404 Not Found (My Week in Atlanta)

I spent a large amount of my week in Atlanta flipping u-turns, missing exits, and generally just driving in a random direction hoping I would see something I recognized. And this was with the aid of my iPhone's GPS. It's amazing that I'm still not in the bowels of Emory University's campus, crying and asking students if I could maybe crash at their dorm until my mommy comes looking for me. Seriously, how did people ever find their destination before the advent of turn-by-turn technology? I imagine they got lost a whole lot, and then had to convince themselves and everyone around that they had, indeed, found what they were looking for even if that included constantly starting a new life.

"Boom! There it is. North America. That place I was totally looking for!" -Christopher Columbus

I was in Atlanta to take care of Fuji, my brother Aaron and his girlfriend's cat. They went on a week-long cruise, and as I was jobless and growing weary of Birmingham, it seemed like a pretty great excuse to hang out in a new city for a week. Free place to stay, stocked fridge, the unconditional love of a cat – it's everything I need in life to make me happy. I was going to live like a true Atlantan, as defined by Ludacris.

Cailtin's house, my home for the week, is nestled in a quiet neighborhood in a northern Atlantan suburb. Or it would have been quiet if her neighbors had not chosen that week to cut down every tree in their yard and employed a team of early-rising Leatherfaces to do it. Every morning I woke up at about 8am EST (4am Nathan Standard Time) in a murderous rage at the chainsaws that were a few feet from the nearest window. I could eventually brush it off and fall back asleep, but one morning someone knocked on the door and asked me to move my car so debris wouldn't fall on it. I was pretty groggy, and somehow I locked myself out of the house. Luckily Caitlin, knowing that I was closely related to her boyfriend, planned for such an incident and hid a spare key. But I only half-read the note that explained where the key was hidden because what am I stupid? (answer: yes). I then proceeded to play an exciting game of Find the Key before a Tree Falls on my Car. It was tough, but I won.

While I was in Atlanta I, of course, had to try new restaurants. I ate at a 24-hour Vietnamese place where I had a mysterious but delicious square, spongy...thing. Midnight is too late to be eating yak spleen or some sort of reproductive organ, so if that's what I was doing I didn't want to know about it. My favorite dish I tried was at The Nook by Piedmont Park, and it was a huge plate of tater tots covered in chili and macaroni. By the way, that discomfort you are currently feeling in your torso is either your heart seizing up or your stomach trying to break through your abdominal wall and hitchhike to The Nook. Either way you should consult a physician, because both will result in your untimely death.

I also wandered through a couple farmer's markets, which are more international bazaar than anything. Buford Highway, where the markets are located, is a really unique area in that there are so many cultures represented. There are foods from around the world - Korea, Mexico, Vietnam, Japan, and whatever country thinks it's normal to sell live crawfish with nothing but tongs and a paper bag to put them in so you can do the rest of your shopping with angry river cockroaches in tow.

Alone they are harmless, but in swarms they could eat your children

I was surprised to stumble upon Georgia White Dirt again, hanging out with the mangoes. This confirms that more than one crazy grocer in Atlanta sells dirt in a bag, puts it in the food aisle, then warns you not to eat it by putting "not intended for human consumption" on the label. However, the Georgia White Dirt suppliers must be changing their marketing strategy, because I found one bag that had conspicuously erased the "not".

Directions: Step 1) put in mouth. Step 2) swallow. 

Step 3) call a doctor, because you have worms now. Step 4) repeat as desired.

My purchases at the markets included some foreign sodas, an albino coconut, and what I thought would be a delicious milk-like drink. It turns out it was nothing more than a bottle of the runny part of cottage cheese, and I am saving my upchuck for the shoes of the man who thought that would be a good idea.

I like my milk to be white, but this is dang near "Aryan"...*rimshotcymbalcrash*

I learned a lot during my stay in Atlanta, and not just about terrible food. It was good for me to get out of my comfort zone. I've been on plenty of vacations and trips, but this was the longest I had spent away from Birmingham in a long time, and it was interesting to see what things I missed and who I missed. I crashed several YSA church activities while I was there, and I was the "new guy". I haven't been the new guy at anything in 8 years, and I forgot how much effort it takes. Everyone was super nice, though, and went out of their way to make me feel welcome. It made me realize that I'm not the best at welcoming others, and that's something I need to work on. It also made me realize that new isn't always a bad thing. Heck, under certain circumstances I am willing to admit that new can be a good thing. But only under circumstances I dictate, and I still reserve the right to be set in my ways.

