ATLANTA NATIVES ARE RESTLESS

THE "ATL"

THE NATIVES ARE RESTLESS

Stars Fall on Alabama

By Georgia Lee

It goes like this:

“Where are you from?”

“Atlanta,” I say.

“No. What? Really?” The new acquaintance is stunned in wide-eyed wonder, as if I had said -  “I hail from the recently-deceased planet Pluto, may it revolve in peace.”

 Next comes the inevitable follow-up from this immigrant, whether he/she is from the former Soviet Union or Vidalia.

“You’re one of the only ones.” Or “You’re the only native I’ve ever met.”

This is as predictable as “fine, how are you?”

Frankly, I’m sick of it.

I was born in the old Saint Joseph’s hospital that is now a downtown hotel parking lot. At the time, let’s just say during Eisenhower administration, Atlanta’s population was a well under one million, maybe less than half. Why bother to fact-check, isn’t that the beauty of blogs and the Internet in general?

 I grew up in the “City to Busy to Hate.” Atlanta may not have been totally void of hatred, but it did indeed get busy!

We got all excited over the one million mark, then two million people. A real city!

Sometime during the Eighties,  “HOT-LANTA” drew wry winks of approval from those aware of this newly cool, hot city.   

Then the Nineties – The Dawn of the Decade of Doom - destroyed the quality of life that only the few, the proud, remember.

 Things got way out of hand.

 The Olympics changed the downtown landscape for the better – Centennial Park, the Olympic Stadium now home of The Braves, and on and on.

But each year between 1990 and 2000, 100,000 people moved here. 100,000 a year! I do know this to be a fact, and I marvel at it.

Today, the “ATL” sprawls with six million souls. How did this happen? What drew them all here?

 I’ve become a stranger in my own hometown, the last living native. I feel like the Oldest Confederate Widow, or the last WWI Veteran, as perceived by the millions who flocked here before Y2K.

Atlanta is now famous for soul-crushing traffic, sports and strip clubs, though I’m not sure about the last part, since the demise of the Gold Club.            

            I propose an alternative.

            I will inherit 500 acres in L.A. – Lower Alabama. I plan to apply for separate nation status, a reservation for the few, if any Natives left. We will live off the land, shell butter beans and love one another unconditionally. Nudity is optional.

             Future plans may include a resort/casino. I’m not too clear on the hunting lodge aspect, but the county agent tells me the deer population is out of control, so one assumes the deer want to be killed. It would be impossible to outlaw guns, as packing heat is a birthright in the former Heart of Dixie.

We must establish our own schools, as unlike many, we WILL teach Evolution. We will be a true Democracy with Freedom of and from Religion, in the spirit of our nation’s forefathers.

Come ye huddled masses – my childhood friends - who seek refuge from this teeming toxic metropolis.

Step into the light. All are welcome.

                                      ICE

By Georgia Lee

 

Athens is 100 degrees in July and Greece is falling apart. It’s too soon after mother died for me here, but there was no refund. I hide in my hotel room. From my balcony, the Acropolis blazes, golden at night. I can’t go there.     

            Nothing works - cell phones, e-mail, even the room phone is dead. I’m cut off.

But the thing I miss most is ice. I ask for it in restaurants. Thick Greek eyebrows lift. Nostrils flare in insult. They plop two, three cubes at most. They don’t last long.   

At home, iced water, tea, coke, anything, means ice and lots of it. We buy plastic bags and smash them on the hot pavement into broken pieces. I hear the crackle of it. I taste icy beer on a summer day.

Sunday morning, I sleep late. I dream armies of strangers invade my childhood house, tearing down a strong white façade that never existed.

 I wake up. My upper body disconnects from the lower. The center won’t hold the parts together. I stretch. It hurts. As the dream fades, I wonder how I will get out of bed today. Oh yeah, I’m going on a tour in this place I’ve never been before. The reception man gave me a brochure last night. I love tours. We learn things from tour guides that we don’t have to figure out by ourselves.

 I can’t go out yet, not even to the free breakfast on the 6^th floor. I press the room service phone button, where a little man carries a tray in a jaunty hat like the 1940s.

“Front desk? Room service is busy. They will call you back.”

I turn toward the window in bed. The sun burns my eyes.

 The phone rings.

 “Room Service. You dialed wrong number.”

“But I pushed the button with the picture,” I say, like a child.

“That’s wrong. You dial 6071 now.”

             I don’t say the phone hardly works at all. Why is the picture still there? Hotel phones once had dials, then buttons. One operator took care of everything. What happened to her?

 “Can I get a toasted cheese sandwich with fries, two Diet Cokes and a bucket of ice?”

She repeats my order, “A bucket of ice?”

 “Yes, a bucket.”

  I eat on the balcony. The sun is fiery. The fries are cold. But! I fill a glass of ice and watch Diet Coke fizz to the top.

 I’m not sure they do this here, but afterward, I put the tray outside the door. Housekeepers scurry around, speaking Greek. I ask them to clean my room.

I walk downstairs from the 2^nd floor to the lobby. I walk head first into the jagged edge of the steel door.

 Alone on the stairs, I touch my forehead. It’s hot and swelling. A dot of blood bubbles up. I’m dizzy, but I stand there and start to cry. Nobody will see me.

Then the door opens. It’s a housekeeper that I didn’t see in the hall. She is much younger than I, with round tea-colored eyes.    

“Miss, are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” But I’m not. “My face. I ran into the door.”

