OutPast30

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.

March 27th - Grandma's Funeral

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sat, 03 Apr 2010 13:01:00 +0000

The night after I celebrated my boyfriend's 32nd surprise birthday party, I lost my grandmother to a long and hard-fought battle with Alzheimer's. Her caregivers, my Aunt Dell, Cousin Cheri and Cousin Desi had gone to sleep on Sunday night and awoke Monday morning to find that Madame Bertha had slipped away peacefully in the night. Phone calls to and from Orlando zapped across the nation's telephone lines. We all took it hard although Aunt Dell had the most difficult time. Grandma was the matriarch of our family. A strong, proud and radiant character of an Alabaman woman. Though sketchy birth records claimed she was 94 years old, we figured that she was closer in age to 98. We knew that one day, she would no longer be with us...but to have never spent a day without her made that reality difficult to face. There were many of us she left behind. Ten children, more than one hundred grandchildren, about twenty great-grandchildren and seven great-great grand children.

I and Cousin Von traveled to Orlando by car to attend the home-going celebration. We arrived at my aunt's house at about 2:00am the following Saturday. We ended up staying up until about 4:00am. Why? Well, here's the thing about the Mootry family. Whenever we have an opportunity to get together, it's a given that we're going to spend the majority of that time laughing. I don't know why more of us aren't writers. There is no minor oddity of life within or outside of the family that goes unnoticed and we will make the time to talk about it. Also, a couple of cousins had some liquor so we had to have a libation. Aunt Dell is ultra saved and sanctified and there was no telling when we would get the opportunity again. God, it was so good to see cousins I hadn't seen in years. We ended up waking up a good percentage of the 15 people who were staying in that house. Then my sister, mother and I sniggled and giggled for quite a while in the room we were sharing. Love my family.

We woke up the next morning to prepare for the funeral. We all went around hugging and greeting each other. Exclaiming about the last time we had seen each other. Marveling over the changes in each other. Being fussed at about staying up into the wee hours of the night. Joking and ribbing and then finally discussing the details of the funeral that afternoon. It seemed that Aunt Dell didn't trust us all to drive our own vehicles to the church in a timely fashion because a couple of uncles had decided to ditch the family for Jack-in-the-Box instead of going to Grandma's viewing. We were therefore mandated to ride in the limo or the church bus after the good Reverend Rolly Murray Jr. arrived to say the morning prayer at 10:30am sharp. Thus we ate breakfast and then got all dolled up in combinations of white and black finery.

We stood out on Auntie's porch at 10:30am as we were instructed because we did not want to incur her wrath...not that she was a mean woman or would punish us in any way. 10:30 came and went and there was still no sign of the good reverend. I therefore took it upon myself to warn my various cousins and second cousins as to what to expect from the good Reverend Rolly Murray Jr. The good reverend was a short, little wisp of a man standing no taller than about 5'3 or maybe 5'4 on a good day. He sported long, manicured nails and a Jheri curl. Yes, you read it right. A Jheri curl. I don't even know where one would go to find the juice for that madness. Anyhow, for as long as I had known, Reverend suffered from Napoleonic complex and loved attention. However, he could sing very well and was known to minister with a ferocity rivaling that of any good Southern Baptist minister. I warned that there would be many stereotypical antics performed at the chapel for our viewing pleasure. Those antics would all work their way to a dramatic end where the good reverend would kneel in front of the congregation and have a red cape thrown upon his shoulders in the fashion of the late James Brown. My cousins found it hard to believe me but truth is stranger than fiction and I spoke no lie. We began to refer to him as Sexual Chocolate.

About an hour later, the good Reverend Rolly Murray Jr. arrived with his wife in an all white Cadillac. Arm-in-arm, they strolled rather majestically toward our large family. The good Reverend was slightly bent forward, licking his teeth and surveying his audience. I stole glances at my cousins and we stifled a giggled. They saw the Jheri curl and the nails. We all linked hands and followed in prayer before streaming into the limo and onto the bus. My sister and I sat in the back with the rest of the trouble-making cousins and had a good laugh about Sexual Chocolate while singing The Greatest Love of All and the theme song to Soul Glo. I think we all really needed to laugh. After all, we were going to Grandma's funeral.

We arrived at the church about half an hour later. Aunt had warned us that there was to be no texting and cell phones were to be shut off. Admittedly, I ignored that request by turning my phone to silent. There would be much on which to comment and I didn't want to spend most of the service crying. I suspected Grandma would forgive us for although she had been a very wise and God-fearing woman, she also loved to laugh and knew her children well. We streamed into the church as the choir sang Soon and Very Soon. Other mourners stood as we walked past Grandma and touched her casket. She had a very peaceful expression on her face. Her white hair a soft afro atop her head. It might as well have been a halo. I'll miss you, Granny. That's when the tears came. My sister and I sat next to our mother in our assigned pews, wringing our hands and wiping our cheeks with Kleenex.

It came time to shut the casket. The plan was that Grandma's daughters, my mother, Aunt Dell and Aunt Bea, would all shut the casket together. However, when they all went up to do so, a bit of a struggle ensued. We all theorized that Aunt Dell was going to cut up the worst because that was how she mourned and many of the family members remembered how she tried to get into the casket at Granddaddy's funeral. She refused to close the door on her mother's casket and therefore about four or five others sort of wrestled a little with her. In the midst of my tears, I couldn't help but notice the absurdity of it. Aunt Dell is just a little old lady but you would have thought they were struggling with a UFC fighter or something. I said a quick prayer and returned to my crying. The casket was successfully shut and the service proceeded with readings of scripture, the singing of Faded Rose and a very moving poem recited by Cousin Desi. It was all heart-breaking.