You didn't think I'd change that much in week, did you?

The Unemployed Superhero

“Birmingham. She is my city, and I her protector. I feel her pulse in my veins, like the rhythmic shuffling of the lawyers and accountants downtown. Blank-faced drones that pour out of Harbert Plaza and sprawl out into the suburbs each evening. But she's not alone when they leave. No. She's the city that never sleeps. Unless it's after 6:00 pm, and then she enjoys a good nap. But I'm there with her when night falls. The streets come alive again, but this time the pulse is drugs. It's gangs. It's dice in the alleys. And I, I am the shadows.”

“Nate!" someone interrupts. "Who are you talking to outside that window?”

I whirl around and see Emily with a familiar look on her face. It's the same one she gives when I start talking about Magic: The Gathering. “Daggumit, Emily, can't you see I'm inner monologueing here!”

“You're what?” Her look dissolves to pity, like the one she gives when I talk about eating at Waffle House alone. “What are you doing?”

“Inner monologueing!” I retort loudly, hoping that would be sufficient explanation. Several awkward moments pass. “Geez, every superhero worth their weight in justice has a moment where they look out over their city and express their inner-most thoughts.”

“Oh.” She squints at me, her eyes rolling down and back up as she no doubt examines my muscular frame. “So you think you're a superhero now. Is that why you're wearing your underpants over your jeans and you have a bed sheet wrapped around your neck?”

“It's not a bed sheet, it's a fancy tablecloth!” I yell. Some superheroes get caught up in the glitz of the profession, but I'm a substance kind of guy. “And yes, I've found my new career. I'm a superhero now, a protector of Birmingham and all that is good.”

“That's...probably the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You work in marketing, and you need to find a real job soon. Nate, I-”

“No, please,” I cut her off. “Nate was my marketing name. That's the name of an office pawn, not the awesome dispenser of justice I am now. You can call me...” I put my hands on my hips, stand with my feet at shoulder width, and turn my head sharply to the left for effect. “Natman!”

Emily burst into a hysterical fit of chuckles and snorts, and I don't even remember shooting her with my laughter ray. I must've though. She eventually regains her composure. “Natman? Isn't that a bit, I don't know...derivative?”

“Your face is derivative!” Emily crosses her arms and gives me that look she gives when I say things that don't make any sense. “I'm still working on my superhero comebacks,” I say dejectedly.

“Well, your friends are worried about you.” She moves closer and puts her hand on my arm. “You've been out of work for two months, and you have too much free time. Being a superhero doesn't pay anything, though. And marketing is what you're good at. Also, didn't you dislocate your shoulder one time while sitting up in bed? Maybe you should-”

“SHAZOW!” I shout, trying out my new catchphrase as I reach into my utility belt and throw flash bombs onto the floor. I use the distraction to run past Emily and out into the hallway.

“These are just Snap 'n Pops!” she calls out as I close the door behind me.

I check my watch and realize I've got a meeting with Mayor Bell soon. I follow the hallway and knock on a big white door to collect my sidekick. “Zach Attack!” I screech. “It's time for our meeting with Mayor Bell!” I hear rustling coming from the other side of the door, but it doesn't open. “Zach Attaaaaaaaaaaaaack!”

“For the last time, I'm not your stupid sidekick!” Zach grumbles. I can't see him through the door, but I'm pretty sure his beard is glistening. “And 'Zach Attack' is a stupid name!”

“Oh c'mon!” I exclaim. “You were almost 'Zobin'.” I pause to consider that Emily was right. “Anyway, we're running late. To the Natmobile!”

“You drive a Chevy Aveo,” Zach Attack reminds me flatly. “And you're not a superhero. You just have too much time on your hands.” Silence fills the hallway as I ponder his words. I press my ear up against the door and hear him quietly add, “Besides, if anyone was anyone's sidekick, you'd be mine.” I bet Robin never got so uppity.

