bespeckled with meandering gull prints. Joggers, young and old, made their way along the foam of the tide's edge.

The water just seems to goes on forever.

"I don't know a more terrible way to spend a morning, " one jogger commented as he passed us. "I'd much rather be getting a root canal." Good old wry Californian wit.

Standing on the sand looking out at that big blue, there is no other matter because nothing else matters. There is just now and peace and serenity and whatever notion that pops into one's head. I forgot why the hell I moved away from this place. Why the hell did I move away from this place? This feeling? This now? Back in the day, I was so consumed with finishing school and getting the right job and going to as many places in the country that I could before it was too late. I never did find out what time "too late" was. I'm still trying to figure it out. Currently, I don't think it exists.

I could totally live here with Hubby.

So after the hubby and I did some katas and stuck our feet in the water and marveled aloud at how great we were feeling, I made a promise to sell as many novels as necessary to finance our relocation to this place. I told my husband that I would convert him into a kept man and we would live together in one of these beach rentals. We would spend our mornings and evenings out on the sand and the time in the middle would be filled with writing and creating and baby-making. We would be inspired by the characters of Venice Beach to write my second award-winning novel which would finance our relocation to our next paradise.

Los Angeles: Day 1

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 16:21:00 +0000

Flying into Los Angeles, the city seems to go on forever.

Whenever I return to Los Angeles, I remember the times I spent sitting in traffic singing at the top of my lungs to keep from losing my mind. I remember meeting a random guy at a gas station who later stole discounted toilet paper from a super market and split the proceeds with me. I remember juggling college and full time work and extra work and volunteering and dating. (Where did all that energy go?) Now, upon my return to L.A. for a week long visit with my husband, we are most excited not about sights like beaches or tar pits or walks of fame but rather honey walnut prawns, hot dogs and huge burritos. That's right. We have officially become foodie tourists. Crazy.

After deboarding the plane, we found the rental car shuttle to pick up our reservation. The exchange with the rental guy was a real gem. I was immediately reminded of how L.A. is all about the hard sale. The billboards, the celebrities, the residents, everything all converges to sell you something. The convo went like this.

Venice Beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond.

"Hey are y'all Nigerian? Because my wife and I know Nigerians." How nice. He knew people from another country. I wished I had a cookie to give to him.

"Yes, we do happen to be." I am Nigerian by marriage but I didn't feel like going into detail on that with him.

"Oh wonderful. Nigerians love Louis Vutton bags." Okay, lovely stereotype, Asshole. This was him establishing a "connection" with us and also figuring aloud that we, as a people, like to spend our hard-earned money on unnecessary crap.

"Some of us do." Just like any other population of human beings who may or may not have name brand preferences in bags.

"We'll give you the week-long rental for $75 but it's going to be a real gas guzzler like a Grand Marquis or a Crown Victoria. I can switch you to a more gas efficient car for an additional $10 a day." So, he was going to be doing us a favor. Right. I swear I selected the economy class car when I made the reservation. This fool wanted us to double down to avoid driving something with a V8 (which we had not chosen) to save on gas as if the V8 technology hasn't improved on fuel efficiency since 1912. I don't scare easy. I wanted the damn $75 deal.

"We'll take our chances with the sales deal, Sir." I used to live here. I know where the cheap gas stations are and how to avoid traffic.

"Okay, well you'll also want to get the basic insurance for $9 a day because blah, blah, blah and if the car comes back with a single scratch then you could be paying $250 a day for repairs blah, blah, blah." A scratch? Oh no! I have no faith in my own driving skills. I'm definitely going to scratch up the car. Let me give this insulting idiot and an additional $63 for fear of a scratch.

"We've got full coverage through our insurance plan. No thanks." Thank you, Geico.

After that whole rental debacle, we got our hands on some honey
walnut prawns courtesy of Hop Woo in Chinatown.

"But according to California law blah, blah, blah and the cost of going without this additional coverage will end up hitting you really hard." Dude didn't know he was talking to an attorney and someone who used to work in direct sales. Jerk. He was probably gunning for a sales prize because as I listened to the other rental clerks around me they were all trying to upsell from the threat of the V8 and push the basic insurance coverage. And they were not backing down from first and second refusals. Thank goodness I love saying "no" a lot.

"No, thanks."

We went out to the lot to retrieve our suppposed cop car and the only car available was an Ultima. We did our own inspection to check for dings and scratches but upon final checkout the attendant revealed that we would only actually be liable for dents. Sigh.

Welcome to Los Angeles. Home of "I will tell you as many lies as I can muster to make a bonus on my check." Yeah, I remember that all too well. This is one of the reasons why I live in Atlanta.

A Tale of Two Open Mics

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 22:32:00 +0000

Venturing out into Atlanta nightlife has officially become an exercise in introspection. I'm not sure if its on account of me or the city itself or a combination thereof. Perhaps my going out at night always was a journey into myself. In any case, I've taken note and I believe this tango with self-awareness is the impetus for my hunt for open-mic poetry. I guess I want to hear the inner dialogue of others in technicolor, dolby digital and all that. I've got a thing for words. Thus I visited two different open mic nights this week. The first was on Wednesday night at Rev Coffee on Spring Street in Smyrna. The second was on Thursday night at Hodge Podge on Moreland Avenue in Atlanta.

Rev Coffee
This place was a pleasant mix of suburbia with distinct notes of metropolis. Just about everyone on the mic was an aspiring folk singer with the exception of a Bach-playing cellist and an improvising actress. What I enjoyed most about the joint was the clear energy of acceptance; a comfort in the newness of what a brave guitar-strumming expressionist may present. An appreciation for baring one's naked soul while being shrouded in song. I fed off of the energy of the youth there. Oh, they are so hopeful and confident in their ignorance. I wanted to protect them from their future selves. I found myself time-travelling back to my own college days of angry poetry and experimentation in love poetry and wondering about the world poetry. I was inspired to write in my little black notebook. I think I'll make this place a regular Wednesday night treat. I like how the place looks like a coffee-loving collegiate dorm room on steroids. Also, Rev Coffee's pineapple smoothies are the bomb.

Hodge Podge
The vibe of Hodge Podge truly invites people to gather and spend a little time, make new acquaintances and come again soon. I found students surfing the web at cafe tables in one section, young ladies gathered in a knitting circle in another section, and the open mic DJ setting up his sound system in the largest room/area. The open mic program itself was in its initial stages of development with only two brave souls singing covers of popular songs. Maybe I should have brought my poetry and spit a little something. I ended up having this eye-opening conversation with two other ladies about myriad topics including the pros and cons of Atlanta life, love and marriage and past encounters with interesting strangers. After eating a heavenly triple-chocolate cupcake and drinking a Mandarin Orange Jarritos, I felt even more confident that I would return on the second Thursday of next month to perform. Goodness, I haven't done a poem out loud in public since I lived in Los Angeles. However, this place just inspired conversation...connection. It had the energy of being on the brink of an explosion. Anything was possible around me, within me.

*****
So, as I return to school in the fall to take this writing addiction to the next level, there is something awakening in me. Beckoning me back to the roots of my words, the well from which I draw what makes me want to go crazy with a pen and a notebook or rather a laptop. I like it. I feel like I'm being reborn. Not to say I won't go to crazy parties and sip on dirty martinis. I admittedly need the wildness of nightlife as continued inspiration for my story-telling. I am, however, enjoying the peace of the present while getting hyped about my future. I liken it to the feeling one gets just before uttering their first word in front of a live microphone at some quaint little coffeeshop.....

June 29th - Barcelona Atlanta @ Inman Park

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sat, 30 Jun 2012 15:00:00 +0000

A few days ago, Metro Atlanta received an official heat advisory from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. I couldn't quite comprehend how the temperature could manage to get any hotter than what it already was. It's been summer since early March. We barely had a winter and there had been absolutely no spring. The trees were utterly confused. Left with no choice but to bloom bigger, stronger, greener. Fortify for the supposed armageddon in December.

Lo and behold the temperature dial read 109 degrees on the car's dash as I motored to last night's happy hour meetup. Shit. Drinking in this heat? Why? When I handed my keys to the valet at Barcelona Atlanta, the dial had inched up to 111 degrees. God help us all.

The bar/restaurant was full of people. Speaking at the top of their lungs because everyone else was speaking at the top of their lungs. There is no such thing as an "indoor voice" at a bar. I ordered a white wine sangria. No way I was gonna suck all the moisture from my face with some dry death concoction tonight. Damned adult acne. I looked around the establishment. There was the after-work crowd with their pressed button downs and belted slacks. Their sleek, sophisticated dresses. They looked like they had been here for hours. There was also a random group of women with a very young baby. I couldn't make up any reason in my head to explain why they were here with an infant so I turned away from them before they caught me staring. There was the wait staff playing with their phones, waiting for more people to squeeze themselves into a place which was rapidly becoming the place to be. Everyone seemed to be drinking mojitos.

This was the second time I'd been been here and I'm sure I would return again at some later date. Whether they eventually offered a bona fide drink special or not. There was just something about the place. It had this understated sex appeal. This casual elegance. And each time I uttered its name, I would let the combo of consonants and vowels lazily roll off of my tongue. I'm meeting some ladies at Barcelona. We're having cocktails and tapas at Barcelona. Perhaps, we should make reservations at Barcelona. (Note to self: Look up vacation destinations in Spain.)

As soon as my party of professional gals convened, we fell into an easy conversation on careers, parenting, politics and marriage. A few weeks ago, I'd scolded my husband for assuming that all women talk about are relationships. However, as I listened and contributed to the fray I had to admit that he was right. At this age, everything about life is an application of self to whatever particular relationship. In our younger days, we take our encounters with life for granted. As we grow older, we also grow into this state of double consciousness. We live our lives and we watch ourselves live our lives. Sometimes with delight. Sometimes with disgust. Sometimes with wonderment. Always with resolve. We recognize ourselves as others recount their tales. We often have the same reaction in tragedy or in triumph. We laugh. We order another round. We eat our tapas and sop up alioli with bread. We change the subject.

I stole away to the restroom, which I must say is one of the oddest features of Barcelona. Instead of having a men's and women's communal setup with individual stalls, there is one private restroom for a single male and two such restrooms for women. Initially, I thought this to be rather inconvenient for anyone who had a dire toilet-related emergency. However, as I waited outside of one of the women's rooms for my turn, I couldn't help but imagine coming here one night with my husband and surreptitiously snatching him into this bathroom for an impromptu slap and tickle after trying two or three of those mojitos. As I entered the bathroom, I giggled at the picture on the wall. I think Barcelona winked at me.