However, when the good Reverend Rolly Murray Jr. took to the pulpit and began to sing Willing to Run All the Way, I took out my cell phone and prepared myself. He sang that song for a good twenty minutes. In fact, in the middle of the song and with a smug chuckle, he announced how he thought he was going to sing it again. In the program, his sermon was called "words of comfort" but I will have to say it was more like a study in Baptist ministry theatrics. For anyone who hasn't been to a Southern Baptist church service, no matter your religious or non-religious beliefs, this is something you need to see. It's like New Year's Eve in New York or Mardi Gras in New Orleans. It is an unbelievable event and a wondrous occasion that can only be fully experienced first hand.

The minister began to speak in rather a calm and conciliatory voice. He spoke of Grandma being a good Christian woman and how she had imparted great wisdom in the lessons she'd taught her children. He then began to reference the scriptures that would support the gist of his message.

No matter the church or the minister, the message is always the same. You need to come to Jesu, NOW. It started off rather murky. He referenced Steven seeing heaven and wanted so desperately for us to see what he (the reverend) or perhaps Steven saw. At this point, Reverend's voice grew louder and his dedicated team of deacons began to call out "well," "uh-uh" and "amen" during each pause in Reverend's speech. Reverend did a peculiar thing. He said the word "sentence" and then spelled it out for us by spelling it s-e-t-e-n-c-e. I turned and gave a couple of my cousins a look.

Von texted me: What is this? Akeelah and the Bee?!?!

I replied: He's trying to get us to see what he sees..and that is vowels and consonants.

The sermon continued. The point of it was that Steven saw Jesus in heaven and chose to go and be with him rather than stay on earth with us. That was the choice our dear grandmother had made and we needed to accept that. We should rejoice knowing that if we came to Jesus here and now then we too would make that same choice to dwell with our lord and savior forever. During the course of his message, Reverend's voice grew progressively louder, he began to dance about it in that Black minister sort of way, the deacons began to echo and respond more and more constantly, and the organist took to accompanying the rhythm of his words. Reverend managed to spell p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e and p-r-o-m-i-s-e-d for us without incident.

About an hour later, after Uncle Lec signaled to Cousin James to bail, the Reverend brought it home with the following:

Jesus was laid to rest on Friday (GASP and organ) and was there all night Friday night (GASP and organ) and all day Saturday (GASP and organ) and all night Saturday night (GASP and organ) but on Sunday (GASP and organ) he rose! (GASP) He rose! (GASP) He rose! (GASP)

I returned my cell phone to my purse and watched knowingly as the good Reverend stepped calmly from the pulpit to have his wife wrap some sort of tissue around his neck before lovingly placing a black and red-lined cape about his shoulders. He looked a lot like Count Dracula.

We ushered out of the church in a rather indescribable state. There was the sadness we felt for Grandma but then there was the performance we'd just witnessed. How do you rationalize the two? What would Grandma have thought of that. When were we going to eat? Sigh. Our procession rode to the cemetery where Grandma was to be interred. Caped Reverend said a few words before we said a final farewell. As we walked away from her site, there was a gentle breeze in the air. Again, we'll miss you, Granny.

I vascillated as to whether I should record this particular memory on this blog. But then I realized that as I delve deeper into my decade of thirty, the funerals are likely to be more frequent. Funerals are every bit as much a social gathering as a wedding or parading my ass around somebody's nightclub. And just as anything else in this reality, they are often humorous reminders of the beauty, complexity and ridiculousness of life. Most importantly, funerals remind us to appreciate each moment we have to experience this strange living state. Thanks, Grandma.

February 12th - Bilal and The Foreign Exchange @ Centerstage Theater

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 18:30:00 +0000

Last month, when I discovered Bilal and The Foreign Exchange were going to be performing in Atlanta over Valentine's Day weekend, I reminded my man an average of once a day that we should definitely be AT THAT. The Foreign Exchange 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 foreign exchange, they put together their debut album before even meeting in person. Now that's the power of the internet at work because their music is BOMB!!!! They have a second album out now and their song Daykeeper is up for a Grammy. Naturally, Sweet Love and I were extremely geeked about going. We liked Bilal and all but we really wanted to see The Foreign Exchange.

Thus we went about the business of securing tickets, getting haircuts and choosing attire all to be met with snow. It motherfu*&%n snowed for four hours the day of the concert! When it snows in Georgia, it might as well be the end of the world. Ain't nobody out on the streets. Ain't no more milk or bread at the store. Everybody locks themselves away in their houses and prays for the speedy emergence of a relentlessly hot sun. Sweet Love and I decided that the elements would not prevent us from venturing into the city to see our beloved TFE. We layered ourselves with thermals, sweaters and coats, wiped the snow off of the car and carefully crept our way through the streets to downtown Atlanta. We parked about a block away from Centerstage Theater and clutched each other as we tipped down the icy sidewalk. Smiling ear to ear at our own bravery and resolve, we were met at the doors by signs proclaiming "Due to weather TFE will not be performing." BULL. SHIT. After buying a couple of B-52's and finding seats, we decided to stick around for Bilal. Afterall, we did own two of his CDs.

We were in good company with a nice crowd of 30-somethings as local neo-soul artist Anthony David took the stage and gave us quite a nice performance. He had excellent stage presence and a really sweet singing and rapping voice. He performed a nice little duet with a young lady named Algebra (oh Black people and their names) and tickled us as he did a cover of a Lil Wayne song with his own lyrical twist. See below.