“I don't need you!” I bellow. “I'll go see the mayor by myself. And don't come crawling back when I'm all up in the newspapers for saving babies and puppies, and they license my story to make a movie starring a young Johnny Depp!”

Zach cracks the door open swiftly, with just enough space to crane his head inches from my face. I was right, his beard is glistening. It's like it's radiating masculinity. This would be his super power, if he hadn't burned that bridge with me only seconds ago. “The mayor actually called earlier,” he starts. My eyes widen with anticipation. Zach releases the tension in his shoulders and the attitude from his voice. “He says to stop showing up at City Hall, he refuses to install anything called a 'Nat Signal', he won't give you a red phone with direct access, and that if he needs your services he will email you. But then he said that under no circumstances would he ever, ever email you.”

I drop eye contact and ask sheepishly, “Not even if King Kong were attacking the city?”

“'Especially if King Kong were attacking the city.' That was an actual quote. Also, he says to go find a real job.”

I slink off back to my room as I unfasten the fancy tablecloth from around my neck and fold it into a square. The swaying of trees in the wind invites me to the window, and as I gaze out I hear the faint, far-off sounds of police sirens. The corners of my mouth slowly edge upwards. “I am the unemployed superhero Birmingham deserves, but not the one it needs right now,” I say proudly.

“Stop that!” I look down to see Emily standing directly below my window.

A superhero should be cognizant of their surroundings. I make a mental note to work on that.

The British are Coming!

I'm fascinated by pop culture. Not to say I'm a fan of all of it, because heaven knows I'd like to troutslap a Kardashian or three, but I'm interested in how the public consumes media and what kind they choose. I keep track of television ratings, I read the weekly domestic box office totals, I scour the Billboard charts, and I generally annoy people at parties.

 "Yes, I'd love to hear more about the total gross of The Matrix Trilogy."

I also like trying to put trends into frames of reference or historical perspective. I chalk this hobby up to being a marketing major, only interested in the consumerism of it all, but it's probably closer to the side of me that plays Magic: The Gathering and Super Nintendo. Regardless, I've learned that many pop culture trends are cyclical. Because of this I've been preparing for a certain pop culture storm since high school. And just like the crazy man on the side of the highway with a cardboard sign warning of armageddon, I'm here standing on the edge of the Information Super-Highway (can't wait until that phrase comes back in fashion) and holding this crudely drawn blog up as you pass by to compulsively update your Facebook. So, go ahead and disconnect your cable, finally cancel that subscription to Tiger Beat, and pre-emptively ground your teenage daughters.

Because boy bands are making a comeback.

 Just let this image burn into your retinas

The previous dispensation of boy bands ended about 2002 when the two largest factions, N*Sync fans and Backstreet Boys fans, reached the age of musical accountability. They buried their metaphorical hatchets and their literal flamethrowers, and they signed a treaty with a clause that states neither party can ever purchase another boy band album and must lie whenever asked what their first concert was. The boy bands stuffed their hair gel into a duffel bag and went into hiding, and they have patiently been waiting to return. It's been ten whole years since then. The musical landscape has changed, and the new boy bands have learned to adapt. Gone are the days of light rock, tight choreography, and orchestral arrangements. Now heavy dance and electronic influences  have taken over, and they don't use any impressive or creative vocal arrangements. In fact, I heard one song on the radio about 15 times but had no idea there were multiple people singing until I saw the video. Also, they don't dance, they just kind of shift around like those desert lizards who try to keep their feet cool. Yes, boy bands are back and will soon be assaulting your aural cavities, but this time around they are less talented. It's like hearing the Mongols are back, but this time they've got shotguns.

There are two groups that are currently huge in Europe that are on the cusp of breaking into America - The Wanted and One Direction. If you don't believe me, here's a clip of One Direction performing on The Today Show last week. Keep in mind their album isn't even available in this country yet, and there's already an army of hormone-addled tweens in the audience.

So what can you do to stop the full invasion from happening? I suggest writing an angry letter to your senator, crumpling that letter up, and then crying yourself to sleep because there isn't a goshdarn thing you can do about it. All you can do is prepare yourself for their arrival. Like the public service announcements in the 90's use to say, knowledge is power, so I'll give you the information on One Direction you'll need to exploit their weaknesses should the occasion arise. My reference material will be European teeny bopper magazines and my own outright lies, because I don't feel like reading enough to write an accurate report.

