Adventures. I have them. And they are often uniquely Atlantean. Shall we discuss one?

This Friday it was getting together with Bobby, one of Wendie’s few friends who are still friends after departing from the AJC. He came by and picked us up, we headed to Edgewood to 5 Guys Burgers, scarfed some junk food while the goobers stared at us from behind the counters and amongst the patrons (hey, it is part of the experience for us). Ran into and her hubby as well, on their way to see They Might Be Giants right down the street. Hopped back in the truck to head to our destination, only to hear a live performance in studio from Dave FM of the very man we were headed to see. Dave FM didn’t do such a great job of covering it, and they don’t have the live version of the song on their website, which sucks, but there you have it.

We got over to Little 5, got our “We live here, we know where to park, thanks” parking, and stood in line in front of Criminal Records.

Cutest pair of kids were standing behind us, wearing Marvelous 3 t-shirts that fit them like altar boy cassocks. More on them later.

We had preregistered for the show and picked up our passes the day before for this particular in-store, so Wendie had the LP and the CD, and we both had our purple passes in hand, so when the doors opened we went right in, no muss, no fuss. I spotted the right place to be, we parked there, unloaded our heavy coats and made a pile of coats from the folks around us, settled in against the counter and waited for the show to begin. We met a few folks who knew us, and the free beer put everyone in a good mood until the man took the stage with his band.

Now, I dunno if you have ever been to Criminal Records, but between the vinyl stacks there is some room, and the stage in the back, but really, if you were at the furthest point from the stage that night you were maybe 80 feet from the artists? And there were perhaps a hundred people there… so this is definitely on the list of what I would term as a ‘cozy gathering’. Hell, I’ve had that many people in my house at one time, or my backyard to be certain. So when Butch Walker and the Black Widows took the stage, Wendie, Bobby and I were all of 10 feet from them.

Now, a little background is in order here. I am no expert on Butch Walker, but he is a pretty amazing guy. You can educate yourself about him here if you wish. Me, I have Wendie, who has been a fan of his work for a very long time. She and Bobby have had a long standing tradition of going to his shows whenever he is in town. The last time he came through I left the two of them to go alone- after all, it was their thing, and I didn’t want to intrude. Besides, I didn’t know who the hell he was, so why bother?

Since then, Wendie and I have shared music via iTunes. Our catalogues have infected one another, and we have both grown a little bit musically by plugging each other’s music into our car radios and expanding our horizons while driving around this great city that we call home. And in the process, I got to know Butch Walker, because his songs come from his life, and his life has always been tied to Atlanta and her ’sweaty embrace’. And I came to appreciate the artist and the man, and this time around I looked forward to seeing him live, as Wendie explained that it was quite the experience.

10 feet from the stage, in a stripped down version of the band, they murmured amongst themselves as to what song to play next. He bantered with the crowd, censoring himself because Christian and her cousing Billy had been sent up front to see him play and melt his heart in their oversized Marvelious 3 t-shirts. He belted out his songs with the intensity one would expect from an artist playing Madison Square Gardern in the record shop where I buy my comics. He poured his heart and soul out onstage, and spoke of his appreciation for Criminal Records fighting the good fight for the independant record stores, and for us, the fans who had supported them by buying an album which served as our concert ticket for this show.

Yeah, you heard me. The price of admission was buying a copy of the album directly from Criminal Records. That was the deal that he struck with them, and the deal that they offered to us.

After the show he took a moment to smoke a cigarette and cool off outside, then came in to sign autographs at the very counter that had supported my butt through the concert. If there’s one thing I’ve got it’s the ability to choose where to be, it seems. I handed him one of my own silver autograph pens, as he only had a black Sharpie, ill-equipped to autograph his black album, and told him to keep it, as he was gonna need it. Somehow before I left the house I knew that too, and I patted myself on the back for my cleverness. He signed the LP to Wendie and the CD for Bobbie, and at the end of the night I returned to get him to sign the poster from inside the LP as well, when everyone else had a turn.

I was surprised by my reaction to the man. I’m not one to gush, and I don’t particularly ‘do’ star struck. But he was attractive to me, and something about him made my pulse race and my speech come out rushed and a bit stacatto. And now, with hindsight, I understand why. It wasn’t the hair and glasses that made him look like Clark Kent on a bender. It wasn’t his lean and tall frame. It wasn’t his eyes. No, it was his passion that I responded to, I realize now. The passion and intensity that makes his songs so memorable, that brings you along to see his human foibles and experience his triumphs and tragedies. It was the passion of the artist and the genuine appreciation for his fans that made me swoon a little bit for Butch Walker. And I think it always will.