Following Anthony David, an unnamed comedian took to the stage. He chose to spend about a good fifteen minutes discussing the merits of giving and receiving oral sex. Of course, he focused more so on the receiving and than the giving. It was funny because most of what he said rang true. What was even funnier was the crowd's reaction to the subject matter. It is truly amazing just how conservative we colored folk are when it comes to the discussion of sex. Black women simply do not admit to the activities in which they participate behind closed doors and in the presence of their women, Black men will completely shut up as well. The laughter was stifled at some points and almost everyone refused to raise their hands when the comedians posed certain questions. I personally feel that I'm too old to be embarassed about nature and since I didn't know anyone there I laughed my ass off. Blame it on the B-52 (yeah right).

Next, Bilal's band took the stage playing their respective instruments. Bilal, himself, came swaggering, all slew-footed, out onto the stage wearing dark glasses, wailing into his mic. Sweet Love and I immediately gathered that he was drunk and/or high. I guess every neo-soul artist is getting into the habit of cutting their hair because his signature dreadlocs had been replaced with a gumby-esque haircut. Okay. We sat back and listened to him singing For You and Something to Hold On. He's got this crazy falsetto thing that he does and you can tell that Prince is one of us his major influences. We liked. He was jammin.' Especially when he pleased the crowd with Sometimes and White Turns to Grey.

Bilal's antics on stage were just hilarious. At one point he said "Hole up, we ain't done no sound check so our shit is all fucked up." At another point he said, "What's up Detroit! Well that's where it feels like I am with all this snow and shit." He forgot the lyrics to Sometimes and kept stopping and restarting the song and he looked like he was going to fall right into the crowd when he decided to stand on one of the speakers. But when he covered Thelonious Monk's Round Midnight, we had a new respect for him. Dude is a true artist who loves the music. We were very glad that we'd given his live performance a chance. We were still bitter about The Foreign Exchange though.

Bilal ended the show with Soul Sista and then we left. It took us nearly two hours to get home due to the road conditions. Idiots were driving way to quickly on the icy freeways and were slipping and sliding all over the damn streets. When going up hills, some cars were sliding in reverse. It was frozen hell. We decided that we wouldn't venture out in Georgia snow ever again...unless The Foreign Exchange comes back.

February 14th - Georgia Aquarium

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 16:27:00 +0000

My Sweet Hot Baby and I consider Valentine's Day to be a commercial farce annually forced upon us by conspiratorial chocolatiers, florists and greeting card makers. However, because of our heady passion for each other and recent reunion, we tend to celebrate more feverishly than most. Thus we observed the weekend with two bouquets of flowers, a Bilal and The Foreign Exchange concert, Halo 3: ODST, a couple's dinner party at our place featuring Monopoly City and a surprise visit to the Georgia Aquarium. We seem to really, really like each other.

I had no idea Georgia even had an aquarium, let alone the world's largest. Apparently, people come from all over the world to catch a glimpse of the universe hidden in the depths of this globe's oceans. After being blindfolded, I was driven to Centennial Olympic Park and then carefully lead to the aquarium's entrance. Upon the reveal I couldn't help but exclaim with clapped hands and giggles. I hadn't been to any world class aquarium since I was about 16 years old. The place was teeming with throngs of visitors of all ages. Of course, it was mostly families and that warmed my heart. I'm sure that one day we'll probably be dragging our wide-eyed brood through those same corridors.

The campus is split into six main attractions; Coldwater Quest, River Scout, Georgia Explorer, Ocean Voyager, Tropical Diver and Deepo's Undersea 3D Wondershow. "Deepo" looks suspiciously a lot like "Nemo." I'm not sure which funny-looking fish came first. We visited Tropical Diver first which further increased my desire to snorkel near some Caribbean reef. The aquatic creatures are all so colorful and seem to radiate as they move through the water. There were these little creatures called garden eels peeking out of the bottom of one of the aquariums. They looked like multicolored reeds of grass blowing in a meadow. Then of course there were the jellyfish, (OMG, if this cat doesn't stop bothering me while I type this!)cuttlefish, seahorses, anemones and turkeyfish. Beautiful.

We then went to touch pool in the Georgia Explorer exhibit where they were feeding eels. The eels actually reminded me of our dog Genesis as they swam up to the attendants and took food from their hands. They flapped their wings with glee. It was kind of cute. Just imagine having a pet eel! When they weren't surrounding the attendants, they were flying through the water and passing the sharks like kites. Amazingly, the miniature sharks seemed to like being petted by visitors. Pet sharks. So cool.

After being photographed with one of the mascots, we went to the Ocean Voyager and that's when my mouth just dropped. This exhibit is HUGE. I guess it had to be in order to accommodate the three shark whales and all of the other ridiculously large creatures. By the way, we learned that two of the shark whales were transported from Taiwan by UPS. Can you imagine getting a delivery like that? During moments like these, I can't help but think what an awesome world we inhabit. There are these creatures all around us of all sizes with their own habits that enhance the environment in their own special way. It reminds us to take care of what we have so that our children can show their children. Anyhow, I'll let the video speak for itself.

We were about to go to the 3D show but we suddenly had an urge to eat sushi. However, we felt kind of guilty at the idea of eating the cousin of something that we had recently spent so much time admiring. We ended up having a turkey dog instead. Seeing the life living underwater was such a study in harmony. All of those different creatures, whether in schools, in lifelong pairs or alone, went about their business of living in sync with all of the other beings. They weren't declaring ownership of the tanks or reefs. They weren't building technology to take each other out. Sure, some are eaten by others but such is the food chain. Nevertheless, there is an abiding peace and tranquility beneath the sea. I made a mental note to behave more like the fish and go with the flow of things. All in all, it was the best Valentine's Day I've ever had.

January 11th - The Art of Dinner Partying

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 18:16:00 +0000

Undoubtedly this is a departure from my normal shtick...but come to think of it, this is probably what I, we, all of us over 30 should be doing around this rosy-colored middle age. In lieu of dragging ourselves around sticky dance floors under the influence of fruit-flavored spirits, we begin to go to the homes of others. Why?

