Crib Notes

There is a legend in this town. Its name stretches across the collective Atlanta consciousness, clustered and manifested in the cognitive abyss of the mind of every girl and boy. It lines the seedy, pallid underbelly where it is the unquestioned master of all it sees, king of a realm of twisted morality.

It is the Clermont Lounge. And I can’t get in. Shit.

And if the fact that I’m not allowed in is a slap in the face, then the fact I can’t go to the Black Lips show at the Clermont Lounge Aug. 16 is a kick in the balls.

I don’t really care to say the number of times elders of the previous generations, mentors with infinite knowledge and rubber tongues, have informed me that I am so very fortunate to be the age I am, that they would give millions to simply live in my shoes for but a few days. Well, that’s all well and good, but after spending the summer in Atlanta interning at CL, bearing the sun on my Chicago shoulders and looking at music listings that simply make me cringe, I think that I’d give the same just to be a bit older.
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