Stumptown, GA

Ye Olde Southlake Mall

When you drive south on I-75, heading out of the city and into the sprawl, you’ll pass Southlake Mall on your right. This is “The Mall” of my childhood– destination for Christmas shopping, gift certificate spending, giant cookie cake pickup and Glamour Shot sessions. There is no lake at Southlake, but there is a patch of woods between The Mall and the interstate.

Over the past few years, and many trips down 75 South, I’ve watched the progress of a strange development on this site. One by one, these huge historic-looking houses were wheeled in on flatbed trucks and reassembled in the swampy no-man's land between the Sears parking lot and the expressway.

The seemed so forlorn and out of place. Who was doing this? I wondered. And what for? I stopped to take this photo in September of 2006.

So I just got back in town after 6 weeks in the mountains, and had to make the rounds of Stumptown: Anne & Bill's Restaurant, the Library, and of course, I pulled over to check out “Olde Morrow.” It's fancy!

So I called the City of Morrow’s Economic Development office today to get the lowdown. Lawanda told me it’s going to be a 17 acre development that will include taverns, retail, restaurants and a bed and breakfast. The central fountain and gardens will host receptions and outdoor events. Here’s the craziest part: they’re building the lake. As in “Southlake.” It's about goddam time!

Those are, in fact, historic structures from all over the state... the kind of old estate homes that have been displaced and demolished due to suburban sprawl. So this is where they go to die. (I can’t help but think of the old Victorians they rolled out of Mountain View and Hapeville to make way for airport expansion. My mom said the event was “like a parade”– streets were shut down, people came out to watch the procession.)

If you pick up a historic house and move it from its historic context, is it still historic? Is history portable? Is it packagable and marketable? I guess we'll find out Spring of 2009.

Retro Doughnuts

(photo pilfered from RW)

The Krispy Kreme doughnut “factory” on Ponce de Leon Ave has been there since the '60s. When the neon sign out front is switched to “HOT,” you can look through the plate glass windows to watch the doughnuts being born. A conveyor belt slowly moves the soft little doughballs from the proofing racks to the deep fryer, where they are flipped and fried by mechanical tongs. Then, golden and greasy, the naked pastries nose through a cascading sheet of liquid icing. As they bump along the snaking metal track, the wet icing congeals to a waxy shell. Some lucky employee, yawning, latex-gloved, corrals them into dozens, deftly flicking them into a flat white box using an special doughnut-flicking stick. This place has always been a magical fixture on a notoriously rough stretch of Ponce.

A few years ago, the Krispy Kreme on Ponce got a major facelift. Inside and out, the old doughnut shop is shiny and new. It’s now a place where suburban parents and kids, after a show at the Fox Theatre perhaps, can be seen late at night comfortably enjoying their coffee, licking the kreme from their fingers while cracked out hookers still dart along the edges of the parking lot.

They did a nice job with the renovation. It’s all retro chrome and seafoam green and those signature tiny polka dots. And you can still watch the doughnuts being fried and enrobed in sugar. But the wallpaper really bothered me. It’s a stylish collage of black and white photos from the chain’s history. I stood there for a while thinking, Where am I?

Right now, I’m miles away from Atlanta and it’s probably been over a year since I visited Krispy Kreme. But that wallpaper is still so puzzling to me. When I think about my hometown, that’s the kind of thing that fills me with dread. This always seems to be happening in Atlanta¬– they take a real place and tear it down. Or, even worse, they take a real place and make it into a non-place. A movie set version of a place. A parody. I don’t know. There is no there there.

Atlanta is full of non-places. I think Krispy Kreme was just responding to the trend of designing restaurants like a Vegas casinos– safe, phony versions of real places. In the Atlanta suburbs you can visit dynastic China (PF Chang) next to faux Sonoma (California Dreaming) next to Margaritaville (Bahama Breeze, Joe’s Crab Shack) next to Irish pub (O’Charleys). Around the corner from the Krispy Kreme is a condo complex called The Savannah. Why couldn’t it be called The Atlanta? What would that look like?

(Even when I was a kid, Bennigan’s kind of bothered me. All those fake antiques hanging on the walls… where did they come from? And what were they doing there in Stumptown, overlooking my baked potato bites?)

Why not just find some authentic period wallpaper? Rather than just restoring the ‘50s-era coolness of original Krispy Kreme, they made the place into a safer, franchisable version of itself. It could be anywhere. It’s like they’re cannibalizing their own brand. The doughnut eats itself. Twenty-five years from now, what are they going to use for decor?