Well, the people we've come to know are beginning to live in spaces worth visiting. They now have crap to sit on instead of those clear inflatable couches from college. The didn't spend the electricity money on beer, so there is heating or air-conditioning. After years of weed-smoking, they've learned the value of having munchable quantities on hand instead of having to scrounge up 2.99 from the floor of the car to make it to Burger King for a fish sandwich that may or may not make them cry. They may have even given up the weed-smoking habits because the job which affords them the house and furniture and food frowns upon that sort of activity. Additionally, they may have pets and/or children who prevent them from gallivanting about town until the clock strikes nothing. However, they still miss the joys of socializing and need desperately to talk to someone else besides their significant other, their toddling child or their overweight cat. Thus, they make the leap of hosting their own personal low-key extravaganza.

These people invite me and my significant other because we're an attractive couple on the road to nuptials who don't mind expressing affection in a manner that is appropriate to the given environment. We make interesting and relevant small talk, tell pleasant jokes, remove our shoes when we enter and know the proper time to make an exit. Finally, we are law-abiding citizens who aren't likely to be casing the joint for our newly escaped convict of a cousin. In other words, we are the quintessential housewarmers for which housewarming gatherings were intended. Since moving to Atlanta, we have been invited to more than our fair share of these events and I felt it would be prudent to share some valuable tips on both hosting and attending as if I'm some sort of expert. Plus my mom would really like this since she pretty much taught me all of this junk. Here goes...

For the host:

1. Always be sure to give your guests ample time to plan to attend. This way they can schedule your shindig accordingly and if needed you can change dates to be more accommodating. Plus, it builds enthusiasm. You'll hear things like "I'm really looking forward to our get-together" or "Shall, I bring my Scrabble set?"

2. Be sure to have or create an eclectic mix-tape of music with both popular and rarely heard (yet tasteful) selections. This serves two purposes. First it sets the tone for the evening depending on the tempo of the music. Second, if there are any uncomfortable silences it provides a fall-back topic of conversation such as " I love this song, it reminds me of.." or "Who is this song by? What's good to listen to these days?"

3. When guests arrive, let them know where the bathroom is immediately. This way you give them the opportunity to wash their filthy hands before touching all of your stuff. Make sure the bathroom is stocked with everything they will need to do their business IE. soap, paper towels, toilet paper, wet wipes, air freshener. It would also be a good idea to stow any pharmaceuticals, porn mags or anything you don't want your guests happening upon in a bathroom they are not likely to use.

4. If dinner is not prepared upon arrival, do make sure to present your guests with suitable snack and/or appetizing options. We all know that people make it a point to come to free food events as hungry as humanly possible. Don't allow them to sit there starving or they will talk about your ass after the fact. On the flip side, some people will have eaten beforehand because they don't trust your (or anyone else's) cooking. The provision of these snacks gives them an excuse to decline large portions when it comes time to sit down for dinner...(and it deters piggies if you especially liked whatever you made and you desire leftovers). Yo, this is real.

5. Prepare only those meal items that you have cooked at least once before. A dinner party is never the occasion to try out a new recipe. If it sucks, that's all your guest will remember and again, they will talk about you. If a dish goes awry make sure that it is something that can either be quickly replaced or something that the party can do without. Anyhow, know the food you're making. Know how it tastes. Present it in such a way where people will want to eat it. It's called a serving dish.

6. Prepare activities like games but don't force these activities upon your guests. If the evening is progressing nicely then just let it flow as it will. If not then, then you have the backup of the games to bring about the fun times you are so fervently seeking. Try not to kick your guests' asses in games with which they are unfamiliar. I can't say this enough... they will talk about you after the fact.

For the guest:

1. Never, never, never go to a person's house empty-handed. There are so many reasons for this that I could write an entirely separate blog on this alone. A few are as follows:

a. It's just plain good taste to bring offerings and builds your personal brand.

b. If they don't have a single thing you like then you can always eat or drink what you brought because you know you like it.

c. In case the host forgot something like beer or wine, you've got it covered, thus keeping them from having to go rush out to the store to save face.

2. Wear clean socks because you never know if the host requires guests to remove shoes. In fact, just take it for granted that you're going to have to take off your shoes when you go to someone's house. Ladies, have your feet done if going sockless. Men, no holes in the socks.

3. Be sure to find at least one thing to compliment. It could be the decor, the music, the food, or whatever but compliment it. There's no telling what the host put his or herself through both mentally and physically to prepare the event. This event could be saving their marriage, their sex life, their personal sense of worth.... You just never know. Acknowledge their costs, their work and their hospitality by appreciating it.

4. Do not go anywhere in the house that you have not been invited. It's not Disneyland. It's their house. If you discover something horrible and/or shocking then it may be quite hard for either you or the host to live it down. Plus, it's just poor taste to be snoopy.

5. If you brought anything pre-packaged like beer, wine, or potato chips, leave any unused portion at their house unless they tell you specifically to take it. If you cooked something and have leftovers, offer to leave them a portion but be sure to take your cookware. Also, gather any accessories like gloves, hats, scarves etc. There is no telling when you'll see that stuff again if you don't take it with you. (It took me four hours to make those hobo gloves, TC.)

Hope that helps! May you enjoy your next dinner party experience profusely.