Name: Ducklips McFarrahfawcethair

Archetype: The Fearless Leader

Ducklips is the founder and leader of One Direction, named after the peristaltic flow of your aggravated bowels upon listening to their music. Ducklips' favorite pastime is striking Mick Jagger poses during press interviews and funerals, and his favorite thing to do on a date is "just holding hands while sitting on a pile of money I'll be legally entitled to once I turn 18." Ducklips hopes to be like Justin Timberlake one day - successful and without any memories of his former bandmates.

Name: Dusty Thumbsucker

Archetype: The Baby-Faced One

Dusty sings soprano in the group and is trying to make the tough decision of whether to be kicked out when puberty sets in or to become a eunuch. Young and unassuming, Dusty is secretly plotting for Ducklips' demise and strategizing for the ensuing power struggle. He likes girls that wear Abercrombie and Fitch, but Chinese food makes him sick. He also thinks it's fly when girls stop by for the summer. For the summer.

Name: Justin Bieber

Archetype: The Sensitive One

Justin was born with the name Hershel Schlozenberg, but chose his new name once he made it into the group. He says it was chosen randomly, and any coincidences are purely "that other Justin Bieber's fault". He likes a good sunset, crying during movies, and lulling girls into false senses of security.

Name: Brock Hardy

Archetype: The Bad Boy

Brock's eyes speak volumes, nay, libraries about his hard life as explained to him by his manager. In preparing for his role as bad boy, Brock watched Corey Haim movies and was injected with Botox to prevent smiles from happening. His hobbies include partying, carousing, and other vaguely dangerous but socially acceptable gerunds.

Name: Jacques Frenchman

Archetype: The Jokester

Jacques is the hilarious one, as evidenced by the fact that he is wearing an early 20th century French bathing suit. Haha, isn't he wacky? His favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla, he likes his coffee room temperature, and his favorite band is Coldplay.

So, you've been warned and armed with irrelevant and fictitious information. The boy band storm is approaching, and what you do to protect yourself is up to you. Personally I'll be keeping several trout handy. Just in case.

Peaches, Racism, and a Wedding

My two-person band recently broke up due to creative differences. Will, the guitarist, wanted to move to Dothan, get married, and start a family. I, however, wanted to melt faces with the power of metal. My only solace is that our music will live on in the hearts of his parents and siblings, because they're pretty much the only ones who ever heard us play. If the Baker family had a Billboard chart, we would've been top 40 easily. I'm happy for Will though, even if his decision shows a lack of priorities. I offered to play a ten minute drum solo at his wedding as a peace offering, but he politely yet forcefully declined.

His wedding was Saturday in Dothan, and I left Birmingham early Friday afternoon to make a mini-vacation out of it. It's over a three hour car ride, and I get bored easily, so I wanted to break up the monotony of the road. If I saw a sign for something podunk and ridiculous, I was determined to stop and investigate. Also, to pass the time I invented a new car game. Every time I heard an Adele song on the radio, I struck a pedestrian. Total body count: 9,416. That blood is on Adele's hands, though, not mine.

My first stop was in Clanton, better known as That City with the Gigantic Freaking Peach.

Seen here using its dark forces to create a wrathful tornado

I remember passing by it as a small child on the way to Panama City Beach, and I've passed by it several times as an adult, but I've never stopped to look at it. Every sign for Clanton on I-65 is peach-themed. "The South's best Peach Ice Cream!" they say, "Pick your own Peaches at Dunbin Farms!", and "My Friend Gary will Pelt your Car with Peaches as you Drive through our Trailer Park!" This led me to believe that the city would surely be a Disney World-esque peach utopia. It would be a peach-filled Willy Wonkan tour where the streetlamps were made of peaches and the hobos were also made of peaches. You can imagine my dissapointment when I couldn't locate a single stupid peach in the entire city.