Atlanta is my home, and I love it like no other. This Friday night, yet another point of light was added to the stellar canopy that I call home, another bright and shining star that continues to remind me why I live here, and why I love this jewel of the south. Perhaps this song will help you to understand that… here, from his latest album “I liked it better when you had no heart”, ladies and gentlemen it is my priviledge to present Atlanta’s own Butch Walker and the Black Widows with Pretty Melody. (Player is in the upper right hand corner- just press play).

Feel free to buy the album and support one of my favorite artists if it moves you. Or just enjoy the song if you like… whatever you chooce, thank you Atlanta, and good night.

Smokin out like Chief Wahoo hoo / Chase it down with the liquor and brew brew / Pass it round that’s the way we do do ~ Project Pat, Smokin’ out

I’ve had an epiphany again, so I thought I would share it with all of you. Cuz that’s how I roll, yo.

See, in the trans community, we have a bunch of women who were raised as men. It’s not unlike children raised by apes or wolves- they can grow up and survive, but they tend to end up, well, a little bit different. And when they are reintroduced to the society they should have been raised in, their behavior is seldom instinctual- instead, it tends to be an imitation of what they have observed from watching the humans.

Now, in many cases, the pack mentality is a boon and blessing to them. They know instinctively to circle and protect, because it is the pack of them against a hungry and vicious world. However, should the world not be hostile enough or the pack large enough (or both), theytend tol turn on one another and begin snapping and snarling and fighting for dominance.

Funny how well these analogies can apply sometime.

But today, I’m here to move us to a slightly more evolved level of that pack mentaility in our discussion, wherein we move from the wilds of Canada or the deepest jungles of Africa to a vicious landscape with which we all have a bit more intimate familiarity, having survived it ourselves at one time or another. The often cruel, seldom forgiving and always dangerous savage land men call… the chalkboard jungle.

That’s right. Let’s take it back to high school.

We all know the rule… real life is just high school with more money. The social paradigms and conventions that we learn in high school really don’t change as we get older, they just mutate somewhat and get infused with more money. The accountability tends to remain the same, the social rules really don’t change much and the cliques really do not alter much in adulthood, save that money changes everything. The nerd who came from poor will likely end up the IT guy at your company, the smooth slick kid will still be an idiot but be your boss, and the pretty girl is still kinda immune to a lot of things, yet vulnerable to drama. You get the idea.

So, early on in our relationship when Wendie was exploring my world with me and marvelling at the sights, at one point I expressed to her that we had evolved and mutated in the social scheme. No longer were we the Art Room Nerds or the Weird Kids… now, we were the Cheerleaders. We had become the Hot Chicks Who Folks Wanted To Be Around. We were It Girls. Go us for having found a way to change our social status, right?

But I was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

A recent exchange of heated words in some online forums brought me around to the realization that the Cheerleaders, god bless ‘em, are still the same- a social pyramid with one at the top who all support one another in their uniformity. Key being that uniformity. Like …from the Oblongs, they move as a herd, speak as a herd, and communicate in a language all their own. That which is different, ie unique or unlike them, is to be abhorred and disdained. Looked down upon and judged to be detrimental to the herd.

Now, I am a judgemental bitch… this is very true, and I freely admit it. I don’t care for narrow-minded bigotry or discrimination or people attacking me or mine. In fact, all of these things tend to bring my judgemental bitchiness into very sharp focus and direct it, like a laser beam. And in that focus I found inspiration, and an epiphany.

We are not Cheerleaders.

I watched as the Head Cheerleader distanced herself, and how some of her lessers made a huff about leaving. I saw them take up their pom poms and shake them vigorously, making very little actual sense but leaving shreds of hypocrisy all over the floor as they rah-rah-ed righteously and then departed the auditorium in a flourish of ‘never-to-return’. And as I watched all of this, it occurred to me that we are not the Cheerleaders, me and mine.

For our strength is not to be found in our uniformity, but in our diversity. Our people are not the jocks, but the stoners and the freaks and the nerds and the weird kids in the back of the room. We do not all follow that singular beat and move to its cadence, but instead we thrash and jerk and bounce chaotically across the landscape. We dress in a style uniquely our own, our makeup is everything from conservative to outrageous and our one common credo is “Whatever makes you happy long as it don’t hurt nobody”.

We are the girls out back, smoking behind the gymnasium. We are the ones the jocks look at and think of when fucking a cheerleader. We are the nerd boy’s wet dream, the freak’s fantasy and the ones the stoners invite to be in the circle. We are the ones cleaning our compact mirror in first period who borrow your shades, because we partied too hard the night before. We are the girls who use old torn pairs of fishnets to make gloves with cool holes, who rub graphite onto paper then use it to change our makeup in the middle of class. Our lipstick is too red, our hair is too big and out iPods are always too loud, especially when we want to ignore you.

We’re the Rock and Rolla Chicks. And damn proud of it.

Heathers be damned.