Defective Poetry

In class today we turned to Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein and I discovered that my anthology skips from page 162 to 227. Looks like they left out an entire signature during binding. It was like finding a four leaf clover.

And I wonder if Broadcast loves Stein? This is from their album Tender Buttons:

The big guns

Last summer I listened to the French Kicks on my headphones all the time, feeling bright and powerful. Like I could stay up all night writing and never be alone.

Then we went and saw them live and the performance was a total letdown. The lanky lead singer hid behind a mop of curly hair. They looked sloppy. They played sloppy. I kept waiting for them to get it together and sound like they sound in my head, buzzing and hot like July. Shawn said they were probably on drugs. Why didn’t I think of that? Am I naïve? Is that why they made me feel high?

I’m sick of everything that used to turn me on.
I wanted everything but it took too long.

It’s summer again and I have avoided last year’s music. I thought it would be foolhardy, maybe even depressing, to play that soundtrack again. However. “One More Time” just came on my iPod and I feel like a fool, A FOOL, for not bringing out the big guns sooner. French Kicks, I still love you.

One More Time mp3

The worst story I ever wrote

The worst story I ever wrote was for Mrs. Massey in 5th Grade. It was about the lights of downtown Atlanta. I think it was my first piece of nonfiction. Up until that point, I had been submitting fantasy stories about talking animals. She liked those kinds of stories better and encouraged me to go back to fairy tales. She was right, and the criticism stung my little 9-year-old ego.

(My experience with the lights of downtown Atlanta would’ve come from weekend visits to see my mother. The drive to her house was like going to Disney World. So it was fantasy, sorta.)

Now everything I write turns into that story. They all turn out dark and serious. They are all about home. Mrs. Massey would be disappointed, but I can’t stop trying to get it right.

Book Prescription

So I’m at the School of Letters, surrounded by books and book lovers, readers and writers and critics. Everyday, I hang out in this old gothic library for a couple hours. I feel like that guy in the Twilight Zone who has all the time in the world to read and then breaks his glasses. My days are packed with references to books that I ought to read. I am keeping a running list:

Geography of the Imagination
by Guy Davenport
This collection of essays has come up in my Modern Poetry and Creative Nonfiction class. I remember lying about having read it in an interview when I was about 15. I have no idea what it’s about.

The ABC of Reading
by Ezra Pound
Because his essays are way more fun than his poetry. Because it was first printed in 1934 in these cute little pocket editions with the title typeset in Futura. It’s a classic “writer on writing” manifesto that is surprisingly funny and handy.

The Middle Passage
by Paul Metcalf
More “essays.” I actually read this in an afternoon, but I need to read more by Paul Metcalf and more that was published by The Jargon Society and the other Bauhaus émigrés hiding out in North Carolina. His nonfiction pieces are more like collages of news clippings, interviews, poetry and prose. He should’ve been a blogger.

The Habit of Rivers
by Ted Leeson
He writes about fly fishing, but not really about fly fishing. This guy did a short reading for our group yesterday and I was impressed with the way he weaves nerdy information into his personal observations in a way that’s compelling to someone who doesn’t care about fly fishing.

Young Men and Fire
by Norman Maclean
This is also the guy who wrote A River Runs Through It. I know, more fly fishing. This one is crafted around the oral histories of smokejumpers at the Mann Gulch forest fire. Maclean was 74 when he started writing it and died before it was “finished.”



Race and the Shaping of Twentieth-Century Atlanta
By Ronald H. Bayor
More historical research to beef up my paper on Moreland Avenue. Still trying to get my mind around modern nomads and short-sighted visions of community and southern identity. I am thinking of creating a map of the migratory movements of generations who have left Stumptown.

 

Like Something Flying Backwards
By C.D. Wright
Because I love it when people recommend living poets.

Bonnaroo breakdown 2008

 

Your Own Personal Bonnaroo.
We took off for Bonnaroo after I finished class last Thursday afternoon. My mom, husband, nephew, 2 girlfriends and I all packed in Mom’s SUV for the road trip. Helena (age 14) and Justin (18), on board for their first Bonnaroo, were probably mystified at how silly the grown ups were acting.

This was my second year at “the Roo” and I’m as surprised as anyone to be employing such a term. We used to watch the procession of summer caravans on their way to Manchester and think, I smell patchouli. But you just can’t argue with a lineup that includes legends of rock, country and blues alongside the same indie bands I’d normally catch at the EARL. I’ve learned that there’s a thousand different ways to experience Bonnaroo and the point is to make it your own.

