Purgatorial Pool

As my current purgatorial state ensues until further notice (as to be determined by the powers that be), my desire to relax as possible before the storm clouds of stress come pouring through increases. This is what led me to a pool hall alone, setting out to shoot an amazing game to ease my stress. Mind you, my car is on vacation in sunny California until further notice, so its just me and my rusty old chevrolegs. Ok, I lie. It was only me and my taxi legs by the time I walked 2 blocks away and saw a really scary looking white van that was paying me no notice at all but completely freaked me out. 
I shot some mean games of pool, told someone off for insinuating that I can’t play when I first arrived, and overall felt good about my game. The only problem is that I showed off too much. I took too many left-handed shots behind my back (it looks really cool and I can do it), and woke up today with a thrown out back. Lucky for me, the confluence of Atlanta foggy-rainy-hot-humidity and my current state of purgatory have led me to believe that I am not missing a thing by stretching out on the couch.

Ellijay GA—The Misadventures

I love to travel. It makes my soul fly, enhances my consciousness, and allows me to bask in my Sagittarian nature. When I decided that I loved to travel, I was a little kid who often traveled with my mom on long road trips in California. It has taken me until adulthood and my relocation to the southern U.S. to realize that not all travels were created equal. Case in point: Ellijay, GA.


Rather than explaining my stupid reasons for going there and why it was the worst decision that I have made in years, I must note a little something about the journey.

I agree that the journey is as important or more important than the destination. However, when the journey involves seeing a real live chain gang, dressed in black and white striped uniforms like something out of Oh Brother Where Art Thou, I begin to question this dictum
. (Yes this still exists, only 20 minutes away from a posh outlet mall  where I bought a Coach purse).

Just to give you a bit of background. Ellijay is located in Northern GA, in the Appalachian Mountains (click here for sound effects). It is well know for its serene beauty, rambling river, a fertile lands. A perfect place to rent a cabin, or so I thought. 

Upon arriving in Ellijay. My phone reception gives out. I do the good ol’ fashioned stop at the nearest gas station and ask for directions routine. Upon speaking to the person behind the counter and trying to match her directions to my GPS, she explains “GPS don’t work in Elllllijaaay.” My God, what have I gotten my self into?

The cabin I rented was beautiful. Except for one thing. I am a city person. I like wildlife just like the next guy, but mainly when it is surrounded by city: central park, Piedmont Park, Santa Monica beaches, that’s my speed. So what does my dumb ass do? Decide to check out the town.
Here it is: The Piggly Wiggly and Waffle House. Strangely enough, they have a Mexican Restaurant as well. But as I learned the hard way, they don’t sell margaritas on Sundays =(

Everyone in town had just discovered Facebook. This is odd considering that it has been around for years. I guess it just hit in Appalachia. Everywhere I went I heard people talking about faaceboooook (said like I spelled it).

The Piggly Wiggly was like the Twilight Zone meets Deliverance. I was afraid that if I stayed there too long, I would leave with an accent that would make me sound like Boomhower from King Of The Hill.

Ultimately, I went to the most hopping place in town--Waffle House. I overheard women exchanging stories about being romanced by men with banjos (not kidding, its true), and another celebrating her first night out on the town since the birth of her child. She was very dressed up in a pair of pink pajamas.

Road Trips

There are very few things that I love more than the open road ahead of me. I have driven across the United States 4 times, each time a very different experience. The open road is an ocean, an inspiration, and a friend. 

All optimism aside, the road also seems to present you with the strangest things you never wanted to see. Most of these occur at the most mundane of places: drive through restaurants, those gas station/mini mart/fast food joints out in the middle of nowhere. You get the picture.

I drove across America in June. From Atlanta to Tampa Bay, to Washington DC, to NYC, back to Atlanta, and then California. Long freaking drive. Especially Texas, which deserves to be listed twice just due to sheer size. Texas (There, I did it)

While I might reserve the average, “let-me-brag-about-my-cool-experiences-online” run-of-the-mill travel experiences for a later blog, my current goal is to call attention to the crazy shit that lurks in the long desolate stretches between cities in the US. For the sake of brevity, I’ll list the top three travel misadventures (author’s note, these are collective stories from the trip, I wasn’t stupid enough to drive that far alone): 

1. Valdosta, GA—I made a pit stop in the city’s main attraction: The Mall. I tried on a dress, and upon looking in the mirror, I noticed an enormous jizz stain on the black dress I had just put on. Needless to say, I didn’t buy it, and then ran screaming out of the store (not quite screaming, but you can picture my reaction, right?)


2. Blythe, CA-The back of the Chevron Gas station has signs posted for a massage room. Upon closer investigation, it turns out that Blythe CA hosts a gas station-mini mart-BROTHEL combination. (Also, my reaction entailed screaming and running for the car)

3. On 95 somewhere in Virginia near North Carolina: my travel partner witnesses a man bathing in a barrel behind a motel. This time he is the one screaming and running while I drive the getaway car.
 

Pool Shark

Billiards is humankind’s greatest invention after the wheel. Screw airplanes, Iphones, immunizations, forks and knives. Pool trumps them all.

You see, billiards is the perfect expression of my feminism. I love to play with the boys, just mess with me and I’ll hand you your ass. And then, when you feel ashamed that you just lost to a girl and begin to address me as “young lady” or try to teach me how to play after I just beat you senseless, I will bite your head off and hand you that too, just to match your ass.