I returned to the table, laughed as the ladies ogled some strapping young man walk by outside, paid my check and then ventured back out into the lake of fire temperature to retrieve my car. Feeling sentimental, I held onto to the logo-stamped matches I'd grabbed while exiting. Yeah, I'd definitely go back.

June 23rd - Highland and Ponce

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sun, 24 Jun 2012 19:44:00 +0000

For an introverted nightlife addict, being in an ideal romantic relationship can be a double-edged sword. On one hand, love is bliss and leaving the home seems totally unnecessary because Hubby and I get each other's jokes and have great conversations and so on and so forth. On the other hand, we never leave the house. While we sometimes begrudge the idea of making social dates outside of the ones we are constantly making with each other, we need them. So last night, I invited a good friend to go for drinks in celebration of her landing a new gig. KM and I had both worked for the equivalent of hell on earth together. While I'd told hell what it could do with its job back in April , she'd gotten the chance to do the same just a few days ago. Now hell's failure would be complete.

Tyrome Jerome's Cuz is available @ 678-680-3543.

I was initially thinking Loca Luna but I figured why not be a little more adventurous by doing some barhopping along Highland Avenue. The thing I love about Atlanta is that all throughout the city there are these great little pedestrian-friendly neighborhoods featuring deceptively large homes, shops, markets and surprisingly awesome restaurants and bars. Virginia Highlands is definitely one such place. Hubby and I had ventured to its Surin of Thailand on numerous occasions but I had yet to visit such places as Neighbors Pub, Blind Willie's, Limerick Junction or Dark Horse Tavern. These venues often offer live acts during weeknights and exceptional happy hour specials. Plus this particular part of Highland Avenue made for excellent people watching. After parking in a great spot around the corner, we immediately ran into Tyrome Jerome's Cuz pictured left. Apparently, Tyrome Jerome's Cuz is available for parties and special events. He gave us a card and wished us well in our imbibing pursuits.

Guy behind the bar makes a helluva dirty martini.

Because Blind Willie's was charging a cover, we went next door to Limerick Junction. I had my signature Ketel One dirty martini with extra olives. KM had Johnny Walker Red on the rocks. We shared some curry fries. Okay, that particular martini was the best martini I have had since I moved here to Atlanta. The fries were also top notch. While we were there, we sat at this little table facing the street to check out the passersby. Earlier that night, I'd convinced KM to wear comfy shoes so she'd have a better time in lieu of being in pain by putting style first. This wonderfully dressed young woman came walking by with her date and it was evident that she was in a great deal of agony. Her extraordinarily cute shoes were really killing both her and her dates chances for having a good night. He was wearing flip flops. KM high-fived me.

We settled up at Limerick Junction and moved down the street to Neighbors. For some reason, we got the sense that it was either a gay bar or at least a gay-friendly establishment. Not that it being gay friendly or not was necessarily relevant, it's just that I notice I have a habit of accidentally finding myself in gay bars and I thought it prudent to be informed this time around. Before updating our respective Facebook statuses, I leaned over and asked the guys at the table next to us. They replied with an emphatic "no" and asked why we assumed they were gay. I told them that I thought nothing of the sort and figured they would either be there because it was or was not a gay bar. They looked around at the other tables and concluded that it was indeed an acceptable assumption to make because all of the tables were sexually homogeneous. We laughed. God, the South. People have been gay since the beginning of time, but for some reason Southerners refuse to accept those "unholy" antics of their friends, coworkers, cousins and yes, neighbors. Also, to be confused for a card-carrying member is just unforgivable. Frankly, I think that all of the controversy over any adult's sexual preference is rather gay. Let's just live and let live, shall we?

After another not-as-good-as-the-one-at-Limerick dirty martini , I gave one of the guys some tips on how to party for free during his upcoming trip to Vegas. I asked for some recommendations on good Atlanta nightlife spots and they told me that I'd just have to drive around the city and try my luck although nothing was going to quite live up to the debauchery I'd experienced in Sin City. By the way, why had I left Las Vegas they inquired. For love and marriage. (I missed Hubby right at that moment. Damn this being married to Mr. Right.) We bid the dudes farewell, strolled back to the car and then moved on to the final party of the night at the infamous Clermont Lounge just around the corner on Ponce De Leon.

Is that a guy hanging off the side of the roof?

I'd visited Clermont Lounge previously on karaoke (Tuesday) night but never on a Saturday night. The place was really jumping. While this one naked chick was making her pectoral muscle individually bounce her left boob at the bar, KM and I had a very pleasant conversation with a 48-year-old mother of three visiting from Tulsa. She was here for a business conference and was delightfully tipsy after drinking two vodka cranberries. We asked her what her secret was for looking so good for her age. She said it was happiness. I don't know. I kind of wanted to slap her for saying that. I knew plenty of happy fat people.

The DJ arrived shortly after and we contributed our bodies to the crowd on the dance floor for quite some time before making our exit. The funny thing about Clermont Lounge (other than the fact that it is a dive strip bar featuring strippers who will never grace the covers of Playboy, Hustler, XXL or any men's magazine featuring ideally attractive women) is that so many professional 30 and up year old people come there to dance and have a good time. We're pretty sure we spotted a Georgia Congressman. If it wasn't for the fact that there seemed to be no central air, I suppose we could have stayed well into the wee hours of the night. Alas, I had to get KM's drunk ass home and return to my own personal wedded bliss. I had no business being out gallivanting in the first place. (Wink)

Flashback - Couples' Night Gone Wrong

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 16:18:00 +0000

This weekend, the hubby and I plan on visiting with another couple that just had twins. I'm pretty confident the visit will be very chill and wholesome with no drama or foolishness. What a relief. Back in the day, when I first moved to Las Vegas I remember a couples' night that was anything but normal.

I used to be heavily involved with a guy to whom I never should have given my number, my attention or my time. Let's call him "Sam". Nevertheless, I began a relationship with Sam and tried my best to cultivate it by engaging in various "team-building" exercises such as eating dinner at his uncle's house or going with him to score pot from a little one-armed guy with an eye patch in the hood behind Stratosphere. One night, we visited with a married couple on the other side of town. They were friends somehow of Sam's uncle and we thought it prudent to hang out with other couples who were close in age to us. We'll call this couple "Von" and "Betty". The idea was to have dinner with them, have a couple of brews and play cards or dominoes. You know, just an old fashioned hang session, despite the fact that we were living in one of the most exciting cities on earth.

Von greeted us at the door when we arrived. As any proper host would, he invited us in, made us comfortable and prepared us a drink. We asked after Betty. She wasn't home yet because she was just finishing getting her hair done at the salon. She would be back shortly. In the meantime, we would just enjoy each other's company. An hour went by before Betty arrived. She came in, barely spoke to us, gave Von a look and then immediately went to the master bedroom. We suggested a three-handed game of spades. Von excused himself to the bedroom. Sam and I looked at each other and then looked at the front door. There was going to be trouble.

Von emerged from the bedroom, all smiles, letting us know that Betty was just changing her clothes and would be out to join us in no time. We shrugged and grabbed more beer from the fridge. It's no problem. We'd wait for her before starting a game. I think Von managed one swig of his drink before going back into the bedroom. At this point, I'm pretty sure that an argument had ensued between them but I could not be sure. Either the walls of the apartment were well insulated or they were not the yelling types. A few more moments passed and Betty emerged wearing this slinky little dress that was way too cute to just sit at home in. Betty was going out and evidently without Von, Sam or me. Von followed her to the front door and asked her where she was going. Out, she replied. While putting on her shoes and grabbing a shawl, she neglected to put her cell phone in her purse. The cell phone sat on the kitchen counter. Von noticed the slip and surreptitiously covered the phone with his hand before sneaking it into his pocket. Betty left.

Sam and I stood up from the kitchen table and attempted to make a cordial exit but Von wasn't having it. He was determined to have all of us sitting around the table, Betty included, drinking beer and playing cards. We froze in our tracks while Von perused the history in his wife's cell phone. Then suddenly Von flew out of the front door, presumably in pursuit of his wife. I turned to Sam and exclaimed, "Oh shit! We gotta bounce!" Careful to leave the door unlocked, we made our way down the stairs and away from the building where we witnessed Von snatching Betty out of the driver's seat of her car before sitting in it himself.

"Where are you going, Betty? You going out? Who with? This fool that keeps calling your phone? Who is this fool calling your phone?", Von hurled at Betty.

"I don't have to tell you shit, Von. I'm going out. Don't worry about who's on my phone. Get out of my car!" Betty spat back.

Sam and I decided not to wave or say goodbye. We backed away from the scene toward our own car but kept an eye out to make sure no fisticuffs took place. A couple more statements were thrown back and forth between the couple before Von pushed Betty away from the car, closed the car door and started the engine. Meanwhile, Betty scampered back toward the car, clutched the door frame and decided to hold onto the car even as it backed out of the slanted parking spot, stopped and continued forward down the street. Those had to be at least four inch heels she was wearing but I have to admit she was keeping up pretty well running along side that car. I can just see her little legs pumping even now when I close my eyes and remember.

There was nothing else for us to do but go home at that point. We ended up not calling or visiting with Von or Betty again. We thought it would be best not do so to so for the sake of our own relationship and to spare them any embarrassment. Today, all I can do is laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I think that night foreshadowed the things to come between Sam and I. Thank God, we're not together anymore.

April 20 - High Museum of Art

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 01:00:00 +0000

Last night, my first outing was to Atlanta's High Museum of Art. Yes, I know. It's quite humorous to go to a place known as the "High" on April 20th. It just happened to be a cute little coincidence. My good friend Kristin was kind enough to let me tag along on her two-for-one ticket deal to see the Picasso to Warhol: Fourteen Modern Masters exhibit. I was game to see more work from Picasso and I was curious to learn the reasons behind the hype for Warhol. The other 12 artists would be much appreciated lagniappe. Additionally, Jazz at the High, which takes place every third Friday, was also happening. Kenneth Whalum and Joe Gransden would be performing. I have no idea who either of those artists are but it matters not. We went, we ate a little dinner there and drank cocktails before heading on up to the exhibit first. Both the dinner and the cocktails were delightful. A wonderfully flavorful pasta and my signature dirty martini. Yum.

