Crib Notes

HANG THE BLOODY DJ

Clapton isn’t God. At least, I think not. But one thing I know for sure, if Slowhand isn’t God then DJ’s certainly aren’t to be worshiped. The “DJ is God” complex is something I’ve never much understood and nor is it a religion I care to practice. For the most part, I think DJ’s are self-absorbed clowns and talent-less attention whores. I mean, who do they think they are — Creative Loafing bloggers?!

One could argue that they’re the vital ingredient to a successful soiree. I disagree. There are only two prerequisites for a lively ballyhoo — women and booze. The rest are just details. It doesn’t matter if a retard is spinning “The Electric Slide” on repeat at a wedding reception in a community center as long as there’s a wealth of honey dips and hooch. A six-year-old can DJ that party and it’s the same party. (more…)

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TUESDAYS WITH MORONS

“It’s where the weird turn pro.”

That’s how Dangerous Move’s legal counsel Brian 3000 puts it. “But,” he adds with a Jeff Spicoli stoner laugh, “I’m pretty sure I just stole that off a spring break t-shirt.”

It’s like a ski lodge in the center of Atlanta. A pizza place with no red wine. It’s in an odd shaped, flat iron building off 10th Street, and it just may be the cheapest place in the city to get shit-faced.

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CHAOS BY DESIGN

Sweaty strangers in flannel are grabbing my ass in a warehouse off Dekalb Avenue. Half a pint of Wild Turkey convinced me it’d be a good idea to free fall from the rafters into a sea of hipsters. Maybe I just couldn’t hear him correctly over the blaring amps of the Black Lips, but a wild turkey has never steered me wrong before. Fuck it. It’s chaos by design, and it’s a beautiful thing.

It’s a Saturday night and we’re in superstar hip-hop photographer Zach Wolfe’s studio. He’s quite possibly the coolest person, other than Chad Radford, to hail from the home of Captain James Tiberion Kirk. A pasty white boy from Iowa and he has the Dirty South in the palm of his hand. The guy has his adopted city railed out on a table and it’s yelling, Snort This.

Problem: Zach’s grandiose studio has an equally substantial August power bill.

Solution: Let’s party.

A couple hours of preparation, a couple of runs to Green’s, and a couple hundred kids turn up for a guerilla-style Black Lips show. A benefit fit for scoundrels.
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ALL GOOD THINGS MUST

It opens old wounds, bad ideas, troubled times, nasty sex, sweaty drugs, new starts, and almost always, a shady hiding place. As a rusty key opens the door to one of our rooms in the Clermont Motor Hotel, we’re hit in the face with the firm smell of gentleman’s musk. Fourth floor or not, this is the ball sack of the building. And we must be nuts for doing this.

It’s a triangulation of sin. A dangerous, if not deceitful, triangle along the Poncey corridor that connects the Crack Track (the much ballyhooed Beltline) to the Murder Kroger, MJQ, and of course the Clermont Hotel. Sunup or sundown, that block on Ponce de Leon Avenue has played host to hilarious, harrowing tales for most of us. And the Ford Factory Lofts water tower stands proud and useless overlooking all of the questionable decisions and mishaps that take place below.

MJQ gives us a headquarters. Green’s gives us courage. And the Clermont, well, I’m not so sure anymore. If anything, maybe the Clermont gives us a reminder to get our shit together. That, and maybe hepatitis. Pick a consonant.

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Mayor of Ponce throws down at the Clermont Motor Hotel

Walking down Ponce de Leon Avenue, it’s 6 a.m. and all the good people are getting ready for church. Me, not so much. I’m heading back to my room at the Clermont Motor Hotel. A hotel that’s as spiritual as it is profane. A place that isn’t much a destination, more a punctuation. An ending. Unglamorous and real as it can be.

The glow of the Bank of America building, the art deco neon of the Clermont, and the Sunday morning sun are all fighting for attention in the Poncey fog. And I’m walking a crooked line, cracks and all, trying to decide if the night before proved worthwhile. So what if the end is near for the Clermont Hotel? I know what they say about good things coming to an end, but what about unfortunate things?