Our strategy has been to stay at Mom’s in Sewanee (about 40 miles away), drive down after the hottest part of the day (2 or 3pm), watch 8-10 hours of phenomenal music and come home to a cozy bed and shower. I’m sure the whole camping experience is a blast, but I love having the chance to escape for the night, recharge and relive the whole thing the next day.

 

Best Way to Start Bonnaroo with a Bang.
After we sat in traffic on the shoulder of I-24 for at least an hour, then idled in the bottleneck of cars and campers at the gates, endured the long drive to day parking, long walk to Centeroo and a long wait at security, we finally arrived at THIS tent just in time to see MGMT at 8:30. I dragged Jason and Justin into the crowd up front. It was hot and I couldn’t see the band, but woooo it’s Bonnaroo! We stayed until they did that song about “this is our decision: to live fast and die young.” The crowd was ebullient, singing along, so so happy to be there. I guess when you pay at least $250 to attend an event, you’re committed to having fun, no matter what.

Next we wandered around like tourists, showing Justin all the sites. Made our way over to THAT tent so the guys could catch The Sword. I stayed long enough to get the general drift of things and then headed back to the “indie” tent of the night to find out what all the fuss is about Battles. This time I stood near the sound stage, where I discovered an clear view of the performers, plenty of room to dance and of course, the best sound. I ended watching almost all the other Bonnaroo acts from this spot.

The High on Life Award.
So Battles was satanic. Unbelievably fast, technical guitar rock that keeps upping the ante. It was hard to dance to, but even harder not to move around. It was an impressive performance, but don’t know if I could enjoy it at home. I felt lucky to get to see them live… that was the first of many moments where I felt like I was getting away with something… I kept looking around at the crowd, thinking, did that really just happen? And we saw it?

 

Most Fun Show.
After that, I reunited with the group. The day’s excitement was all catching up with us and we looked pretty sleepy. Vampire Weekend took the stage in no time and provided the needed recharge. I’ve been reading a lot about this band on blogs, but found the clips online to be kind of weak. They certainly brought the energy to their live show, magenta spot lights and all. In my opinion, Vampire Weekend wins as the Most Fun show of Bonnaroo. The band seemed excited to be opening the festival and the singer struck that perfect pitch between friendly and confident. At one point, he recommended we pogo or twist to the next song. And did we ever.

 

Nicest Surprise.
Friday’s schedule was impossibly stacked with great acts and I wish I would have admitted defeat early on. We commuted back from HQ in time for Minus the Bear at THAT tent. They were loud and jittery and just too much for me to take that early in the “morning” (it was 3pm).

Jason and I were sitting on a hay bale, sweating and trying to get motivated when we had the most pleasant discovery of the weekend– Edgar Meyer was about to take the stage with Bela Fleck. People who are into Bluegrass already know about these guys, but I came to Bonnaroo to see MIA and !!!, so it was kind of a shock to find myself in The Other Tent, covered with goosebumps, giddy with the display of acoustic talent onstage. My Dad has always listened to Bela Fleck, so I knew he was the guy who played unexpected stuff on the banjo. And Jason got into Edgar Meyer when he transposed a bunch of classical cello stuff to the stand up bass. It seemed like everybody in that tent, musicians and music lovers alike, was just completely ecstatic. Like it was a historic jam that everyone was happy to be present. I guess this is why hippies follow Widespread Panic around.

 

Disco Matinee
!!! followed by M.I.A. just about destroyed THAT tent on Friday afternoon. The singer for !!! had us all screaming and laughing trying to match his manic stripper dance moves. Then M.I.A. finally took the stage and invited everyone to come up and dance with her. Glee, bouncing, sweating ensued.

 

New Heartthrobs
I fell in love with Jack White on the jumbotron. I watched a ton of guys with guitars last weekend, but Jack White is the real deal. He seems to totally dwell in this stylized blues/rock persona– some timeless, black-clad, dictator like a cross between Anton Chigurrh and Ziggy Stardust. The Raconteurs are being hyped as a “real” band, and not just a Jack White vehicle, but I’m not convinced. I could watch him nonstop. The man is dangerous.

Meanwhile, Justin and I both had such a crush on Memphis’ Amy LaVere, we snuck backstage to give her a lemonade. I think we first heard Ms. LaVere’s songbird blues on an Oxford American compilation. They compared her stylings to Dolly Parton meets Ella Fitzgerald. The Troo Music Lounge– a tent really– didn’t do her velvety voice justice, but she could rock the stand up bass. She was so tiny and flattered when we delivered the lemonade. It was definitely a highlight of the whole festival for my nephew.