December 31st- NYE at Biltmore Hotel

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 17:50:00 +0000

No, I didn't just recover from the longest hangover known to mankind. I had to crochet some items in preparation for this freaky cold weather out here in Atlanta. Apparently, snow is a pretty regular surprise around these parts. I believe snow, albeit pretty, is both ungodly and insane. Anyhow, contrary to popular notion, I very rarely venture out into the nightlife scene of the last day of the year. I don't like being cold and I don't like being charged up the ass to take up a few hours of residence at a venue I'd otherwise get into for free. I've said it before and I'll say it again - I should not have to pay to get the party started. Believe me; I start parties. I'm the first fool in the center of the dance floor spilling my drink, smiling from ear to ear. To charge me a fee for that type of allegiance to celebration is an atrocity.

Thank goodness for my newly forged friendship with African party promoters. Due to the wonderfully Nigerian Emeka, I was able to secure $50 tickets for the bargain basement price of $20. Thus, casually clad to accommodate the brisk weather and the need to get low (get low, get low, get low, get low, get low...) we ventured out to the historic Biltmore Hotel on Peachtree. We entered into a sea of women wearing pneumonia attracting cocktail dresses and their male counterparts stuffed down in suits with expensive cleaning bills. Up the stairs and through the lobby, there was a large ballroom playing reggae to our right and a large ballroom playing Top 40's to our left. Both rooms featured large television screens counting down to midnight. We purchased our drink tickets, grabbed a couple of cocktails and then preceded to the reggae room where the DJ was shouting incoherently in hopes of luring ladies to the dance floor.

All around us, folks seemed to be happy, smiling, snapping pictures in their NYE finery, sipping their drinks and then nervously looking at the dance floor to see when they could safely hide among the more emboldened revellers. I shook my head. If I had paid $50 and lord knows how much for my outfit and hair to come to a New Year party, the last thing I would do is theorize about dancing. I would be dancing something akin to the way the bartenders were dancing in the video above. I grabbed my mate, pointed out a good spot that would allow us plenty of elbow room and made my way over to our dancing base for the night.

We danced. We danced. We danced some more. We danced as if there wasn't a single other soul in the room. We danced in celebration of the year we had just weathered. We danced in exultation of the new year ahead. When we got tired, we watched the other few who came to shake off 2009 with careless abandon. Oh how I love the unabashed and the unashamed. Some day the world will be ours. As the clock struck midnight, the floor finally filled to capacity, we clung to each other ferociously and smooched up a storm in the same fashion that we had the previous year overlooking the Las Vegas Strip.

We continued to bring in 2010 just letting ourselves be free to the sounds of a Michael Jackson mix and various popular dancehall rhythms. We also furiously texted well wishes to friends around the country. Between the two activities, I'm guessing that I lost a good seven pounds. At about 2:45am, we decided to call it a night. As we were leaving, we happened upon a woman who can be most accurately described as big and fine. She was throwing up in the bushes along the sidewalk. I dug out a couple of pieces of gum and gave it to her. Tis the year to be charitable and we party girls have to look out for each other.

Happy New Year!

December 26th - Hotsy Totsy and New Parish

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 22:24:00 +0000

When I opened my purse this morning, it smelled like a distillery. Evidence of happy times and nice surprises last night. This time last year, I was partying like a rock star in Las Vegas and perhaps that was to fill the void of not being able to be with family on Christmas. However, this year I had the opportunity to go home to the Bay Area (WEST SIDE!!!) and be with those who know me best, hang with my niece and nephews....and then party a little like a rock star.

It was a bit of a Class of '96 reunion as six of us agreed to meet at Hotsy Totsy in Albany. Despite the rain forming rivers along the sidewalk, the place was packed wall to wall. They weren't giving anything away in the material sense. But now that I think about it, there was much to receive in the cozy confines of that dive bar. Alas, it was a meeting place of the dread locked and albeit odd adults of the world who needed to be free of the blissfully juvenile capitalistic craze that is the American holiday season. Yes, there was a tree in the corner but there were no children, no fruitcake, and no long lines at the department store. Just a drink in everyone's hand and feeling of relief that the new year is almost upon us. Whenever in the Bay again, I will probably swing by this place. I think I've developed a romance for dive bars. They're like a perpetual collegiate living room with a full stock of liquor. There's no pretense, just high boys, shuffle boards, pool tables and lots of tattoos. I guess I'll always be a Bay Area weirdo at heart.

We scooted on down the highway to New Parish in Oakland where a party was being hosted by The People. Now one of my friends had warned me that this place tended to attract hippies of the Santa Cruz persuasion who seem to delight in the natural fragrances of the unshaven and undeodorized arm pit. While funk of this nature is unpleasant, you can always count on such people to have a good time. I had mixed emotions but I felt better after using the bathroom. It was well-lit, fully stocked and operational and didn't smell like beer urine. To me, that was a good sign. We went upstairs to have a better view of the dance floor where I purchased a holiday punch with a dollop of rum which I believe is responsible for the headache I'm experiencing right now. In one corner, someone was selling Filipino/African/American earrings for five dollars. In another corner, two ladies were passing a joint back and forth while painting green circles on a canvas.

From top to bottom, the place was packed with exotically dressed male and female women lovers. According to my friends, since I was the chick with the short afro then it was a given that I was going to be hit on by myriad lesbians. I decided to take that as a compliment and just dance. And dance I did. I loved what the DJ was spinning. It was a mash-up of instrumental African, salsa, jazz, hip-hop and funk. I wish I would have recorded some of it but I was so busy dancing to it with this guy in a jacket with elbow pads and then a guy from South Carolina. Regrettably, I missed the voguers and the b-boy dancers on the other side of the dance floor. Such is life. I think we cut a rug for about an hour and there really wasn't THAT much funk in the air. Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa and Happy New Year Northern Cali!