The first picture we saw was Pablo Picasso's Girl Before A Mirror. I think any woman would be able to recognize the power of the statement in that piece. We all look in the mirror and seem to see the worst of ourselves no matter what reality or the mirror actually reflects. I was moved. Then I went on to the other works when Kristin and I were all but accosted by one of Kristin's college classmates. Let's call him "Steven". Tall and pale with closely cropped hair and a goatee, I assumed that Steven was into men. However, literally five minutes after we shook hands he revealed that he hadn't sex in two years. Furthermore, he wasn't into drinking or drugs so he felt that his social life was suffering on account. Born and raised in Atlanta, he had been "whupped" regularly by both parents and grandparents. He didn't really care for the portrait of his grandmother which hung above his parents sofa because it looked as if it was watching his every move. He planned on making an entrepreneurial move to Lagos, Nigeria in the next year and had recently cried while attending a Nneka concert. Steven seemed to suffer a disconnect with white women because he was under the impression that they all wanted to go to Paris, eat cheese and fart. Again, Steven wasn't into drinking so he had only actually been drunk once. He had been horrified by that particular experience. So much so, that he woke up sweating from a nightmare about being intoxicated. Steven managed to reveal all this information to me while gazing upon works by Jackson Pollock, Romare Bearden and finally Andy Warhol.

My impression of Andy Warhol was that he managed to do for art what many CEOs had done in commerce. Take an existing idea, reproduce in multiples, brand and sell to the masses. An artistic wonder? Eh. A shrewd businessperson? Sure. As for Steven, he might as well have been one of the exhibits. I was as much intrigued with him as I was with Bearden's collages. He'd offered so much about himself in just that short window of time that I'd hoped he had at least been under the influence of some hardcore prescription drug. I guess some people are open like that. So what, I reveal all sorts of stuff on a blog. As if anyone reads. Alas, I think we Americans tend to tax our freedom of speech. We can't help expressing what we feel, think and know even when we might run the risk of revealing too much. Maybe both Steven and I should both pick up a brush and be a little less literal. But, then again, where's the fun in that?

Kristin and I ended up not sticking around for the jazz. The acoustics really sucked although I'm sure the artists were quite nice. We had other plans for the evening. But that's another blog post.

For now, I really do encourage everyone who has a chance to check out the High for this exhibit or any other exhibit coming up. Art, in all of its forms, is such a wonderfully reflective and fulfilling approach to communicating the true nature of the human spirit. Truly something to behold.

April 14 - The Sound Table

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 00:23:00 +0000

During last year's tumultuous task of wedding planning, the hubby and I made a valiant effort to put the cares of the event aside and attend a few social events here and there. One such event included clubbing at this spot on Buford Highway in the name of a friend's birthday. We hadn't been out dancing in Providence knows how long. I hadn't been going to my Latin dance classes at Dance 101, so it was an understatement to say that I needed this. The biggest issue that night was what to wear.

When I first turned 30, I was still into stilettos and tight little dresses. And every now and then, that is still my uniform of choice. But these days I can't stand a screaming foot. I want to dance with wild abandon whenever I have the opportunity. Some hot-in-the-ass dress does not properly afford that. I wore jeans, a top and some sensible platforms. Hubby wore jeans with a shirt and breathable boots. When we showed up at the club, we were dressed for the wrong event. Rather, I was dressed for the wrong event. I saw women my age of all shapes and sizes stuffed down in dresses more appropriate for the 20 year old wanton. Initially, I felt stupid but then I realized that thinking I was stupid was what was really stupid. I'll explain.

I am no longer 20 something and I no longer believe in sporting the glory of my uncovered ass for the hell of it. My femininity is not defined by my neckline or hemline. I don't think self-mummification via a lycra dress is necessary to accentuate my assets. Nor do I delight in planting a crop of corns on my feet for the sake of fashion. And finally, I'm not a featured product in the never-ending meat market scenario that seems to be today's nightlife. I don't mean to put down those ladies who like to do all of the aforementioned things. Hey, more power to you! You look sexy and all that. But c'mon. Most of the men were still dressed like they took a break from playing XBOX to get their rocks off. I damn well knew that they were my age and had a dress shirt somewhere in their closet. Ladies, why are we putting ourselves on display for men who think a graphic tee with a comedic message is dressing up?

Sigh. After that particular occasion, I really didn't miss clubbing all that much. I got back to wedding planning and coveted my nights indoors away from the fray.

But today's a new day. Dancing is still a necessity in my book. After being hipped to the scene at The Sound Table, I can breathe a mature sigh of relief. The second Saturday of each month features the wheels-of-steel stylings of DJ Kemit Kickin' Up Dust. The cover is $5. The scene is come as you are. The crowd is pleasantly 20, 30 and 40 something, wine-loving, no-nonsense and representative of the rainbow that is our American population. Instead of the focus being the potential hook-up, the star of the night is the music. What was so delightful about my experience this past Saturday was the fact that the DJ played most of every song instead of just snippets like that ass clown of a DJ at the above-referenced Club Ass Hat. (I'm not bitter.) And when I say song, I mean good old-fashioned soul music where the lyrics are actually poetic and sublime. The melody is more than just a looped guitar riff and a contrived bass line. I'm talking actual instrumentation, People.

Some of the song highlights for me included Love You Inside Out by The Bee Gees, Wikka Wrap by The Evasions, The Big Payback by James Brown and Black Betty by Ram Jam. What really cracked me up was when everyone was singing the lyrics to What A Fool Believes by The Doobie Brothers. I only know one person that actually knows the real lyrics to that song and that is Alex Raffi of Imagine Communications. Whatever Doobie brother that is singing sounds like he has a mouthful of bad tasting jello but he's still trying to sing around it. LOL Good times.

Anyway, I left The Sound Table just as hyped as all get up. I was talking a mile a minute and feeling amorous. A great time was had by me. Of course the two cocktails I had could have been a contributing factor but who's really paying attention. Kudos to you DJ Kemit!

April 7 - Fat Matt's Rib Shack

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 18:43:00 +0000

As we get on in age we tend to get so caught up in planning and saving and using wisdom to direct our paths. That's all well and good, but oh, the blessed spontaneity of our youth is not something that should be packed away á la high school yearbooks and lettermen jackets. Sometimes, it's okay to be inappropriately dressed and unarmed with any real sense of a direction on a Saturday night in Atlanta. Unlike college days, we have a bit more disposable cash, a well-maintained car and health insurance. Hence, after not being able to find a parking spot at Midtown Landmark to go see the 8:00pm show of The Raid:Redemption, we found ourselves driving through Virginia Highland looking for some sort of dive bar with live entertainment, Yuengling and palatable appetizers until the 10:20pm show of The Raid: Redemption. We happened upon Fat Matt's Rib Shack.

According to my betrothed, Fat Matt's is considered to be one of Atlanta's longtime, top destinations for heart-attack inducing grub. There's no pretense about this place. No gimmicks or ritzy restaurant design. It's quite literally a glorified shack with a kitchen and a patio. All the tables and chairs rock and not on purpose. The menu is painted on the wall. The stage is on the opposite side of the restaurant with the bathrooms right next to said stage. It was perfect. We parked and stood in the line which was extended outside of the door. Great sign.

This being my third year living in Atlanta, I've learned patience and have given up the notion of Las Vegas type VIP consideration when trying to access any night time entertainment. At Fat Matt's we were going to have to stand in line whether we planned on dining in or taking out. While Hubby grabbed a table and ordered a couple of beers, I stood in line and weighed the options of splitting a whole rack of ribs for $20 or a half rack of ribs for $10 with a side of potato salad. I decided on the half rack. We were determined to see that damn movie AND get popcorn. Once, our order was placed I rejoined Hubby at the table and began sucking down my Yuengling. Turns out we were seated next to a group of musicians and entertainers who were trying to sit in with The Jump'n Jukes who were scheduled to perform tonight. Somebody knew the bass guitarist and played in another band with him or something and she sang and he rapped and they played big band jazz standards. Hell if I knew. Nevertheless, they were all quite pleasant.

I was reminded again of college days in New Orleans. All the guys in Jazz Studies at UNO just a giggin' about town at places like The Funky Butt, The Red Room, Cafe Brasil and Snug Harbor. We made the world better by enjoying each other's company with good music and good food instead of worrying about why the recalcitrant neighbor down the street wouldn't pay his HOA dues and was operating a business out of his garage.

The food arrived quickly. Compared to Fox Bro.s Bar-B-Q, the rib meat wasn't seasoned quite as well. However, the actual barbecue sauce and the potato salad was slammin. I'd go back. As for the entertainment, The Jumpin' Jukes were on point and the lady that sat in absolutely killed Route 66. I kind of felt badly for staying home on Monday nights to make fun of Christina Aguilera's stylist on The Voice while this real talent was floating about my new-found hometown. We left Fat Matt's feeling both satisfied and nostalgic. We vowed that we would make our first summer as married friends a dedication to our fun-loving, fancy free youth. And yes, we did see The Raid: Redemption at 10:20pm.

April 7 - Pillow Fight @ Freedom Park

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 18:39:00 +0000

Goodness, has it really been two years? Where has the time gone? Friends, readers, followers please forgive me. Instead of being out partying and recording all of the sordid details, I was busy finding loving, planning a wedding and getting married. I promise it won't happen again.

In this year of rumored apocalypse, Armageddon and generally the end of the world as we know it, Atlanta's weather has been awfully strange. Winter came and went in less than two months. Spring perhaps lasted for about a week. As of the past couple of weeks, we've been experiencing 80 + degree weather. I ain't complainin'. Atlanta's special brand of my favorite season radiates in shades of green that outdazzle any emerald. And like all of the trees and flowering plants and outside critters, something inside me comes ALIVE and I've got to be outdoors soaking it in. I awoke with the mission to go to the park. Any park. After developing a proposal for the day's activities, which my husband could not refuse, I prepared a picnic basket, chairs and my other half for an afternoon at Freedom Park.

Upon arrival, the park was relatively empty with the exception of some ne'erdowells under a tree, a few pet owners with their dogs and four sanguine shirtless Frisbee tossers. To describe the scene as pleasant would have been a criminal understatement. The park was gorgeous. The air and sun were perfection. The world could have its bad economy, celebrity scandals and racially charged tales of woe. Here we were in the park with our toes in the grass and all was indeed well.

As the time passed, we noticed an uptick in fellow parkers. They all looked of the neo-hippie persuasion and which came as no real shock to us. What seemed odd is that they all had pillows. Not blankets or chairs. Just pillows. After a few moments of shameless staring and ear-hustling (a phrased coined by my husband which is another fancy way of saying eavesdropping) we deduced that there was going to be a park pillow fight. Oh joy! What fun! Why had we not been made aware? Where could we go buy pillows? It's happened every year on the first Saturday in April for three years? Oh poo! Well, we'll definitely bring a pillow next year. For now, we'd watch.