Saddest Defeat
I could list all the bands I’m sorry I missed. My Morning Jacket would be at the top of that list. We all had to make some painful decisions between favorites, or between standing and sleeping. Sleep won on Friday night.

 

Well, now I can say I’ve seen them.
Half the fun of seeing a show is bragging rights. Cat Power and BB King were kind of forgettable, but at least I can say I’ve seen them. The same goes for Chris Rock and Metallica. Entertaining, possibly historic performances that are already a blur. Pearl Jam did not disappoint. They brought back a lot of memories from high school. They seemed genuinely awed by the audience and the opportunity to perform for at Bonnaroo (this makes a difference, I think).

 

Still Can’t Believe it
I am still googling “Kanye West + Bonnaroo” to find some kind of suitable explanation for what went down on Saturday night. How could this happen? Don’t concert organizers and their legal teams have ridiculously thorough contracts that prevent these kind of performer fiascos? Kanye West might as well have cancelled. Considering the 80,000 tickets sold with his name on them, I am baffled that there is no lawsuit pending against him. We waited til 4 am, telling ourselves we would be rewarded with a life-changing show, then finally bailed. It was daybreak when we got home. The birdsong kept me awake for a little while.

The last drop
All I could manage on Sunday was Aimee Mann and Broken Social Scene and that was more than enough. Aimee was a cool and confident performer. She sounds even better live than on repeat on my iPod. BSS blasted us out with something like 7 guitarists on stage at once. Both made me realize they have a LOT more music than I'm familiar with and left me wanting more.

Mystery architecture off I-675

We spotted it again last weekend– this cool-looking building up on a hill overlooking I-675 just south 285. It has been under construction for years now and is starting to look like a temple or a chalet or some eccentric mansion. Well, most anything looks exotic along this stretch of freight liners and landfills. All I can tell is there's a steep red roof. I think that's it in the upper left corner of the photo. Does anyone know what it is?

I Love Wayfield Foods

I’m always griping about “Wayward” Foods, but only when I'm feeling deprived. The truth is, I love the Wayfield. I go there at least once a week because it's at the end of my street and on most days it's easy to find parking. They're compact and clean and unpretentious. So what if they don’t have neat stuff like gorgonzola, fennel, soy creamer or practically anything organic? For sandwich bread, half-and-half, an emergency roll of cookie dough or a forgotten lemon, it's swell having a Wayfield Foods within walking distance.

I finally confessed my love for the Wayfield last night. Lacking the mental stamina for a trip to the Whole Foods singles scene or a suburban Publix, we dropped by after dinner to pick up some milk and cereal. I was singing Wayfield's praises right into the produce section where I spotted some "Georgia White Dirt" for sale. I’ve heard of old timers eating this stuff to settle an upset stomach. And I’ve seen it for sale at roadside boiled p-nut stands and such. It says right on the package “not for human consumption,” but it’s shelved right between the cane sugar, plantains, corn husks and yellow root. (I had to look it up. I think its another herbal remedy.) I bet you can't get that at Trader Joes.

All the young couples moving to the Southside bemoan the lack of good grocery stores. Its a neighborhood subject we always bring up, like the weather or the traffic. And its true. It seems like there are liquor stores and fried chicken chains and hot wing joints everywhere but very little access to fresh, nutritious foods. The people in the checkout line with me at the Kroger Citi-Center or Sav-a-Lot are buying boxed, canned and processed foods, so the fresh produce selection is always pretty weak. (By the way, Sav-a-Lot makes Wayfield look like freakin Dean & Deluca. Slashed cardboard boxes in the aisles serve as display racks, generic Oreos spilled out on the shelves, flies in the freezer.) And its not just the locals. I have some suburban relatives who don’t buy veggies unless they're processed and packaged and marketed to them with a name like “Simply Potatoes.”

I guess I also love Wayfield because it bears a resemblance to the A&P and Winn Dixie of my youth in Stumptown. Cheese came in yellow and orange, rectangle or square. Even 15 years agao, you couldn't find rice cakes or pita bread and hummus. Your selection was limited to the name brand and the no-name brand and not much in between. But you could ride your bike there and back.

Persuasive writing

File this under future assignments for my future writing students: Write a profanity-laced flyer persuading me that your dog is magnificent.

Someone brilliant or someone overwhelmed with heartfelt emotion wrote this. I can't tell which. Maybe both. Either way, behold Xerxes! This is another internet parody that makes me laugh in wonder. I just wish I could've experienced this flyer on a telephone pole instead of a blog.