December 5th - Chris' 50th Birthday Celebration

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 00:36:00 +0000

Who the hell is Chris? In all honesty, I have no idea. I'd never met the man before last night and if he knocked on my front door today, I still wouldn't recognize him. However, I did crash his 50th birthday party out in Athens last night. Well, for Nigerians, there is really no such thing as crashing. My beau and I were the guests of George and Chinonso (thank you!) who were the guests of someone else, hence we were cool to party. Uninvited guests are typical at most Nigerian functions. They have a very welcoming spirit.

Anyhow, we got there at about 12:15am and the party was in full swing. I love my American upbringing and culture (both positive and negative) but I'm delighted by what I'm learning of the Igbo culture. These people love to celebrate life. Somebody had a baby? Let's party. Someone graduated from high school? Let's party. Someone passed away? Let's party. Someone got married? Let's party? Someone is visiting from another country? Let's party. Someone got out of the hospital? Let's party. It's not just cake and a few well-wishers. It's an all-out affair complete with a formal and/or traditional dress code, open bar, DJ, dancing, much thanks to a higher power and a kola nut. Halls are rented. Formal invitations are professionally printed on premium paper. Hair appointments are made. Mercedes are gassed up. It's go time. Chris, bless his heart, was turning 50, hence all the Igbo and various other West Africans both near and far were alerted.

These types of events are not simply thrown together. At each table, there was an itinerary printed on festive paper and we were now experiencing the first round of DANCE, DANCE, DANCE which would be followed by a best dressed contest. I liken these events to an extended family reunion..... with class. No matter who you are or who you came with or why you're there, you can't just sit on the sidelines and not participate. The music moves you. Everyone greets you with a smile and open arms. You MUST eat. You MUST drink. Hell, even the busgirls took time out to dance in between clearing the tables. I recognized a popular Nigerian song about love and marriage and got up to dance with Sweet Lovin' Man. We may have been two of the youngest people dancing on the crowded floor. Folks were gettin it...and not in that "it hurts to move my limbs" way but rather in that "I will dance until the sun rises" way. That's alright!

The highlight of the evening was a Cameroonian dancer and I had to include two videos of this young lady. She was a perfect example of how size does not hinder sex appeal. You see Nigerians, much like men from New Orleans, love those big fine women. They will take a Jill Scott, Queen Latifah or Monique any day. I'm inclined to believe that my boyfriend's mother and sister are trying to fatten me up prior to nuptials. Larger or not, I couldn't hold a candle to that lady doing her thing. She moved better than any malnourished stripper on which I've ever laid eyes. I loved watching her perform because it pretty much went against everything that the status quo claims to represent beauty and sensuality. She was not a size 2. She was as brown as a berry. She had a mid-section that jiggled. Nevertheless, she was undeniably gorgeous and sexy. It was a given that she was going to get sprayed! Spraying is the original form of "making it rain." When a young lady is dancing well then the chiefs and/or men of stature will come and "spray" her with cash. You'll see it in the video.

The lowlight of the evening was the musical stylings of Kenny Nightingale, gospel saxophonist extraordinaire. Kenny could probably play very well on your average night. However, on this night, Kenny probably had one libation too many and had stepped into that realm. You know the realm I'm talking about. The one where you are pretty drunk and you believe that you are the most talented person in the entire universe and you are performing in front of a crowd of a million devoted fans who are also every bit as drunk as you are...although they really aren't...and you think everything you're doing is out of this world even though in reality it sounds kind of average or maybe even bad? Kenny leaned to and fro in the fashion of an ecstatic John Coltrane as he played some pretty elementary chords on his saxophone. I thought he was going to break himself in half leaning as far back as he did. I had no choice but to post an update on Facebook.

Anyhow, I had an awesome time and can't wait to crash the next Nigerian function.

November 20th - Sanctuary

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 23:46:00 +0000

It's no secret. OutPast30 Lady loves dancing. I like to shake it. No doubt. I watch America's Best Dance Crew and I felt Fanny Pak was robbed during that one season. I watch So You Think Can Dance as well. I'm cheering for Russell Ferguson the krumper. He gets down. I refuse to watch Dancing With the Stars. I want to watch actual dancing, not desperation, on the dance floor. I'm not just a fan of the Hip Hop. I dig all kinds of expression. Thus last night's choice of salsa at The Sanctuary was hot and definitely a nod to my California roots.

We arrived at The Sanctuary at about 9:30pm just in time for the free dance lesson. There was a beginner's class upstairs and an intermediate class downstairs. Although I'm very comfortable with the basic steps and turns of salsa, we opted for the beginner's just to refresh ourselves. The class was being lead by Myron Abernathy. He was a very likable guy (not your usual dance nazi) and took the time to simplify each step in terms that were easy to understand by even the most rhythmically challenged novice. He even clapped it up every time we got the next step. Nothing like joyful positive reinforcement. There was about 30 of us students. Surprisingly, there were just as many guys as there were girls even though many were flying solo. I love Georgia for this. The atmosphere is so inviting that twenty-something year old guys do not mind embarrassing themselves during salsa lessons in pursuit of a good time and probably some tail. Fine with me. Students ranged from drinking age to much older and every one of us was having a ball.

About an hour later, everyone stayed for the party. Drinks were poured at the bar as ceiling fans were switched on and disco lights were revved up. There were no wallflowers. Either you were drinking at the bar or sweating on the dance floor. All shapes, sizes, colors and ages were twisting and turning while being careful not to swing into other couples. Honestly, I've never had a bad time at a salsa spot and that's going back about ten years to my days in New Orleans at House of Blues' Latin night to random spots in L.A. to Northern Cali to here. I don't know why I never did salsa in Las Vegas. I think the coolest thing is that the tables are turned at a salsa club. All the women can't wait to dance with the older men. The older men who know how to salsa can twirl your ass right around that dance floor with a style and finesse that the younger men typically don't possess. These gents have this ultra cool look on their faces, their legs moving, their hands firmly guiding their partners. It's something to see...but it's even better to participate.