We positioned ourselves on a hill in clear view of the activities and let the energy of the moment wash over us. Men and women, girls and boys, young and old and even a few dogs were having the time of their lives laughing and swinging pillows at each other. All you could hear were thwaps and giggles. Some fighters had one or two targets in mind while others just ran around wacking anyone who had a pillow. Even the guy selling popsicles from one of those little pushcarts was knockin' heads. Hubby and I stood pointing, laughing and discussing what strategies we would use if only we had brought our pillows. Again, why had we not heard about this? The opportunity to be a kid again out in public while beating someone senseless with a pillow? No duh. That's me 1000%. Well, next year it would be on. We made a mental note and then headed on to to the grocery store to try our best to pick up healthy foods and avoid purchasing Ben and Jerry's Pistachio Pistachio.

July 2nd - Tongue and Groove / Fab

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 22:49:00 +0000

I'll have to say that last night's overall theme was the importance of the party shoe. Afterall, it was my choice of shoe which determined my outfit, my outing and my entire mood for the night. Let me explain.

Well no duh. It's Independence Day weekend. Atlanta is teeming with activities in which to partake just about every damn night. My absolute perfection of a significant other is out of town. Initially, this was a major bummer since I've grown quite accustomed to sharing my nightlife with him. However, I got over it. Not to sound cold but I had to think critically about this opportunity. I'm in a new city without a chaperon of any sort on a major holiday weekend with my Fuji Finepix camera and a need to expend some energy. Plus, this time next year I may be married and pregnant picking out cribs and curtains. Sit at home and mope or hit the streets? The decision was clear.

I consulted my closet. While in L.A. for a wedding last week, I scored these amazingly hot shoes (pictured above) and decided I needed to wear them. I even put them on while selecting my outfit. I had the choice of going to a party featuring no dress code and electronic music; an all night open mic featuring live musicians and spoken word; a party that would be well attended by strippers and armed gangsters; or a ladies' lounge affair at an upscale spot in Buckhead. The shoes were way too cute to not wear a dress. They were ultra comfortable so I could afford to dance as opposed to spectating. Finally, there was no need to be shot that night and only have the opportunity to wear the shoes once. I chose the ladies' lounge experience in Buckhead at Tongue and Groove and then would round out the night at a party being held by my favorite African party promoter at Fab. (Thanks for the hook-up, Emeka.) The shoes lead me to a cute little dress I hadn't donned in a while. Thankfully, my ass still fit in it. Why does happiness always equate to weight gain?

After taking a power nap and fighting the urge to ignore my alarm by staying in bed with Genesis the dog, I got up,prepped, did some stretching and rolled out. The theme song for the night was Shut Up and Let Me Go by The Ting Tings. I drove down the 85 feeling quite delicious indeed. I blame the shoes.

I arrived at Tongue and Groove at about 10:30pm. I was pleased right away. There was complimentary valet parking. Since I had wisely signed up for the guestlist, I scored a break from paying the normal $20 cover. Once inside, there was a promotion to build the club's email database which involved me earning a complimentary dirty martini. The dirty martini had been masterfully mixed by this nice bartender. Kudos, pretty Asian lady. You rock with olive juice. Although I was very happy with the experience thus far, I couldn't help but be a bit confused by the motivation for the club. There wasn't actually a dance floor and there wasn't enough seating to consider it a lounge. Additionally, there were very few seats around the bar which seemed to dominate the venue. Then there was this one random go-go dancer on her own little stage. Perhaps I should've gone upstairs but I was otherwise baffled by the venue's lack of a clear personality.

Oh well. I ended up helping a lady named Vonne (sp?) celebrate her 44th birthday by taking pictures of her and her friends before advising her on wearing inserts to keep her feet from slipping down in her shoes. Available at Payless Shoe Source for about $3.00. My own feet felt fabulous! No inserts necessary. Vonne looked wonderful! Definitely not 44. See picture left. She was pretty drunk. After spilling her second drink, her friends whisked her away. They were so pleasant. Before leaving at midnight, I spent a good 45 minutes talking marketing with this guy from Alabama who spoke Japanese despite his deep Southern accent. He was delightful. I found a random chick and introduced them to each other. She had a chin like Jay Leno but seemed very sweet and sexy otherwise.

It took me about ten minutes to get from Buckhead to Fab in downtown Atlanta. As per my agreement with God, I found a ridiculously wonderful and free parking space before sauntering to the club to stand in line. Behind me, three ladies were discussing their individual shoe time limits. They each had a few hours before their feet would begin to cripple them with relentless pain. However, their shoes were cute. As for me, my Marc Fisher 4.5 inch heels were all that and pain free! Happy me!

I got into Fab and appreciated how well-dressed the crowd was. There was a positive energy in the air and a real chill mood happening on all three levels of the club. The bar once again dominated the ground floor. The second floor featured the bathrooms and another bar but very little space otherwise. The top floor was an outdoor patio and lounge thus making the first floor the only site to dance. Is Atlanta nightlife all about drinking? Maybe it was because Fab was a restaurant during the day. I don't know. I found a space on the dance floor where I could move to the schizophrenic song selections of the dj while catching up on the outcome of the last Ghana match in the World Cup. Why do men no longer ask ladies to dance? They just come dancing up on you and then try to take liberties with their curious, conniving hands. I had to dismiss three guys for that foolishness before having a rather swinging time with a fourth guy on the dance floor. Again, my feet felt lovely! I left Fab in great spirits. The whole night cost me about $15, I wasn't sore and I had a great parking space. Good times!

June 12th - Maxwell and Jill Scott @ Philips Arena

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sun, 13 Jun 2010 22:16:00 +0000

Last night is the first time I ever attended a concert that actually made me tired. It wasn't that the concert was bad. In fact it was absolutely fabulous! It was awesome! It was the bomb and the grenade. Because it was all of these things, my little excited soul was completely worn out. Oh, all the excitement simply ravished me. I saw Maxwell and Jill Scott at Philips Arena and I promise if they ever decide to do another concert either together or separately, I will be there wearing my proverbial bells.

We began the night with drinks alongwith a fellow and newly-engaged couple at Sidebar. (Congrats DJ Underground and Sherita!) Despite the FIFA games going on, the bar was surprisingly empty save for a fews chicks taking shots, a drunk guy waving a really large and tattered American flag and an even drunker guy in a blue cap dancing in front of the jukebox in the corner. The blue-capped guy really took the cake. We imagined that he had suffered a recent heartbreak and needed the company of kindredly sloshed spirits to alleviate his pain while he danced rather haphazardly and shamelessly to Mariah Carey. Why do drunk people hug so much?

The flag guy kept pacing back and forth trying to rouse the crowd because of the U.S.'s World Cup tie with Britain. He even made sure to distribute high fives all around. I was more concerned with the state of that flag. One is not supposed to ever allow the colors to touch the floor. Nor should an American flag in disrepair be prominently displayed ...not even by a sot. Alas, since I'm not the flag police, I said nothing. I drank my cocktail, enjoyed my company and anticipated the fine show I was about to witness.

We walked over to Philips Arena from the bar in a crowd of fellow concert-goers. We admired the fashion sense and occasional lack thereof. Apparently, I did not receive the "wear the most uncomfortable yet attractive shoes you have in your closet" memo. I wore flat sandals so that nothing, NOTHING, could distract me from the sweet sounds I was about to hear. We got inside, made our way to our seats and sat down just as the lights went down.

First up was Jill Scott. Earlier in the evening, Babe requested that I put some tissue in my purse in case he needed to blow his nose. The tissue was actually for me. Jill Scott's performance was beautiful and heartfelt and authentic. I'd heard the lyrics to The Way many times before but after surviving a failed marriage only to reconnect with a long lost love who is my one somebody to love, I now really get it. Sure, I was a bit tipsy but I know I probably would have cried anyway. I laid my head on Babe's shoulder trying to keep snot from getting on his shirt while whispering how wonderful it is to be with him. Sigh. I gotta marry this guy...and stay with him for EVER.

Jill Scott entertained us for nearly two hours. When the lights went up for intermission, I felt I'd gotten my money's worth for the tickets already. Nevermind, sexy-ass Maxwell. After about 15 minutes of bathroom-visiting and drink-buying and chicken finger-purchasing by the crowd, Maxwell came on. He's such an energetic entertainer! He was quite flirtatious and all of us women in the crowd rewarded his efforts with a barrage of screaming. My throat is still pretty sore. All the guys who'd brought dates kind of sat there in confused contempt. On one hand, this dancing, singing mofo was causing their women to lust after him...HARD. On the other hand, his lyrical stylings would definitely result in some feverish lovemaking by the end of the night. All-in-all, the female fanaticism was a small price to pay for guaranteed bootay.

The funniest part of the show was when a woman sitting close to the stage threw a pair of bright yellow panties at Maxwell. Mid-song, he picked them up, sniffed them and then starting singing "sushi, sushi, sushi, sushi." That took me back to my panty-tossing days at a D'Angelo concert in L.A. Shame that brother is on heroin now. Maxwell closed his set after another two hours with Pretty Wings and I left in an utter state of tired-as-hell bliss. As we walked back to our car, I thought it was cute the way Jill Scott had taken her wig off and was hanging out of the window of her tour bus waving to the crowd with a plastic cup in her hand. I will never forget this night in Atlanta. Next concert is Talib Kweli and Hi-Tek!!!!

June 3rd - NetParty @ Whiskey Blue

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sat, 05 Jun 2010 19:28:00 +0000

Following this past Memorial Day Weekend, I should have had all kinds of sordid tales to recount. Alas, twas not so. When it wasn't raining, I was busy moving furniture and wading through crazed consumers at Ikea. The one party I did attend was not worth blabbing about. Needless to say and despite a rather hectic work week at my current job as an all-but-enslaved web content writer, I was anxious to attend some sort of affair. A fellow coworker advised that I stop by the upcoming NetParty. That's what's up. A networking party for young professionals at a ritzy venue with cocktail specials and music turned low enough to hold a decent conversation with people?!?! I'm at that.

So, I skated on up to the W in Buckhead, valeted and then took the private elevator to Whiskey Blue. Memories of networking events in Las Vegas came flooding back. Oh, sweet nostalgia. After checking in and proudly donning an OutPast30-scrawled name tag, I made my way to the bar. Do you know those mofo's charged me ten bucks for an off-brand glass of Riesling? That's not a drink special! That's rape! I found a place to sit where I perched and savored my wine at the rate of a dollar per sip. Bastards. Moving on. While I made the acquaintance of Paul of Dixon Hughes and Kimberly of BCM Federal Contracting LLC, I noticed how the crowd seemed to be locked tight around the bar to my right. To my left there was a sea of empty couches. Strange. In Las Vegas, I would have literally had to fight my way into a seat.

