Essayist. Lover of food and champagne. Seeker of love, survivor of heartache, and a fledgling believer that everything really does work out in the end.
For Car & Nono The phone rings on the couch. I look, Mad (actually it says, “GP.” I changed her contact because of the giant cat tattoo she just got on her thigh.) “Hey you,” I say as the line connects. “Let me tell you what your nephews did today,
For my Gran You know what I love? Like really? It makes me giggle. (Don’t you just love that feeling?) I fucking love putting something on the mail. I mean the whole thing is amazing. Writing it out. Tasting that tacky sweet but also probably carcinogenic flavor of the
For A I got my arm stuck in one of the fold down seats at the Fabulous Fox tonight. (facepalm) Do you know about the Fox Theater? You may have one in your town, but you don’t have ours. The one on Peachtree St. The one that was almost
I didn’t intend to write today— But then it just happened, as it so often does. The spark of a thought popped into the rusted open rattle trap of my mind, and here we are. Anxiety is like a Junebug. Or rather, anxiety is like the kid holding the
Do you know that I love North Ave? I do. I love her. She’s one of my favorite things about Atlanta. The A has a sort of checkered history with her street names. It’s mostly due to racism and the segregation era. One name stands in the more
The music plays. 80’s. Drama. Life. Chimes. Dun. Chimes. Bam! “The love I’m sending, ain’t makin’ it through to your heart—” Doesn’t it just send you? I think Jesus listened to Heart. I think they were His vibe. I think I’m his vibe when I’
I don’t like to talk about the bird patch too much—there’s more to life than a badge and a gun and a paycheck. But even so, I started 15 years ago yesterday. March 31, 2011. I was 23 and had no idea what was in store for
I sat at the sushi bar alone tonight. Usually I’m here with M and A, but they had a prior commitment this evening and so, for the Monday night ritual of sushi—it’s just me. And that’s okay. I sip my Sauvi B and watch the Reds
The quiet of the single life— It’s funny how that internal storm, that steady rolling of the tornado hooks, and green sky, and hail, and force— how it silently, ominously, churns overhead. and then it just drops. Accompanied by the shriek of the siren that sends the 5th graders
I walked home from Inman Park tonight. I had a date. The walk was light and cool, as the Atlanta air sometimes is in early spring. I walked the beltline to the Stone Mountain Trail, to N. Highland, and made my way on to downtown. The lips of the men
We bombed Iran in recent weeks. The U.S. I mean— I heard this news as I contemplated whether or not I’m brave. Sometimes I feel brave. And sometimes I just feel like a negative, grouchy, yoga trying, begrudging gratitude journaling, middle-aged, graying beard, green eyed, bald man, watching
There are half-dead petunias growing in the planter pot, on the little table, on my balcony, in the A. They live with a half-dead verbena, who is also coming back for the season. My great aunt Marcelle would call these “volunteers,” because they just grow right back of their own