Additionally, pool allows me to be a cosmopolitan. While it may be associated with the laboring classes and barflies, it is played by these classes almost universally. I have played pool in almost every country I have visited, played with people with whom I did not share a language, and fully attempted to map every pool table between L.A and Edinburgh. The one pictured here is in Old Mesilla, New Mexico.

Five Things You Should Know About Me (and my blog)

1. Grammar and Style. I know how to write. I know all the rules. Don’t end a sentence in a predicate, I before E except after C, use a strong thesis statement, etc. I know these things and I teach them to my students. However, my purpose in writing this blog is to defy all of the rules and use run-ons like they are sweet waterfalls that run life into this new genre of writing that I am beginning to explore.

2. I address this blog to the general public (usually encapsulated in my form of address as “folks”). But I know that my only follower is my mom. But I remain hopeful that some others might read this and get a laugh.

3. I am a disgruntled academic. I have touched on this a few times, but I thought I should just put it out there in case folks haven’t gathered this yet.

4. I don’t plan on linking this to my facebook. I have been on that site for over 4 years and it feels more alienating than anything. So many of my worlds are mixed in my 600 friends that I don’t want to post anything on there anymore for fear that the wrong person will get the wrong idea of me.

5. I love photographs more than life itself. Plan to see them with every post. If I stop posting photos, you may want to see if I am running a fever (you might think this only applies to my mom, but I am not opposed to care from perfect strangers as well. And I love chicken soup in case that day comes and I get sick and don’t post photos and you want to help me in my time of need. The chunky variety is the best)

Atlanta…

I hate to break it to you folks. But Atlanta is no Atlantis, a lost paradise. Not even close. However, Atlanta does have a few benefits that hide behind the overly congested freeways packed with people who can’t drive, the racism, no alcohol on Sundays, bad shopping, cold weather, mosquitoes, cockroaches on steroids, SNOW, and terrible customer service. (Did I mention that the malls are horrendous?)
Those things are as follows: Piedmont Park and Waffle House

Piedmont park is the most gorgeous place in the south on those first days of spring when everything blooms at once and all of the people in the city come and share this lovely communal space in such a peaceful way that you could never imagine that segregation in this city implicated Piedmont Park as a “color line.” Its beautiful, interesting, and surprisingly easy to find parking. For an afternoon all can pretend that Atlanta is a real city with a cosmopolitan feel. Although that veneer dissipates as soon as you get back in your car to go home, Piedmont park feels like New York’s Central Park on those fine days early in the spring.

For the rest of the year when the weather isn’t anywhere near nice enough to walk in the park like a teenager in love, Waffle House is the spot. Open 24 hours, having locations all over Atlanta, and the cheapest menu possible, Waffle house is that perfect thing anytime of day or night when you want some good greasy breakfast that will allow you to eat away your troubles (even if they are, like mine, related to dieting). Don’t forget to tip though, the waiters don’t even make half of the state’s minimum wage. 

Screw Virginia. Piedmont park is for lovers.

Don’t let LA Woman Fool You—I’m from the suburbs

So this is me. I’ve lived in 3 major US cities—LA, NYC, and Atlanta.

But what this glamorous picture does not reveal is that I actually grew up in a house in the suburbs that had (you ready for this?) a white picket fence (I am suddenly frantic now because I realized I don’t have a single digital picture of that house. But we all know what white picket fences look like and symbolize, right?)

That’s right folks, your cosmopolitan girl is a from a house in the suburbs of LA that looked like it could have been in the middle of the prairie. Except for one vital fact: it wasn’t.

As soon as I got behind the wheel of my first car (a red 1966 Ford Mustang) at the age of 16,  life began. I drove to three places on a regular basis: the city, the beach, and community college. Little did I know that the life that began was a scholarly one that I wouldn’t even think to question until now—at the age of 28. I’ve been through community college, an undergraduate degree at UCLA, an M.A in Cultural Anthro and now I am working on a PhD. I wouldn’t recommend getting a PhD to my worst enemy. I ‘d rather be sitting behind the safety of that long-gone white picket fence or exploring the many cities that I know and love.

my Dad

Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 72 years old today if he was still alive. He died suddenly of a heart attack on May 9, 2009 at the age of 70. Since I am starting this blog today, I think he would have considered this a gift—knowing that his daughter is still writing and trying to eek out a creative existence in this difficult place that we call the world.

I miss you dad. Happy birthday

NYC

If there is anyplace that holds a candle to LA, its its rival—NYC. This is a photo of my dorm where I lived for two years as I got my Masters degree in cultural anthropology. I miss the buzz of the city as well as the buzz of this bustling and bubbling dorm. Always open, always friendly, and never alone. This place felt like a microcosm of NYC. It seemed like everywhere you turned another language was spoken, another idea was being made manifest, and the elevators were always overcrowded. This was my New York City, contained in 17 floors owned by the university, where I lived rent free for a year like a pauper. The irony: it was located directly across the street from the Federal Reserve 

LA @ Nite

 

I’m a blog virgin. Feeling like an innocent adolescent with far too many years of experience, I break the proverbial blogging ice with a photo of my city—Los Angeles. Please be kind blogosphere, I’m diving in here with my heart on my sleeve.

I was born in Los Angeles and return there as often as possible. My loved ones hold down the fort for me in this magical city as I traverse other places in the U.S that are not quite as warm, friendly and unique as my L.A.