I went outside and met Eric of Ardyss International and we discussed the merits of marketing his up-and-coming novel as well as shirts that reduce the size of one's abdomen. Good times. After listening to another rather nervous guy go on about poor doctors only receiving five dollars per pap smear, I met Jake, male stripper, pictured left and then Robert who ran out of cards. Jake wasn't really a stripper but I thought it was clever of him to put that on his name tag. He actually represented In Topic Media.

After a while, I noticed it was hot as hell on the patio. When I went back indoors, it seemed the temperature was even hotter. I then made my way to a refuge I knew would be cool and comfortable...the ladies' room. There, I ran into Jacqueline of Kowa Pharmaceuticals, Francine the marketing executive and Lori of Bloom Designs. We discussed the sad state of the current job market for people coming from the marketing world as well as the Atlanta dating scene. Ladies, there are eligible bachelors here who are gainfully employed and want marriage. To locate one of these gems, one must simply take up a somewhat dorky hobby like karate for adults or automobile enthusiasm and attend a lesson or meeting. Single, home-owning men abound at these places.

In the restroom, I learned that, as per the hostess, the air conditioning at Whiskey Blue was in need of repair . WTF! I was outta there. They weren't going to get me for another ten dollar glass of anything. Plus, the "looking for a professional to screw" crowd was beginning to arrive. We all know the type. The men never seem to have business cards. The women clearly didn't come from the office because their skirts are ridiculously short and tight and their shoes are far too cute. The place was about to turn into a meat market. I went back down to the valet and begrudgingly paid another six dollars for my g.d. vehicle.

I have to say my feelings about the evening were mixed. While I exceeded my quota of contacts by three, I can't say I was very impressed by the venue especially with its Sahara-esque atmosphere. I did appreciate the nicely mixed crowd but I wasn't too keen on the whole "I'm here to fuck" vibe. Networking is for working the net not the hook up. Come on, Folks. I will go to another NetParty I'm sure as long as I come early and the event is not at Whiskey Blue.

May 21st - The Foreign Exchange @ The Masquerade

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 24 May 2010 13:28:00 +0000

It had been raining cats and dogs earlier last week and I was fearful that we would miss seeing The Foreign Exchange perform at Friday's concert yet again. Last time, snow was the culprit. Although Bilal put on a great show, we'd ventured out in the elements to see The Foreign Exchange. What's so great about this friggin group? I'll tell you. The Foreign Exchange is a testament to the many ways that the internet can be used for good. It is a Neo Soul music group born out of the genius of the Okayplayer online community. Two artists, Phonte of North Carolina and Nicolay of Holland exchanged music and lyrics with each other over the course of a year. Through this overseas transfer, they put together their debut album before even meeting each other in person. Thus, when the rain cleared away, I and my lovin' man were no less than geeked to make our way down to the show.

We arrived at about 9:00pm expecting the group to take to the stage at around 10. Neither of us had ever been to The Masquerade and it looked pretty suspect. It resembled the kind of choice location to which a serial rapist would bring his hapless victims. However, when we got inside and got past the initial aromas of urine and marijuana, we found the upstairs concert hall to be pretty neat. It had a great deal of space, aptly placed bars and a stage that was easy to see from anywhere in the room. It's kind of like a more authentic House of Blues-ish dive bar with a grunge twist.

We scored a couple of drinks and then inched our way up to a pretty good position in front of the stage...apparently way too close to the speakers. As we waited for the act to begin, DJ Questions spun a generous mix of 90's underground Hip-Hop with some R&B. I decided not to belabor the state of Hip-Hop. Good music, no matter the genre, is where you find it. We all just need to be willing to look. The fact that this concert was taking place was proof enough.

The Foreign Exchange took to the stage and did not dissappoint. They played all of my favorites including Nic's Groove, Daykeeper and Take Off The Blues. Between songs, the comedy was killin' and they covered some semi-oldies. Using my new birthday gift courtesy of my boyfriend, Fuji Film's Finepix Z270, I was able to capture the pictures above and the video below. I love this camera. Totally blogworthy. I had no idea the camera would be so sensitive to sound so again, I will not stand directly in front of the speaker....ever. However, the picture quality (for a camera that cost under $150) was pretty cool. It was darker than a mofo in there.

As I walked out of the concert, content as all hell, I ran into this boldly dressed lady in the picture to the left. Apparently, The Masquerade offers two nights of cover-free dancing featuring trance, drum and bass and electronica music. As I've stated before, I'm really starting to get into techno and electronica. That and Brazilian music. Check this out. Anyhow, on the techno tip, I have some fishnets. I may just be at that, provided I can get the boyfriend to wear some ultra tight punk pants. Anyhow, until next time.

May 19th- Adult Trivia Night @ The Corner Tavern

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Thu, 20 May 2010 12:11:00 +0000

I've always been a believer in going out in the middle of the week. I know that having children will eventually change that but for now...why the hell not? I have no curfew. I know what the inside of my house looks like. I carry pepper spray. So what if I have no idea where to go on a Wednesday night in Atlanta! That's what the internet is for.

After receiving a call from a good friend, we decided we'd meet for drinks and laughs at Little Five Points. We'd just meet down there and walk into whatever venue tickled our fancy. We happened upon The Corner Tavern which was offering adult trivia. Not knowing what in the hell adult trivia was, we decided to go in and find out. We sat down and ordered drinks. Since I'm watching my calorie intake, I decided to go with a classic screwdriver. Did you know that vodka has 0 carbs and only 65 calories? My girl, Janiele, ordered this drink that tasted just like a pineapple upside down cake. Really, it was delicious. For appetizers, we ordered the hummus platter (which came with kalamata olives) and fried artichoke hearts. Who says bar food can't be somewhat healthy? It was all delicious and the drinks were moderately priced. On to the adult trivia.

Our server explained what the game was all about. Janiele and I would be on the same team. It was absolutely free to play and the prize was house cash. When the DJ called out a question, we would have three minutes to fill out the answer, select how many points we wanted to wager and then turn the answer slip into him. We would answer questions based on categories such as drugs, liquor, pornography, sexually transmitted diseases, celebrities, television and music. Fair enough. Additionally, each team or table had the opportunity to give themselves a colorful name. We chose "Mahogany" while others chose such classy monikers as "Twisted Fister" and "Call Me Alpharetta Because I'm Ten Minutes From Cumming."

The first question asked who the lead singer was for the group that sang the controversial song Closer. Easy. The name of the group is Nine Inch Nails and the lead singer is Trent Reznor! In addition to being a Nine Inch Nails fan I once had to listen to that song for eight straight hours, three days in a row. Why? Well that's a story involving The Playboy Channel and a live studio audience...which is best saved for my tell-all book.

Anyhow, I learned many things while playing trivia at The Corner Tavern. For instance, it is possible for a male baby to have an erection while in utero. Women talk dirty more often than men do during hanky panky. The movie Blow is loosely based on a book called How a Small-Town Boy Made $100 Million with the Medellin Cocaine Cartel and Lost it All. Finally, Sigmund Freud recommended cocaine for the treatment of "nasal reflex neurosis." What a world we live in.

We did not win. Sadly, we were beaten by Twisted Fister. If ever in Little Five Points, Atlanta, hit up this place. It's pretty cool.

Flashback - Not Cat party. Coke party!

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Wed, 12 May 2010 19:24:00 +0000

......

Today I received a Twitter text message from the Atlanta Journal Constitution regarding a police report about a man falling from a Midtown highrise apartment while attending a coke/alcohol party. Since I'm inherently crazy, I cracked myself up for the next hour with jokes about creating formal invitations for a coke party and thinking up what kind of party favors one would give out at a coke party. Ha, ha, I thought. What the hell is a coke party?!?!? Then I remembered that once upon a time, I'd unwittingly attended a coke party. Like to read about it? Here it goes.

While living in Los Angeles during my early 20's, I supported my independently undergrad lifestyle as a sales assistant to a team of financial advisors at...um...let's call the company Cadmium Craig Rugby. Those financial advisors were the epitome of every stock broker, day trader, greedy bastard movie, stereotype and rumor you've ever heard and will ever hear. They were chauvinistic. They threw money around like there was no tomorrow. They were womanizers. They had huge egos. They were rude. They were crass. They had really idiotic, unfunny senses of humor. I had the time of my life working there. I wish I would have started blogging then. Anywho, all of these stereotypes were compounded by the fact that we all resided in the real life ongoing movie set that is metropolitan Los Angeles. Long Beach to be exact. LBC!!! Oh dear, it was so gorgeous there. Everyone was totally and utterly full of themselves. Yep, it was pretty great fodder for a fledgling storyteller.

One of the top brokers...let's call him Bob...announced that he was hosting a summer party at his house. He had this pretty fat crib in the Naples region of Long Beach. His backyard was a beach. He was going to be providing the liquor, food and entertainment. All any of his guests had to bring was his or herself. I was about 22 and ridiculously hot in the ass, so of course I was going. Plus I was playing hostess to these two young, strapping Marines I'd recently met out at Club Lingerie. One of my coworkers, the very angry and very Taiwanese Oliver Chu, wanted us to all roll together, so I volunteered to drive because I didn't really care for alcohol then. Hence, we rolled over to Bob's villa at about 10:00pm that night.

The party started off innocently enough. I dined on some diet-conscious and rather tasteless hors d'oeuvres while lightly sipping on a heavily iced rum and coke or something along those lines. Like I said, I really didn't do alcohol and since many of the guests were my coworkers, I didn't want to embarrass myself in any way. Back then I had a great deal to prove. I didn't want anyone to make any assumptions other than that I was a ridiculously cute young college student who could hold her own in a party full of wealthy people. I sat down with my three dates on the couch and made small talk with a couple of other sales assistants. Other guests both known and unknown trickled in. It was a pretty tame little gathering on a beautiful summer night in southern California. No big deal.

I noticed over the next couple of hours how many of the women had chosen to store their purses under the sink in the guest bathroom but I didn't think of anything of it. I was more comfortable with my purse securely on my shoulder. I wasn't drinking that much so I saw no reason to make constant trips to the bathroom. However, many of the other guests were practically running a train on the toilet. I assumed they just had weak bladders or something. I really had no clue. Then all of a sudden, everyone lost their friggin' minds. Oliver, the Marines and I were sitting on the couch minding our business when it seemed like everyone just started yelling loudly and incoherently for the sake of yelling. I looked up and one of the brokers was tossing around an empty Jack Daniels bottle while a smaller blond female broker was hanging on to his waist as if she was trying to tackle him. The blond, in turn, was being swung around like a human hula hoop. Someone turned on some music and then everyone started smiling insanely and clapping to their own individual rhythms.