It seems this story comes up every few years or so. The Clermont is always rumored to either be up for sale, teetering near foreclosure, or turning into something of more worth. But now it seems its filthy days are really numbered. The bumbling and confusing ways of Inman Park Properties have finally led to a 90-day extension before the property goes up for auction on the courthouse steps. And maybe that’s not as tragic as it sounds.

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M.O.P. (left) and Ace

My hands are shaky. My eyes, jittery and blood red. Red from the Red Bull and, presumably, traces of blood from the German deer that trampled and left me for dead. I awake to my liver sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette. It glances up, exhales a puff of smoke and with a concerned tone says, “Listen, we need to talk.”

Inspired by the Internet classic “My New Haircut,” where a Jersey guido gets a new haircut and pounds protein shakes and Jager bombs at the club — all to the tune of Corey Hart’s “Sunglasses at Night” — my ultimate broskis and I (Team Danger) decide I need a trim, a tan and some empty Red Bull cans. Oh, the carnage.

Flip Flops in Midtown (1140 Crescent Ave.) has $5 Jager bombs on Wednesday night, and Crescent Avenue is as close to the Jersey shore as I need to be. After talking things over with the staff at Flip Flop’s, we decide to turn this into less a girl-grinding escapade, and more a battle of skill, courage and stupidity.

After over a decade of doing nothing but astonishing damage to my body, I can’t help but wonder how many Jager bombs this little battleship can handle. I’ve unwittingly been training for this since my sophomore year of high school. It’s sorta like when Cool Hand Luke challenged himself with the burden of eating 50 boiled eggs, except this is pints of Jager and Redbull. More like Cool Hand Puke, I suppose.

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DON SELLECK

Read Viva Señor Selleck — Mayor of Ponce bar crawls Buford Hwy, pt. 1 and 2.

“If your office would like the daily specials faxed to your office, leave your fax number with your server or write it on this paper. Thanks, the Rusty Nail.”

That’s what the sign reads. It’s push-pinned by the door and it really does say it all. I’m somewhat disappointed that it’s printed from a word processor and not from the scribbled penmanship of a serial killer. But it does make me wish I still had access to a fax machine.

There’s an enormous pistol outside. Probably wing high to the Big Chicken. The barrel smokes when the chamber is cooking the meat of whatever’s dead inside it. You’ve driven by it and I’m sure you’ve had thoughts. Desires of adventure. The want of a good story. Everything about its appearance says: “If the South’s gonna rise again, the Rusty Nail’s gonna have something to do with it.” (more…)

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Continued from Viva Señor Selleck — a bar crawl down Buford Hwy., pt. 1

This one’s a bit trickier. It’s one thing to ham it up in a sleazy strip club. It’s another to bounce on foreign turf, while them not get the joke and we not speak the language. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but I wouldn’t suggest bringing a ballpoint to a knife fight. At least, not to a fight you want to live to blog about.

“There’s a group playing tonight,” says the door guy explaining the $5 cover. I like that “groups” play these places, not bands. “Groups” sounds like I’m at least getting choreography along with the retardation. Fuck it, here’s my money.

We’re outside Confetti’s Discotheque and the guy is actually making a couple gringos feel pretty welcome. We talk him down to $10 for all three of us. “The pretty lady is free,” he says smiling. I’d smile, too. She’s a breezy in any language.

He doesn’t even frisk us. No matter. To Slay’s disappointment, I left the rest of my steak for the kitchen staff at Follies to scuffle over.

There’s an eerie feeling as we walk in. That’ll happen when you’re instantly met with about 20 or so señoritas milling about by the front entrance in their Saturday night attire. It’s odd, but I’ll take it. Bienvenido, indeed. (more…)

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BIRD'S EYE VIEW: Above the urinal at the Rusty Nail.

A Bar Crawl Down Buford Highway

Grown men have tried to steal it, if only to hang in their own romper rooms, over their bachelor pad mantle, or maybe even as an heirloom to pass down to their own flesh and blood son.

I’m standing eye to ass, eye to class, eye to all that is the motivation of the bubbling blood of heterosexuality — and it’s one of the sexiest things these eyes have ever peeked. A warm rush comes over me. It’s probably the free Jager kicking in. It has to be. But whatever it is, it’s just as Slay told me, “Instant success.” I never knew standing at the urinal inside the Rusty Nail could make a man feel this way.

