Raised from the Dead

While a part of me was at odds with the city of Atlanta, there were many traditions that I do, indeed, miss: namely, lazy Sunday afternoons with the fearsome threesome. Both Jantzen and Brent are gifted drinkers, with titanium reinforced livers and tolerances that were culled from years of practice, practice, practice. Sunday brunch was often used as a hangover cure from the ill-effects of Saturday night. Even though we had visited every fucking restaurant in the fruit loop at some point in time, we’d inevitably pile into the disco bus like lemmings and head to Joe’s. Call it a default. Call it unoriginal. I call it brilliant predictability.
For the first round, Brent toggled between two choices depending on his mood: if he was feeling super-fabulous (or had a couple of $ leftover from party weekend) he’d get a mimosa. Sssuper! Otherwise, he’d detoxify with a beer. Jantzen would guzzle anything cold and wet. I’d kick start the Lord’s Day with a bloody mary. (Some weird latent tribute to the Virgin.)
Sunday Brunch would undoubtedly run itself over into Sunday afternoon. The changeover line was a fuzzy demarcation. You never realized it happened. You just keep drinking. I can’t recall the specifics of what we used to talk about. There was a lot of weekend recapping and we had opinions on everything. We patched up relationships, tallied up the weekend’s greatest obscenities and commented on the tragedy at every other table. It was like Oprah meets Dr. Phil on the set of VH1’s 100 Greatest Moments. Sunday afternoon became Sunday night, the circle shifted as friends filtered in and out, and the bar tab began to assume the same properties as the federal deficit.
This was years ago, I realize. But yesterday, I spent the afternoon at a bar with Chris and Darin and we unintentionally resurrected the lazy Sunday afternoon from the dead. The reincarnation had a few changes, though:
Replace Joe’s with Charlie’s.
Replace a patio bar with volleyball net.
(Thankfully) omit obnoxious bar tab.
Substitute “fearsome threesome” with boyfriend and crazy blogger dude.
Thanks, Darin, for getting us out of the routine. Phoenix just started to feel a whole lot more like home.

Wigger say what?

Chris is a self-proclaimed music snob. With ample reason, though. He deejayed his way through the college years at Auburn, his eclectic taste casting a wide net from hard core Goth to 80’s Punk. He’s got a good ear, and while he can’t sing worth a damn, he’s usually adept at picking out that obscure harmony or background vocal. He appreciates just about everything I throw at him. With one glaring exception. Miriam, brace yo self.
Chris just ain’t down with the hip-hop.
Maybe the Jeep Liberty ain’t thuggish enough.
Perhaps he feels detached from the hip-hop culture. Holla!
Maybe he hasn’t spent enough quality time watching Queens of Comedy and Brown Sugar.
It’s a relentless battle every time we get in the hoopty and drive to dinner. I be changing to one station, he be changing to another. And I be like,
“Yo biatch. Dat’s my jam. YOU MESSIN' WIT MY JAM!”
Then I smack da ho, take a nice long drag from my joint and high-five my bitches in the back.
Okay. Not everyone needs to is able to appreciate hip-hop. But here’s the kicker. Chris is secretly in love with Justin Timberlake’s new single. Like Gollum- He needs it. He must have it. He’s got no love for Kelis, but quivers when JT brings his sexy back? That is some painful, trashy shit to listen to.
But I like it now.