I was pretty confused at this point.

A really skinny, fast-talking sales assistant came over and asked me to get up and dance and I was afraid. First of all, she was speaking wayyyy to quickly. Second, I didn't want to be dancing and then suddenly be knocked out by that Jack Daniels bottle. I lied and told her that I couldn't dance. She insisted that since I was African-American, I could definitely dance and she wanted to see. "I can't dance," I yelled at her. "I don't even like watermelon or black eyed peas. I'm an odd Negro!" One of the Marines grabbed my hand and lead me out to the back patio. We turned and looked back inside the sliding doors at the ensuing madness. Except for the other members of our four-person party, everyone looked CRAZY. The energy was indescribable and foreign and again I feared for my personal safety. I'd never seen these people behave in such a manner. Oliver and the other Marine sat on the couch pointing and laughing at everyone else. We signalled to them that it was definitely time to transform and roll out. We didn't even bother to go back in the house. We just went through the fence on the side of the house and met them at the car.

"What the hell?!?" I said. "What just happened?"

"They were doing coke in the bathroom, Dumb Ass" Oliver Chu said. "Like you didn't know that was going to happen." Oh, that Oliver. So Taiwanese. So angry. He cracked me up.

I really didn't know that was going to happen. I had never known anyone who'd done coke. I'd never done coke and never, ever will for that matter. At that point in my life, I knew nothing about cocaine other than it was something to which I was supposed to say "no." I was both shocked and dismayed. Those people handled millions of dollars in retirement funds and such and this is what they did that on the weekends? Were they high at work? Oh my goodness! I was surrounded by high end junkies! Something had to be done! All three of my dates laughed at me. I'm laughing at myself as I write this. Once upon a time, I was that innocent. Following that experience, I think we decided to go eat at Lucy's Drive In. And that, my dear readers, was my first and last coke party experience.

May 5th - Cinco de Mayo @ Uncle Julio's

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Wed, 05 May 2010 17:24:00 +0000

..........

On one hand, it's kind of sad the way Cinco de Mayo is now commemorated with the ingestion of several gallons of acoholic substances. It really should be remembered for how the Mexicans stood up to the French. But then again, who hasn't beaten the French? On the other hand, I guess it is as good an excuse as any to gather together to enjoy delicious Mexican fare and a margarita. No matter my motivation, I decided I would spend this year's Cinco de Mayo at Uncle Julio's.

As soon as I logged off at work, I hightailed it down to Uncle Julio's, valeted park and pulled up to the bar to wait for my friend to arrive. I chatted it up with a bartender who looked no older than 16. He was excited about how packed the place was going to be. I shuddered at the thought. Lots of people and tequila? Sounds like THE recipe for disaster. I know tequila. I would enjoy a personal two drink minimum, a ceviche appetizer and then roll out before the drunken masses took hold of the place.

We left to go to M Bar not long after that. As we got up from our seats, two different men were jockeying for the positions. A crowd had definitely gathered and a line was lengthening outside as we spoke. Peace! (It's a good thing we left when we did because sources tell me a fight between two women broke out at the bar and the authorities were alerted. Good Lord.)After 45 minutes at the M Bar I gave up drinking the worst margarita ever mixed and went home to let my dog out to pee. Pet parenting is so difficult. I can't say that it was all that exciting an evening outside of the dancing couple below and good conversation.

However, here's what I did notice. I did not encounter a single person that would be in threat of being racially profiled under Arizona's ridiculous new immigration law. I spotted every other creed, race and culture. I know Atlanta has a sizeable Hispanic and Latin population but I have no idea where the bulk of those individuals went to celebrate Cinco de Mayo. I find this interesting. Those of us, who are definitely not of Hispanic origin, will all gather to drink in the name of Mexican history and culture but we have a problem with them being here to work and support that culture?!? Cinco de Mayo isn't even an official American holiday. However, I can't tell you how many American bars and restaurants generated a ton of revenue in its name. Sounds like exploitation without representation. To put it bluntly, that just seems ass backwards. Mexicans are not the only large goup to regularly come here illegally (Hello Canadians) yet they are constantly stereotyped as some criminally inclined element of the population who are usurping our healthcare and our jobs. That's madness. Granted, dope smugglers should be stopped but an entire group of people shouldn't be discriminated against for those few. This country wouldn't be what it is if it wasn't for immigrants from nations all over the world. In particular, Mexican people strengthen and enhance the fabric of our society in many ways...including beefing up our bottom line on days like Cinco de Mayo. So, in honor of those folks in Arizona (and nationwide) who are standing up for their rights to the pursuit of the American dream, I'll drink to that. Then I'll wait a reasonable amount of time before getting behind the wheel and driving home.

BTW, is anyone digging that new Usher song or what?!?!?

April 30th - Havana Club

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sun, 02 May 2010 14:57:00 +0000

For some reason, I've been having a pretty intense desire to go out dancing to house or techno music. I've never been much of a raver type but I'm starting to see the light. There is something so much more liberating about the music and consequently the type of scene it evokes. You just have to move to it and for me that's alright. Movement is a beautiful thing in all of its various literal and figurative forms. Anyhow, on my 32nd birthday I wanted to be dancing as quickly and wildly as I possibly could. After asking around for some good techno recommendations, I decided upon the Havana Club. This place featured three dance rooms including techno. Eureka!

I spent all of Friday in a constant state of bliss. Every few minutes I would receive a Facebook text wishing me a happy birthday. Modern technology is awesome. After work, I collected on my Valentine's Day 60 minute massage and then floated home to prepare for dinner at Seasons 52. Ironically, I didn't actually start partying until 30 minutes after my birthday had passed. Upon arrival, we proudly stood in the general public line because 32 years of life experience has taught me that paying 40 bucks to skip a 10-15 minute line is simply ridiculous. That same wisdom has also taught my boyfriend to follow the dress code by wearing appropriate shoes. Old boy in front us had to pay $30.00 because he decided to floss in athletic gear. Ah, the sweet folly of youth.

The club was definitely bustling with energy. I shamelessly attributed this to the fact that it was my birthday. LOL. After purchasing drinks, we decided to skip the Hip Hop room. I know. Recently, I've been bashing Hip Hop. It's not because I don't like the music. I love Hip Hop! I spent all of last week listening to Joe Budden, J-Live, Common, Little Brother, Kanye West, Jay-Z and on and on and on. What I don't understand is happening to the party scene. It used to be about dancing, grooving, hanging out in spite of whatever was going on in your life. You wore whatever was comfortable and conducive to working up a good sweat. You did the latest move or made up new ones. Your face hurt from smiling and laughing. Your feet hurt from stomping and kicking. You partied as the DJ saved your life. These days, it's like a funky attitudinal fashion show mixed with a ground fertile for spread of a mean bacterial infection. Sure people manage to have fun but it's just not what it used to be. Maybe it's just me. On to the techno room.

Lo and behold, there were available high boys and stools with no VIP reservation necessary! We camped out directly in front the speaker and moved like we were on fire for the better part of an hour and a half. I am 32 years old, dammit, but you couldn't tell me that I didn't feel as young and energetic as an adolescent drunk on Jolt cola. Thank you, Dance 101 for giving me the stamina of a tiger! Grrrr! At about 2:30, my stilettos reminded me that humans are not meant to spend extended amounts of time prancing around on their tippy toes. Before my feet started screaming I allowed them to lead me and my boyfriend out of the Havana Club and back to the car so that we could take it on home. Good times. Happy Birthday to me.

April 27th - Clermont Lounge

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 12:52:00 +0000

Eh Meh Geh! I think I’m still tipsy from last night. I’m going to pay for this for the next eight hours of copywriting I have to do. I don’t care. It was worth it. In the midst of celebrating my 32nd birthday week, I made the insane decision to go to Clermont Lounge. Now what exactly would possess me to go to a strip club/dive bar on a Tuesday night? I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to do something out of the ordinary. Plus it was karaoke night.

A little history. Clermont Lounge is the only remaining operational portion of the Clermont Hotel. Clermont Hotel was built back in 1924 and served as apartments for many years before officially becoming a motor hotel. Eventually, it was condemned because it quite literally was a hot mess. However, the Clermont Lounge is still alive and kicking. Opened in 1965, it is officially the first and longest running strip club in Atlanta. I’d heard about the place from a couple of acquaintances way back when I first moved here. They referred to it as the place where strippers go to die. If you Google it, then you’ll find all kinds of reviews about its randomness. It’s just one of those places that you have to see. Hence, I chose to see it last night.

We got there at about 11:00pm, parked and took a couple of pictures of the exterior since no cameras would be allowed inside. We were greeted by this ruffian, bearded, motorcyclist-looking bouncer guy. After showing him our IDs, we entered. The interior had one of those root beer glows to it. You know. Brown and murky. To our left was the stage for karaoke and a collection of tables and chairs. In front of us was a juke box which was only allowed to be operated by the strippers. To the right was a horseshoe shaped bar lined with some sort of padding for the elbows and adorned with various bumper stickers. Dancing on a stage in the middle of the bar was a very naked and very tattooed bleach blond woman who had to be in her late 30s. She had a fairly fit body and very perky implants. We sat down at the bar to order a beer and a cocktail. Two and a half drinks and three strippers later, I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

Here’s the thing. None of the strippers were young. None of them had pin-up bodies. One of them -her name was Solai- didn’t even get naked. Instead, Solai kind of pranced around in these really cute boots. After Sweetheart gave me some tip cash, I gave Solai a dollar and asked her where she got those bad boys. She thanked me graciously before telling me. When Sweetheart called her “queen” she flashed some nipples our way. The next lady had to be at to be 50...at least. Her body had definitely seen better days but she pranced around coyly and then spanked herself for us. We tipped her too. I think the icing on the stripper cake was this really meaty chick. She made her ass clap. I applauded. That takes talent. We tipped her and then discussed how I should go about practicing that same move at home.

I can’t tell you how ridiculously entertained I was. Initially, I felt like I was watching someone’s cookie-baking mother strip but then I realized that these were just real women. Real women have flab and stretch marks. Real women age. But that doesn’t stop them from being in touch with their inner freak, nor does it dictate that they should be ashamed to do so. I don’t think any of these women were stripping because it was the only thing they could do to make money. In fact, status quo would tell them to keep on every inch of their clothing. Instead, I want desperately to believe it was a choice to give the middle finger to conventional notions of beauty. I’m not mad.