Last spring I assembled an adventurous bunch for a bar crawl up the seedy section of Moreland Avenue. It proved more clever than courageous. We were welcomed with open arms, bar tabs, and well, legs at such establishments as the Foxy Lady and Club Blaze. The only colors that most factored in were the brown of Evan Williams and the green of Alexander Hamilton. Everyone got liquored up and everyone got cordial. It was a magnificent thing. Alcohol tearing down race relations one shot at a time.

We tend to make this city smaller than it is. I see it as an international small town. A Mayberry of Olympic cities. We get stuck in our patterns and cling to what we know. I have friends who haven’t even been to the King Center, much less ventured into a hole-in-the wall juke joint with questionable riff-raff lingering about.

Sad, sad, sad.

Jon Slay, my co-captain of Team Danger, along with a cutie pie/designated get-a-way driver decide to take in the sights and smut of one of Atlanta’s most enchanting thoroughfares — Buford Highway. Or, “the Buff” as we dubbed it. A bar crawl uniting nations. An olive branch soaked in whiskey. Black, white, yellow, Asian, or Haitian … let’s get cordial. (more…)

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It’s been awhile. Almost a year, I suppose. I’ve been bouncing around a few bars, bounced my head off of a few curbs, told a few jokes, and been the butt of a few more. And I’ve loved every second of it.

I’m excited about this summer. I love how volatile the weather’s been. Springtime seems angry — like it’s ready for a fight or something. It has the excitement of summer before senior year. Before you’re about to blow off the last year of high school with a beer buzz and a cloud of smoke. We’re seniors and we’ve got a hall pass to the city.

It feels good to be back in the ’Loaf. Feels even better that it’s still around. CL’s been battling, sometimes uphill. But now it seems it has the taste of blood. And I like that. I’ll take that shark in any fight.

I have loads of ideas for pieces rattling around this 10-cent head, and they’re all mostly positive — aside for the racial stereotyping, name-calling and shameless self-promotion. But they’ll all have my best intentions. For now, let’s roll the bones and tap on the glass. Like in a pet store, the snake tank always reads, “Do NOT tap on glass.”

Let’s tap on it.

Here are some bourbon inspirations I scratched down on cocktail napkins. Basically, things I think about, just not thoroughly:

• Record Store Day was a few weeks ago. Am I the only one that finds it odd that it’s the one day a year where the most shit is actually stolen from record stores? If I were Eric from Criminal, next year I would call it, “Please Do Not Steal Shit from My Record Store … Day.”

• I want to start a group that supports dog fighting, just so I can go protest loser PETA members outside NFL games when Michael Vick comes back. What more do you want from that dude? He’s lost millions and he’s sitting in prison. Seriously PETA members, get a life. But until you do, I say “Legalize it.”

Let them settle it in the plywood circle. Standard dimensions.

• I kind of like Tecate’s Dos Equis’ “Most Interesting Man in the World” spots on TV and radio. It’s a lot more interesting though if you picture Kenny Crucial as the lead. Either him or Jeff Clark’s weird ass from Stomp and Stammer.

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Mayor of Ponce raises a glass to those who deserve it

It was a sad weekend for Atlanta scenesters who saw the official passing away of Decatur Social Club and the un-official death of Lenny’s. Techno may have been the cause of DSC’s demise, and poor ol’ Lenny’s has seemingly been done in by corndogs.

Ironically, these two Friday night traditions split the dishes a few years back when promoter Preston Craig took his KISS indie-rock dance party outside city limits, lured away by a 4 a.m. bar call. The move proved brilliant as the summertime Azul patio became a Friday late-night staple.

It was a wonderful four years of sweaty dancing to “Deceptacon” on top of the bench seats inside the cramp, dark restaurant. No matter what show you went to that night, you were sure to converge in Decatur for after hours drinking of cheap PBR pitchers and cheaper shots of Jager. Its where your MySpace friends came to life. DSC got you laid, made you friends, lost your cell phone and/or camera, and hopefully caused irre-hep-table damage to your liver and brain cells.