I envied the ladies who had dared to come out half naked. I was sweating something terrible as my own partner moved me around the dance floor. We laughed it up as we would occasionally ditch the rules of salsa and break into some African movements. It felt like we had been in there for at least three hours. In reality it had only be an hour and a half. My feet were screaming and the santini that Babe had unexpectedly ordered for me was knocking me in the head. Thus we left for our usual at Checkers while reminiscing about all-nighters back in the day. Not tonight. We had a birthday party to go to the next day and dinner with friends on Sunday. After Checkers, he'd be playing Modern Warfare 2 on XBox360 and I'd be rewatching Lost on Netflix. I can't wait until the new season comes out.

November 13th - MJQ Concourse

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 16:12:00 +0000

While I am a staunch believer in party exploration, I do also believe that every partier should have a fallback location which guarantees happy times and nice surprises. For me, since moving to Atlanta, that place is MJQ. I've been there on about four different occasions and have always left smiling, perspiring, and hungry. Those things are always the mark of a bangin' club experience. Last night's experience delivered the same, identical results.

What is it about MJQ that pleases so thoroughly while other clubs are hit or miss? First and foremost, there is no pretense. There is no dress code, no need to floss, no need to impress and no need to be anyone other than yourself. The whole point is to dance. You put on your comfortable shoes, clothes you don't mind getting funky and you go. Of course both men and women will seek out dating opportunities. Let's not forget that it's a nightclub. However, at MJQ you come as you are. While listening to Kenna, Gnarls Barkley and Talib Kweli, I threw on some jeans, some boots and my favorite tee. I was comfy and I possessed the ability to stomp around the dance floor without pain or discomfort for a minimum of three hours.

Second, MJQ opens at 11:00pm. The party gets started at 11:00pm. The DJ doesn't start out spinning garbage. He rocks it nonstop. Last night was Face Off Friday featuring DJ Rasta Root & Jah Prince with the Face Off Crew. Now there are some folks that spin records and create obvious relationships between tracks. Then there are DJs that truly mix. These folks represented the latter. As the doors opened and people gathered at the bar, all heads were nodding, and all bodies were swaying. This kind of phenomenon is precisely why DJs save lives. A good DJ doesn't delay getting you in a mindset where you can dance off any crap keeping you from enjoying the gifts of life. A good DJ reminds you that your body has the ability to heal itself through movement. A good DJ inspires you to perform even if only for an audience of one. (This blog is dedicated to Mike Olds, by the way. Dude, can't wait for your next mixtape.)

Finally, the crowd at MJQ always, always appreciates those dancers who come to really work themselves out on the dance floor. Enough space is provided for these people to dance, contort, bend, dip, dive, curve, crawl, wiggle and groove. There is no judgement. There is only respect and encouragement. Hell, we all wish we could do that sort of thing with our own bodies! Needless, to say my constant partner and I moved around that dance floor something fierce for the better part of two and half hours. My baby fro was soaked and my boots were kicking! We took a break so I could visit MJQ's one weakness....the ladies' bathroom. Never once have I visited that bathroom without finding some disaster in one of the stalls. When are they going to fix that light? Why aren't there ever any paper towels? And then, if it wasn't for the line of girls standing outside of the restroom, there is no way any first-time visitor would be able to differentiate between it and the male facility.

Nevertheless, I waited my turn to relieve myself. While in line, some guy walks up to me and asks me "What was your name again?" I looked at him and replied, "I didn't tell you my name in the first place. What's this 'again' business?" His ego bruised, he backed away with a sheepish grin. I laughed and shook my head. Young men, let's work on creating solid pick-up lines, okay? Don't be afraid to consult with an older gentlemen and ask their advice on approaching women without looking or sounding like a damn fool. Each one teach one.

November 10th - NuPop Movement Launch @ Wish

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 13:27:00 +0000

If you think about it, celebrities are those individuals who are celebrated because they dared to act or rather dared to convert their dreams into reality. The rest of the things we applaud them for are actually those attributes that WE project upon them. For instance, while living in Los Angeles, the level of disappointment I experienced after encountering a celebrity in real life never ceased to amaze me. I always expected for that movie star, or TV star or rock star to radiate some sort of mysterious oozing "it" factor. Following so many disappointments, I realized that this was unfair of me. Alas, they are ordinary people who are shorter, fatter, funnier looking and far less charismatic than their on-camera or on-air persona portrays them to be. And...they always look extremely annoyed. In person, they can't actually be their real selves because they have to deal with the fame bi-product of whatever dream they dared to chase. That must suck. Imagine having to deal with constant critique and ignorance-based judgement. I believe VIP exists for celebrities primarily to protect them from the unreasonable assault on their character. I only recall meeting one celebrity unaffected by the fame. That's Warren G. That fool will dance in the smack dab of the middle of any party with his arms raised up all night. Maybe that was his dream.

Anyhow, the annoyance factor was in full effect after dragging my ass, in the rain, to Wish in Little Five Points for the launch of a new Hip Hop inspired wrist watch entitled NuPop Movement. (Thanks, Erica for the invitation. I regret that we didn't get a chance to meet in person.) Apparently the Hip Hop community has a thing for watches with huge faces. Them and my momma. For real. My mom loves big faced watches. She can see the numbers better. Evidently Jermaine Dupri partnered with jeweler Pascal Mouawad to create this big faced fashion statement for the masses ...and my mother.

I walked in to find J.D., Monica and Big Boi posing for pictures in front of the makeshift red carpet while everyone else pretty much lined the walls gawking at them. Of the three, Big Boi looked the most annoyed. Dupri appeared to be making the most of the situation while Monica smiled fiercely and avoided eye contact. I took a couple of pictures. Looked at the big faced watches and then bounced to go see The Men Who Stare at Goats with my boyfriend. The movie proved to be an interesting take on existentialism. We enjoyed it.