Also missing in Clanton: school funding

As I was about to jump back on the interstate, I spotted a rundown barbecue restaurant across from the giant peach. Without me even turning the wheel, Blues Traveler pulled into the parking lot and called out an order for a sandwich. It was basically a small shed with an attached carport for expanded dining, the type of place where men wore overalls unironically and the menu was drawn with sharpies on colored paper and taped to the wall. I decided to take advantage of the warm day, and I ate outside. Now, I'm used to pigeons begging for food on the patios of restaurants in downtown Birmingham, but I as I ate under the carport a rooster and two chickens walked by. I was overwhelmed with Southerness, and I wished my Yankee friends could've been there to eat barbecue next to overalls and a rooster in the shade of a giant peach.

Tex's Bar-B-Que - Home of the Freshest Chicken Sandwiches

Blues Traveler and I left Tex's and renewed the search for peaches. I was determined to leave Clanton with something peachy, even if I had to stop at a BP and buy a peach Nehi and a bag of Peachie-O's. I eventually found Peach Park Express, where I bought caramel peach ice cream, which sounds disgusting but was quite tasty. With my peach lust satisfied, I hit the interstate in search of my next adventure.

I saw a sign for Prattville Pickers - a brilliantly named store, because idiots like me see it and think, "Hey, Pickers. As in 'American Pickers'. I like that show! I want to go there!" And then all of the sudden you're in a flea market knee-deep in Morgan Fairchild DVD's. They did have some interesting stuff, though, like this evil clown hellbent on murdering you in your sleep.

The clown is $8, but the night terrors are free

Or this Joey Fatone doll, also hellbent on murdering you in your sleep, probably.

Oh, crap. Ar- are they becoming friends? Are they talking about you behind your back?

The most interesting thing I found at Prattville Pickers had to be the Official White House Sword. It's a large, real sword that looks like it should be wielded by He-Man rather than Obama, and the blade is emblazoned with 'DC'. It's probably as "official" as those commemorative plates advertised on TV at 2am, but I'd like to think it's been handed down from president to president, having fought in the American Revolution with George Washington, slaughtered Spaniards in Cuba with Teddy Roosevelt, and used as a condiment spreader with Bill Clinton. How cool would it be if presidents actually did walk around with a sword? After all I believe it was President Roosevelt who said, "speak softly and carry a big sword that you windmill over your head until your opponents shut their faces."

Aaah! Is that the clown over my shoulder? Well, we already know what the murder weapon will be.

Prattville Pickers has a lot of Southern antiques and memorabilia, and the South is known for two things. One is peaches, which I already experienced in Clanton, and the other is racism, which Prattville Pickers has plenty of. I'll start with the least racist thing I found and work my way up to the most racist to ease you into it. (Warning: racist antiques ahead. Send all hate mail to Prattville Pickers and not the author of this blog. )

A pro-segregation presidential candidate car tag on top of a confederate flag car tag. Pretty racist, but only if you know who Wallace was and what he stood for. If not then you'd just think some insurance salesman ran for office on the Dukes of Hazzard ticket.

Okay, black people saltshakers. I'm not entirely sure why, but I feel uneasy about this.

Yep. We are in full-fledged racist caricature mode, now.

Who knew that racist ceramics is such a popular antique item? That cookie jar is $68, and they didn't even spell 'cookie' corre-...oh, right. Racism. Also, these ceramics are getting larger, like you could just buy all of them as one crazy, racist Russian nesting doll collection.

Caricatures over, now entering the stereotype section of the store. For $50 you can by this print and hang it in your office to let your co-workers know that you have no social awareness and are likely to tell racist jokes at upcoming office parties. Also, you're fired.

And the winner for most racist item found at Prattville Pickers is:

Redacted and replaced with a cute picture of baby animals. The actual item contains offensive language, and I don't feel comfortable posting the image, because there's a fine line between making light of the fact that these awful items are being sold in a hillbilly store today and making light of the subject matter. And as my kindergarten teacher will tell you, I'm terrible with lines. If you're really curious I'll private message you the item, but just know that I'm judging you as a racist for wanting to see it.

I eventually made it to Dothan, and the rest of the trip was really nice. I had fun hanging out with friends and seeing Will before he tied the knot. I politely yet defiantly tapped a drum solo on my chair as he walked down the aisle. Alabama may be bereft of peaches and full of racism, but it's nice to know that love and marriage is still alive and well.

Me, Will, and Will's new husband Art

Just kidding. Congratulations Will and Ashley!