After conversing with this guy named Joshua about Sweetheart’s cocktail and the coolest U.S. cities in which to party, we made our way over to a table in front of the karaoke stage. I was pretty lit by then so I can’t even begin to recall what some of the folks were singing. Wait. I do believe that someone sang the theme song to Family Matters. One couple sang A Whole New World. It was pretty terrible. Finally, I got up and sang Prince’s Darling Nikki. I must have put on some show because one of the strippers came over to the stage and tipped me. LOL!!! After I sat down, I was all set to go up again and do Alanis Morisette’s You Oughta Know but Sweetheart reminded me that it was about half past 1 and I still had to go to work at 7:30 in the morning. Poo. Begrudgingly, I agreed to leave.

I had an awesome time. It was so cool because there was no pretense and everybody had a real chill attitude. I like that. Plus, I got to wear these wedge heels I’ve only worn once for the past eight years I’ve had them. It’s the little things.

April 23, 2010 – Loca Luna and MJQ

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 21:27:00 +0000

Last week, I decided this past Friday night would begin the week long celebration of my 32nd birthday. It started off fantastic. By the wee hours of the morning on Saturday, I was in a much more pensive mood. I’m beginning to think that each anniversary of my time spent on earth is meant to be a period of reflection amidst the sordid revelry. Let me explain.

We had every intention of going salsa dancing at Sanctuary with some other happy couples but they ended up flaking. So, we decided to call up a newly single friend of ours for tapas at Loca Luna and dancing at MJQ. As we sipped mango mojitos and dined on plantains at Loca Luna, it seemed the theme of the night was matured sexuality. What is the protocol for re-entering the dating-with-a-purpose scene once one is past a certain age? What are the expectations? How does one plug into their inner sex appeal? What is flirtation? What games are no longer worth playing? I think every unmarried thirty-something is trying to figure this out as they determine what comes next.

We rode over to MJQ at about 11:00pm to find a pretty vacant party scene. After paying the $5.00 cover, we decided to stay put. Things normally picked up pretty quickly and we were enjoying the renovations. Much to our surprise, MJQ had updated the underground walls with colorful, spray painted murals. The men’s and women’s bathroom were now distinguishable from the outside! Upon entering the women’s bathroom, I found they’d expanded it to four fully operational stalls and painted the interior a soft rose hue. They’d also managed to hang a mirror which actually had a clear reflection. Way to go, MJQ! Additionally, they now had a coat check service. That’s about where my delight ended.

We’d apparently come to the wrong party. That night, a worthy crowd didn’t gather until about 12:30. In that hour and a half we were an audience to the usual nightclub peculiarities. Folks like to line the room drinking their courage while a few rhythmically challenged creatures of the night can not help but to hop around haplessly on the dance floor. That evening, it was a young college girl who looked like she had a fire burning in her belly. I wasn’t mad at her. Ten years ago, I was that girl. Then there were the drunk chicks who were on a mission to be screwed. They’re always easy to spot. They tend to be a little bit dressier and a lot more drunk than the rest of the ladies. They part their legs wide to dance in really, really short skirts. Come to think of it, they don’t actually dance. They writhe. And they’ll do so with the first guy bold enough to buy of whatever they're selling. In the middle of watching one of these girls bent over backwards on the dance floor, I started coughing uncontrollably. Can you believe that? After six years of living in the smoking free-for-all that is Las Vegas, the cigarette smoke was actually bothering me.

I drank some water and started to focus on the music. The DJ left much to be desired. For an hour or so, he played some West Coast and East Coast favorites a la Tupac, Jay-Z and Biggie Smalls but it was nothing to turn flips over. After the nostalgia wore off, I found myself terribly bored by the ridiculously slow beats. Has hip-hop always been so slow or have I just been that much more into House lately? I waited patiently for some reggae or some Floridian booty-shaking music to be mixed in but it didn’t happen. Instead, I looked out over a scene of young drunks in a seemingly perpetual state of sex simulation. Again, I tried to focus on the song lyrics. I then came to the conclusion that I no longer wish to hear about any penis for which I do not have an exclusive interest. Additionally, I realized that some Hip Hop songs are just not meant to be listened to in a club setting. For instance, Renee by Lost Boyz is depressing. Why the hell would I want to do the Cabbage Patch to that?

My boyfriend realized a change had come over me. Inside, I’d actually begun to write in my head. Outside, I was experiencing a contact high. Since when did every third person in a nightclub find it necessary to smoke a blunt right on the dance floor? Had it always been this way? Yes indeed, I was high as hell. It was time to go. The first thing I uttered as I breathed non-Chronic air was, “I’m getting old.” I don’t know what I was more dismayed by. Was it the music? Was it the involuntary smoke out? No. I think it was the dancing or lack thereof. Don’t get me wrong. I’m as big a fan of lewd and lascivious behavior as anyone else. But, I’ve come to believe that sexuality should be more than a walking, talking commercial for doggy-style. Sensuality is so much better when it is understated. A glance of the eye. A fire in the gait. The movement of a bare shoulder. Thoughtfully applied scented oil. Clever, never obvious, innuendo. And while a sinfully, lustful sexual encounter can have its pleasures, it is so much better to have the ability to make real love all day with someone deserving of one’s time. You hear me? These days, true romance to me is falling into a drool-inducing slumber after eating spicy pepper soup and then awakening to find that my lover has placed the leftovers in Tupperware. That kind of flirtation will have me hanging naked from a chandelier with an electric hand mixer in one hand and raspberry flavored massage oil in the other. (Please direct all inquiries to outpast30lady@gmail.com. I’m not even going to begin to explain that trick in this blog.)

Anyhow, maturity is having its way with me.

Tuesdays at Java Lords

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Fri, 09 Apr 2010 14:03:00 +0000

American author Jack London once said, You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. During the past couple of months, I really needed to kick myself in the pants to sit down and write. I don't know what it was. I was going places and seeing strange things.

My inner narrative was chattering up a storm but when it came time to write, I just couldn't make myself sit down in front of the computer. The past couple of weeks has reminded me to never fail to use and share my gift.

I know I'm supposed to be writing. Yes, the content is sometimes questionable but I'm supposed to be the crazy scribe that I am. The Universe proclaims it.

In February, for inspiration's sake, I began frequenting a coffeehouse in Little 5 Points. The name of the place is Java Lords. I must say that the hot white chocolate there is to die for! Sweets and I discovered this place on a particularly cold afternoon while buying Bilal/Foreign Exchange tickets. You can order any coffee or hot chocolate or hot tea and spike it with a variety of flavored syrups. White hot chocolate with hazelnut and raspberry! Mercy! I'm drooling...but that's neither here nor there. I asked the hippie-esque barista if they have an open mic night. She said yes, every Tuesday night starting at 9. During open mic, Java Lords features $3 beer and a $3 cocktails special. Like I wasn't going to go. Puh. Leeze.

So the following Tuesday, I went for the first time and watched about five or six different acts. There was this old dude playing a guitar and singing. He did both things terribly. I'm serious. It was not good. However, the crowd was so polite. There was not a smirk or sneer on anyone's face except for my own. Out of shame, I tried my best to look pleasant and then finally I just decided to text someone. I possess no poker face. Once old dude finished crooning, the crowd applauded appreciatively. How nice is that? No heckling or anything. Just an appreciation for the enormous balls it takes to bear one's soul to a crowd of strangers. That's cool. Reason #38 for my current romance with Atlanta, Georgia.

Next up was an Igbo comedian by the name of Odinakachukwu. (I dare you to try to pronounce that.) He was telling Black jokes in a predominantly White crowd. Ha. I probably laughed the loudest and most often.

We are now Facebook friends. He was followed by a couple of forgettable, angst-ridden guitarists who whined rather incoherently over home grown melodies.

I sighed. I smiled. I clapped politely. After this cool magician did a couple of tricks, I made my exit and vowed to return the following week.

The next week, the old dude who'd gone first on last week took to the stage again. He was no less drunk and no less horrible at both his strumming and his grunting into the mic. What I made myself notice was his extreme level of commitment.

I like when people commit. In time and with less alcohol, he will improve. About three more acts went on as I drank my fruity cocktail and waited for Cousin Von to arrive.

Then this trio out of Austin, Texas got up on the mic and what they did was beautiful. I will let the following video speak for itself.

I can't recall what the name of their group was (The Blue Mints?!?!?) but I will never forget the way I felt as I watched them perform. They moved me. Their whole vibe seemed....pure. As if they were doing what they loved in the hope of reaching some momentarily captive ear to share a bit of their version of soul. It's not unlike what I'm attempting to do with this blog or anything else I write. I just want to share with someone... anyone who's willing to read a few paragraphs. Maybe stir up some shock or revelation or laughter or the feeling of knowing that someone else out there is thinking the same ridiculous thing I am. So it took me a month and some change to write down this particular piece. Sue me.

April 2nd - The Velvet Room

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 17:40:00 +0000

I just know my girl, Tanisha, has been waiting on this one with her crazy ass. I love you, Tanisha! Okay. So following my experience at the Pink Floyd concert, my boyfriend and I hightailed it over to The Velvet Room in Chamblee. We arrived at about midnight or a little bit thereafter.

I'd never been to The Velvet Room and I can't say that I would have gone if it hadn't been for Tanisha or the fact that Biz Markie was going to be spinning. The Velvet Room is often promoted by a few of the local radio stations and I am a bit of a party snob. It's not that I think I'm too good for any venue. I just don't like to be shot...as I've mentioned before. Over the past few years, The Velvet Room has been the scene for many a gun crime. Oh well. There we were.

When we arrived, I couldn't believe that this much lauded club shared a parking lot with Big Lots. I had to take a picture. They charged us 20 dollars to park at Big Lots. I'm not even going to say what it cost for us to skip the line. Let's just say it was the equivalent of three tanks of gas...or two sushi dinners for two...or a utility bill payment...or an HOA payment.

Let me digress here for a minute. Just the fact that I compared a club cover to an HOA payment is a clear and present sign that I'm tiring of this sort of scenario. Perhaps I should do concerts or other extra-ordinary events from now on...unless I'm in Vegas. But anywho...

We got in and again there was no reason on earth why those people standing in line outside couldn't gain access. We crossed a fairly empty expanse of the dance floor before having to wade through a crowd of people not dancing, but instead standing around looking at all of the other people standing around. I don't get it, Colored People. What's that about? Your feet hurt? You came to a dance club not to dance?!?! I pulled out my cell phone and started texting Tanisha to find her location. Of course, she was in VIP. She came out to meet us, we took pictures and giggled and danced a little for about ten minutes when Biz Markie took to the turn tables.