“Come, come,” she says, takes my arm and leads me to an open room that she’s cleaning. She finds an clear acrylic chair, brings it to me.

“Sit,” she says. “Should I call a doctor?”  

“No, no, it’s not that bad.” They have doctors here?

“I’ll call for ice, for the swelling.” She picks up the phone, speaks in Greek.

 From the minibar, she hands me a cold plastic water bottle.

“Hold this to your head.”

Then she opens another water bottle.

“Now drink this one,” she says. I don’t understand. “It’s clean and cold. ” I cry and hold the cold bottle to my head. She cleans the room, asks how I am.

“I have a tour at 3.”

“I’ll call, take care of that.”

A man appears at the door with an ice bucket. The housekeeper wraps ice cubes in a paper towel and presses it to my head, then hands it to me.

Soon, the ice numbs the pain that is still underneath. It really works.

“I’m okay now,” I say.  

“Okay now?”

I put the paper towel on the table by the bucket. “Can I take this ice back to my room? I really like ice.”

“I’ll take it for you,” she says.

I stand up and fall into the arms of this stranger. She holds me.

“Thank you, so much, for helping me.” I start to cry again.

“Please don’t cry,” she says.

She walks with me to the stairs.

“Try to feel good the rest of the day,” she says. The door closes behind me and I walk downstairs to the lobby.

“Tour is closed on Sunday,” reception says.

“But the man last night said daily.” I point to April through May, like he did.

“Closed Sunday.”

Maybe I need a massage, facial, something.

“The spa?”

            “Closed Sunday.” I don’t say the book in the room said daily.

“The gym?”

“Closed. But we can open for you.”

            “The gym then.”

            “I’ll get my colleague to escort you.”

            The colleague leads me to a dark glass elevator with tiny cold lights shining through like stars through black holes. We don’t talk.

            He unlocks the gym and turns to leave.

            “Lights?” I say.

            He flips a switch and he’s gone.

            I pick up light weights. My routine comes back. I don’t have to figure it out or ask for help.  

            Back in my room, it’s like nobody was ever here. On the table is the bucket, half full of ice, swimming in cold water. I dip my fingers in it fish out every cube into a glass that I fill with the cold water. I don’t care if it’s clean.

            I didn’t give her money. I didn’t even think of it, though I had some. She didn’t wait around, like most do, waiting for a tip for everything.

I take a shower and wrap a white towel around me like a blanket. I lie down on the sheets and the air conditioner cools my skin. I drink three glasses of iced water. I roll each cube around in my mouth.

Outside the sun is sinking. The Acropolis comes to life. I may never go there.

But I’m on a tour of a place I’ve never been before.

MAXI MADNESS

Maxi Dresses - Maxed Out  

Dear Readers:  If you are one of the millions of women in Atlanta parading around town in a maxi dress, please don't be offended by this post.  I'm come not to criticize, only to gain knowledge that may lead to acceptance and peace of mind.  

Who am I?  I wrote about fashion for 20 years, and have a vast knowledge base. I'm a woman who loves clothes more than life itself. I'm also old enough to remember this maxi-dress thing the first time around in the 1970s, which has nothing to do with my opinion.

I don't know the genesis of the current trend, but the maxi dresses has transcended trend-status into fanaticism, if not a Reign of Terror. Women - all sizes, ages, political affiliation and sexual orientation are roaming Atlanta in shroud-like garments, in 100-plus temperatures. These frocks are often festooned with floral prints, suggesting Mou Mous, Pentecostal church ladies, or 1970s wallpaper.  

Long dresses are appropriate for:  Formal occasions. Nightgowns. The beach, possibly. The only women who can pull off this look are very tall and very thin, which leaves out the majority, including yours truly.

Marie Antoinette: contributor

Why, in 100-plus temperatures is this happening?

   My theories are as follows

* Mass hallucination

* Marsh Gas

* US magazine

*  Reality T.V.

* Stores no longer offer shorts, tank tops and swingy little short dresses as alternatives

* Protection from planet Melancholia, if the world does end.  

Please help me, readers. Do you own, wear or plan to buy a maxi 

dress? If so, please explain your motivation.

The opinions expressed here are strictly those of the blogger  

    

If you're not outraged, you're not paying attention

Greetings from the ATL

Welcome to everything that is outrageous, obnoxious, stroke-inducing and highly annoying about this sprawling pit bull of a city.
As a huddled native Atlantan - born and raised well before the population reached 1 million, I've become a stranger in my own hometown. I am shocked, nay, appalled by what I see daily.
This is not a nostalgic elegy of the "good old days," but a litany of outrage, and my suggestions for what can be done before the decline of this Rapidly declining Romanesque Empire.  
I'll start with everybody's favorite Atlanta nightmare: TRAFFIC


My solution: STAGGER WORK HOURS, AND GIVE PEOPLE THE RIGHT TO SET THEIR OWN SCHEDULES. The old paradigm of 9-5 office hours is archaic. That extends beyond Atlanta to the American workforce.

•  Most people would jump at the chance to work 7-3, or night owls like me, would gladly take a 10-7 shift, etc., thus eliminating the soul-crushing rush hours 
• Friday afternoon. Am I the only person in the city who works until 5:30 around here? The mid-afternoon traffic on Friday is astonishing
• Work from home - One day, or afternoon, would help traffic, improve morale, and would help move companies from hourly time-card approach to one where productivity matters, whatever time the individual chooses.

"The current system is so 18th century. Let's fix it - YES WE CAN!"

I welcome your thoughts....................................Francois Voltaire, contributor