Jermaine, Monica, Big Boi, thank you for sharing your time to be gawked at by members of the pain-in-the-ass general public. J.D., I hope you sold and continue to sell many watches. Big Boi, I can't wait for your next Outkast and/or solo project. Monica, I can't say that I'll be watching your show but your makeup was impeccable and I wish you the best. Um....keep standing. (???) As for the launch party itself, C'MON! We can do better! Handlers, Wish, whoever, we are dream chasers who make things happen. Here are a few event planning tips for next time.

1. Have some got-damn security at the door! Any deranged stalker could have walked in unchecked with an AK-47 under his coat, a Glock in the small of his back and a knife on his ankle.

2. Make sure you have someone stationed at the door to officialy greet any representatives of the media who dared to come out. Media amplifies your brand and helps you continue to finance the pursuit of your dream. You want to make sure your publicists build those relationships on your behalf.

3. You are or represent stardom, so wear it with pride. There are several liquor companies that would have gladly donated some of their product for the purpose of reaching your audience. That liquor could have moistened your guests' throats and buying attitudes. Additionally, your handlers could've negotiated some butler passes with hors d'ouevres to really finesse the money out of party-goer pockets. Why the hell do you think that fish Paris Hilton leaves the house every day without a red cent on her?

4. It was bright as hell in there! Everyone could see everything and therefore had no real incentive to circulate throughout the party and discover. Illuminate the red carpet and the merchandise ONLY.

5. Partner with a charity and do a dollar coat check or something during cold or rainy seasons. In this way, you make your guests (aka prospective buyers of your big faced watch and other merchandise) comfortable AND you build good will. Plus you get additional publicity through whatever promotion the charitable cause does independently.

And I'm spent.

November 8th - Fox Brothers Bar-B-Q

noreply@blogger.com (Out Past 30 Lady) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 19:48:00 +0000

Many may be under the impression that living in the south means that all of us live a stone's throw away from a church, a gun shop and a good barbeque spot. That's simply not true. The nearest church is just under a mile away. I can't throw a rock that far. The gun shop is within a five minute driving distance and closes early on Sundays. As for good barbeque spots..that's a bit more tricky. Many folks, including me, have family BBQ sauce recipes that have been passed down from generation to generation. You want BBQ? Fire up your own grill and grab a beer. It's on!

The only people I know down here without a respectable barbeque grill is us. I blame that on the fact that my boyfriend is an immigrant hailing from a culture where the men don't understand that their genetic coding means that they must grill. (!!!) I still love him. I've almost entirely convinced him that we need to invest in our own grill. He's tasted the sauce. He likes. I've even gotten him to hold my mighty grilling spatula. He smiled a little. Plus, a fellow Nigerian scored his own grill for his birthday a couple of weeks ago. (Thanks, George.) The seed has been planted. Until we roll that baby home, however, we've wondered where in the heck can we get some ribs?

Oddly enough, my grill resistant boyfriend has a rib addiction. Thus, it was he who launched his own investigation into a respectable BBQ emporium. This past Friday, he was informed by a coworker that he needed to stop by Fox Brothers Bar-B-Q in Decatur. He promptly texted me and advised me that we would not hesitate to dine there this weekend. Come Sunday morning, he put on his military pants and I wore my military boots and jacket in preparation for our battle with the beef! And it was a beautiful day for meat eating, I'll tell you what. The sun was shining. There was a slight breeze in the air. Though Fox Brothers was fairly busy, there was still a table for two with our names all over it.

We scanned the menu and carefully plotted out our course. The plan was to try as much of the meat as humanly possible. Sweet Love needed to have ribs but he couldn't decide between the half or whole rack. I wanted to try both the chicken and the brisket but I didn't want to be greedy. Additionally, we both wanted a taste of the Brunswick stew, tater tots, onion rings, fried okra and perhaps a green veggie like collard greens. The waitress (we called her Bennifer) saw the anxiety on our faces and gave us more time to consider. We decided that to fulfill our chicken wishes we would score an appetizer of six hickory smoked wings with ranch dressing. Sweet Love would get the whole rack of ribs with the Brunswick stew and onion rings, while I got the sliced beef brisket with tater tots and collard greens. Sadly, the fried okra would have to wait. We were so happy with our plan that we high-fived. We're such a great team.

The food came. Okay...it was good. I mean it was damn good ....and there was so much of it. Oh America! Sweet land of gluttony. There's no way we should have eaten as much as we did but the taste kept callin' us and callin' us and callin' us. The smoked wings were so tender and the sauce had just the right combo of brown sugar and vinegar. The hickory flavor in the ribs was undeniable. Again, the meat fell away from the bone like butter. The beef brisket was just the perfect consistency and refrained from getting stuck in the back molars. Oh the sandwich that it would make! They put Lawry's on the tater tots, God bless'em. The onion rings were the size of my fists and yummy. I wasn't too keen on the collards. No, Mom makes them better. Anywho, there was no room for dessert. I don't know why Bennifer fixed her mouth to even ask us that.

We packed up the lagniappe, left Bennifer a 20% tip and waddled to the car. The plan was to walk around Piedmont Park, holding hands, discussing how savory and sinful our meal had been. However, we couldn't find a parking spot and we started talking about...stuff. By the time we did find a parking spot, we were tired. We both agreed that a nap would be the best possible decision we could make at that juncture. We went home and watched Krush Groove pretty much willing the fat to accumulate on our respective bodies. Love will kill you. Two thumbs up, Fox Brothers.