Ahh finally! Sweet, sweet, classic Hip Hop. Not that current rap crap they try to pass off as music. He spun a bunch of the classics back to back to back to back. The crowd sang or rapped along. Damn, those songs were old.

Which means we're old. I reject that. I feel like a wiser, more experienced 14 year old with a cool wardrobe. I don't know why everyone in the club was facing the DJ stand instead of just dancing, but whatever.

I guess they were trying to get a gander at Grandmaster Flash. Yes, THE Grandmaster Flash was there and started spinning. I thought of how my older sister and brother would have just loved to be here. I really gotta get them to move to Atlanta.

Following the spin show, Rob Base came on stage with some unknown singing guy. Where the hell was DJ EZ Rock? At that point, Tanisha disappeared with her random Caribbean date. (Girl, where the hell do you find these guys?) We managed to get through Rob Base's performance without being thoroughly annoyed. He didn't really rap any songs. He just kept talking to us and asking us if we remembered old Hip Hop songs. Yes, WE REMEMBER ALREADY! Sigh. Thankfully, he left and then Whodini came on stage. Those guys looked exactly the same! Maybe a little wear and tear here and there...but we all know that black don't crack. They looked good. And lo and behold, there was Tanisha's crazy behind dancing on stage right along with them. I don't know how she manages to always do that. You'll see her in the video with the long hair and baby doll dress singing One Love. Go Crazy!

After their performance, I was done. There is only so much I can tolerate of random people crossing the floor and bumping into me for no apparent reason. This one Lycra-covered lady must have criss-crossed the floor four different times. She was way too big to be moving around like that. She's going to have to make up for that calorie loss with hella cake. Between that and this random smiling guy, I had to leave. He just kept standing there looking me directly in the face and smiling like that boy on the cover of Mad Magazine. Now that I think of it, he must have been high on Ecstasy or something. Now, he knows he was too old for that! It was a grown and sexy party! And probably my last general public grown and sexy party in the ATL. I'm sticking to the immigrant night clubs or strictly exclusive affairs. PEACE!

April 2nd - The Machine plays Pink Floyd with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sun, 04 Apr 2010 18:18:00 +0000

This outing was particularly random considering that I am SO unfamiliar with Pink Floyd's music. One day in March, my boyfriend announces that we're going to a Pink Floyd concert some time in April. I'm all really?!?! Don't get me wrong. I love rock music. In fact, I love all kinds of music except for that slow Mexican music with all the horns and stuff. It kind of grates on my nerves and you can't really dance to it. But seriously, I love System of a Down, Rage Against the Machine, Disturbed, Incubus, Tool, Chevelle and many more bands. I can't say that I ever really dabbled in much rock coming out of the 60's and 70's but I'm open. I was kind of shocked by my boyfriend because I listen to way more rock than him. However, he was interested in this concert because he loves a Wyclef Jean remake of a Pink Floyd song called Wish You Were Here. Plus it was a chance to hang out with this really cool couple we know, Stellion (awesome name) and Deniece. The only song I know by Pink Floyd is Another Brick In the Wall but hey, it's all good.

We got down to the Woodruff Arts Center at about 15 minutes before the show began to encounter a bunch of other concert-goers who were primarily well over the age of 35. I giggled to myself. We were going to be in the company of aging hippies. That's cool. LOL. Probably twenty years from now, the orchestra will be accompanying a cover band that plays nothing but Jodeci or LL Cool J or Green Day songs. We made our way to some pretty fantastic seats smack dab in the middle of the orchestra section about ten rows back from the stage. Thanks Stellion and Deniece! The symphony musicians were already seated on stage when the members of The Machine came walking out. They had to be about 50 years old, dressed in all black, sporting hair reminiscent of the 80s hair band crazy. We were ready to rock.

The lights dimmed. Hanging above the stage was a large round circle which turned out to be a projection screen. A strange movie began to show on it as the musicians started the intro to Shine On You Crazy Diamond. It was of this kid walking through a field and then encountering the entrance to some sort of Alice in Wonderland type environment. Colored lights began to flash patterns against the walls and ceiling of the halls, sometimes shining directly into my eye. I thought, Wow Pink Floyd must have loved being high on acid and crap. The concert continued with four more songs including One of These Days and Comfortably Numb before the leader of The Machine announced there would be a short intermission before covering the entire Dark Side of The Moon album.

At that point, I got up to use the restroom and snag some booze. I was enjoying the music but according to the history behind this album, it was probably better that I listened with some spirits in me. Apparently the themes of the album focused on the passage of time, greed, conflict and oh yeah, mental illness. The main composer of this album, Pink Floyd's Syd Barrett, was, in fact, suffering from mental illness. Personally, this begs a lot of questions. The Dark Side of the Moon sold millions upon millions of copies. People walk around with t-shirts featuring the album artwork all of time. For those of us who enjoy this music, are we a little bit crazy too? Does it take insanity to produce timeless music? Where can I get me one of those t-shirts?

Anywho, I have to say that I really liked the show and I do believe we should add this album to our music collection. My favorites were Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun, Any Colour You Like, Breathe in the Air and On the Run. I thought it was kind of funny when this lady came out and starting moaning to The Great Gig in the Sky. Why didn't they ask me to moan to this song? I could've moaned and writhed on stage for three to six minutes.

We left and went to R. Thomas to eat some breakfast with Stellion and Deniece. There we had a discussion about Communist Romania and Democratic Nigeria. Stellion is from Romania and you know my honey is from Nigeria. They were both very pleased to be in America. We also discussed this odd video we saw on VBS.tv. Apparently in Columbia, the young boys like to have sex with donkeys. We left there and immediately went to our next outing at The Velvet Room...but that's another blog.

April 1st- Sutra Lounge and Opera Atlanta

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 15:24:00 +0000

Admittedly, I've been slacking on my outings but I have pretty decent excuses. For one, winters in Atlanta suck compared to winters in Las Vegas. You don't want to go out of the house. It's cold as hell. And why would you go out into the night to look at people when you can cuddle up with your honey and watch James Bond movies? Additionally, we've been doing more social gatherings at friends' homes. It's just so much easier. There's no cover charge or overpriced cocktails or unwarranted trifling behavior. It's funny how I absolutely relished these amenities in Las Vegas. They just made for good blogging. But as I grow older and wiser, I want to go to venues or functions where I can do what I intend to come there to do. If it's drinking then I don't want my wallet to get raped. If it's dancing then I don't want to wade through a sea of uncomfortable-looking 21 year olds just taking up space. And if it's acting a fool...well, I can act a natural fool anywhere, but I don't want to run the risk of getting shot doing so. I still have to have babies.

However, my girl Tanisha was visiting from Las Vegas so all bets were off. Now you may remember the lovely Tanisha from our adventure at Olympic Gardens. Good times. While I was in the midst of writing copy for a San Diego business lawyer's website, she called me to hit the club. We decided on Leopard Lounge in Midtown. I blew out my fro, stuffed my body down into some leggings and headed out the door listening to Incubus. As I drove into Atlanta proper, I laughed to myself at the people lining the streets. You would have thought it had been summer for at least three months. On Monday, it was 50 degrees in the middle of the day. That night, it was a very pleasant 69 degrees at 9:55pm and the city was buzzing. We found each other and preceded to Sutra Lounge for discounted cocktails. It's funny. We never saw any part of Leopard Lounge. Oh well.

Sutra was empty, which surprised me. It's not like I'd been there before but then again, it was a Thursday night, Sutra's a nice venue and the drinks were a decent price. But come to think of it, we were hitting the streets pretty early. It's not typical to reach any party down destination until half past 11, but seeing as I had to write a website for a catering company the next day, I figured that I should get out and turn in earlier.

So I was at the bar drinking vanilla Smirnoff and cranberry juice when this dude with a receding hair line grabbed my arm and told me how good my hair smelled. His hand was hella cold. His name was Juan and he was a 41-year-old contractor from some damn place. I forget. He looked kind of stupid. Like he was desperately trying to cling to his youth by hitting on women he supposed to be half his age. I love being 31 but I love not looking it. He kept on making remarks about how we were too young to know this or we probably didn't remember that. I just looked at him. He was with a guy named Derrick and another guy named Trevor who looked to be brothers. They planned on going over to Opera Atlanta which was just across the street and they wanted to know if we would accompany them. Hell no, we weren't just going to buddy up with them. Come on. I mean, there was nothing wrong with them or anything, but seriously. It's not like they offered to buy us drinks. Plus the last thing I was thinking about was pretending to tolerate some stranger. I was there to kick it with my friend. Have a few drinks. Chill. Dance perhaps. I needed to get in another half hour of cardio for the day.

We let them leave, closed our tab, went to the bathroom and then paid to skip the line at Opera. I hate, hate those nightclubs that have you standing outside in the free line just to give the impression that it's teeming with revellers inside. That mess is just ridiculous especially when you get inside and the club is still half empty. Also, it's not like you're going to have an easier time getting a drink if the crowd just trickles in. These places are notoriously understaffed. One almost always has to elbow his or her way through fools to be seen at the bar by some nervous, overworked drink-pourer. Sigh.

We got into Opera and I was totally convinced that the party was 18 and over. Women were on one side of the room and men were on the other. They were just standing there in packs. Just a couple of girls were dancing and that was with each other. We stopped to ask a bouncer what the age requirement was. He said 21 plus. I thought of my nephew. He'll be 21 in July of this year. I can't do this shit anymore. Not here anyway. We took a picture and then left. The bouncers asked us why we were leaving and we said because we were bored. They gave us wristbands for the VIP section, so we went back in. We went up to the balcony and looked down onto the dance floor. There was this bald albino looking guy just dancing by himself. Next to him was this guy wearing a hat kind of jerking around on the dance floor. We decided that we were going to dance with them and we did but the DJ kept playing mere snippets of songs. Tsk. The bald albino guy turned out to be a boxer who could give but couldn't really receive a punch. I'm not sure why he felt it was relevant to explan that, but whatever. We left again and this time for good, but didn't feel like walking all the way back to the car. So we hailed some Ghanaian guy driving past the club and got him to drop us at our parking lot. He was very appreciative when we gave him our VIP wrist bands. Bye now!

At our parking lot, we encountered a problem. The parking attendant's car was blocking Tanisha's rental and the attendant was nowhere to be found. We noticed that the window was halfway down so we reached in and unlocked the door from the inside. We got in, released the parking break and rolled the damn car out of the way. Suddenly the attendant came running up asking for the keys to his car. We didn't have you friggin keys, Fool. Jeeze. Louise.