And that’s only if you were doing it right.

DSC embodied everything I love about this city. It was about dancing and fun and just getting out of your head. It remained wonderfully inexpensive, when it certainly could’ve taken advantage of its popularity. DSC wasn’t about bottle service and V.I.P. tables; it was just about having fun.

But all great things have to come to an end. Sadly, DSC moved away from Iggy’s “Lust for Life,” and into its Challenger space shuttle, techno remix phase. Its final frontier, I suppose.

DSC, you will be missed.

Getting on the horn to see what the good word was this weekend, it was pretty obvious no one wanted to attend this year’s Corndogorama. It was a tough pitch: $20 to see the same local bands you’ve seen for years. It was a weird feeling — suddenly, going to Corndog was not cool.

EDITOR’S NOTE: According to Lenny’s booker Bean Summer, the club has no plans to move or close before its lease expires in two years. Also, stay tuned for coverage of Preston Craig’s new weekly East Atlanta pub crawl.

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The Mayor of Ponce went to Oysterfest last week, and left feeling all clammy about it.

Cresting the hill on 10th Street, I see a mass of people surrounding Park Tavern. Mass as in thousands. Thousands as in plural. I think to myself, this isn’t going to be a day in the park.

Since the exodus from Buckhead, it’s the first Oysterfest held at the crown jewel of Atlanta – Piedmont Park. I figure I better attend the event since it might be the last one for a while at the park. Because of the dire drought conditions, the blue-haired aristocrats who run the Piedmont Park Conservancy have already shooed away the Dogwood Festival, Gay Pride, Screen on the Green and the finish line to the Peachtree Road Race. If the elements don’t ease up, I fear they might do away with actual people. The 186-acre park will just be a wildlife refuge with swing sets. (more…)

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Editor’s note: If you haven’t read self-proclaimed Mayor of Ponce J. Winter’s latest Nightcrawler columns, click here and here. And check out one of his older columns below. Even without photos, we think you’ll get the picture.

Fri., Jan. 11

It’s 6:30 p.m. and the text reads, “Louis goes on at 7:45.” It’s from Butch Walker. I’d better hustle if we’re going to make it to Buckhead.

“I’ll be upstairs,” his next text reads. Funny, because it conjures up an image of him waiting for my arrival above his Ruby Red Studios with candles and suggestive music playing. He buzzes me in, and thankfully, it’s just Butch. No candles or Keith Sweat. As a matter of fact, there’s not much of anything.

Butch is back in town taking care of a few things after the Malibu beach house he was renting from Flea burned to the ground along with ALL his possessions. His Midtown pad is empty except for a couch, a baby grand, and now, a mayor.

We hop in his rental and bounce to Buckhead. It’s a fairly anticipated show at the Roxy with San Diego’s Louis XIV, Canadians Hot Hot Heat, and Britian’s Editors. It’s like the U.N. of corporate rock.

Backstage we head up an extremely tight spiral staircase into a tree house of sorts that overlooks the stage. Paul, the Hot Hot Heat drummer, is looking out a window into the crowd and notices someone, “It’s that dude! He’s at every one of our shows.”

I already know before I look. Sure enough, front and center, it’s former Creative Loafing cover boy and current Atlanta mystery Kenny Crucial. I explain to Paul that it’s an honor to have him at your show, and the only reason Kenny is so weird is because he’s Canadian. Awkward silence.

Louis XIV absolutely kills its set. Onstage, lead singer Jase Hill is drinking wine of out of the bottle. You can’t take your eyes off him. He’s half wizard, half Jim Morrison.

Free backstage Budweiser is great, but we need drinks. The front bar is definitely “Cougarville,” and rock star Butch isn’t the only one getting recognized. A cute little blonde whom I’ve seen around starts chatting me up. Butch buys us a handful of drinks and we set up shop to watch his boys Hot Hot Heat. Aside from having to follow Louis XIV, the sound isn’t right and Steve Bay’s disheveled vocal pattern is definitely an acquired taste.

Plus, he kind of reminds me of Sideshow Bob. (more…)

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