al-Falaq visits Grant Park for a Pillow Fight: Read Georgia Nutts On Location

Good Night, Sleep Tight, Bash 'Em in the Head!!!

          Ahhhhh, Spring Time!  The grass is growing (pollen), trees are sprigging (pollen, pollen), flowers are blooming (pollen, pollen, pollen, pollen), Love and happiness are in the air (bugs, pollen)!  But if pollen is not a problem for you, as it sometimes is not for me (my allergies are kind’a weird that way), a balmy spring Saturday afternoon might just hold in it a sparkling invitation for something fun.  Unless you’re like me, you’ll find planning anything is more of a problem than pollen.  It's a weakness.

          But, thanks to my own Nine-Tailed Research Team, there are always interesting things to get mixed-up in around the ATL -- things ranging from the leisurely to the slightly bizarre. So, it turns out a slumber party is not the only place to get your jollies being socked in the head with a pillow by hyperactive maniacs in pajamas.  The same thing could happen on a warm Saturday afternoon in Grant Park.

          Ergo, find my son Mister Adrian and I riding out on Hwy 23, the windows down, elbows in the breeze, pillows lying limp in the back seat, headed to Grant Park.  The parking lot was packed curb to curb with zoo-goers and Cyclorama enthusiasts, locking their cars and strutting along the sidewalks in a parade of baby strollers and cooler chests.  So we rolled around the side streets until we could settle in an available spot on a remote back street, most of them also being full of parked cars.  We snatched our pillows out of the car and traipsed the long line to the park, following directions from passers-by and my map-quest sheet to the location.  From a distance, we could spy a collection of folks, either milling or tussling in a large cluster in the far corner of the park.  I snapped a photo of the Mister, contemplative obviously from the sobering thought of being bashed to smithereens by his dear ol' dad. 

          We approached intrepidly, but hesitated for a moment at the border of what was basically a mob of pillow slinging guerrillas, some wearing pajamas and some just wearing whatever they had on.  One guy was running around in a kilt.  Another man I took to be the organizer (he wasn't) was in full on battle mode in his ensemble of AC/DC t-shirt, pajama pants and Trojan War helmet.  Plenty of folks were catching their breath under some shade trees on the sidelines.  A battle cry went up and a sortie of pillow jockeys went dashing across the grass, hollering like madmen.  A stand of loiterers were stoutly bashed on their fronts, backs and upside the head.  Retaliation was swift and brutal.  It was time to join the fray.  Mister Adrian and I conspired a strategy that was well organized and specific before just sailing into the field and whacking other people randomly with our pillows.  The fight was on! 

          We were now embroiled in a wild fracas for world domination.  Adults and kids of all shapes and sizes were thrashing to and fro, wild looks in their eyes like caged lions set loose on the savanna.  It was open season on anyone with anything that looked fluffy or satiny in his hand.  There was no place to hide.  Peril was all around; little kids diving in for the kill like cannibals; grown people laughing and panting like kids freed from all rules and disciplinary measures.  I caught a glimpse of my own son, an evil glint in his eye, just before he took off like a chicken hawk and pummeled me, fully in the face.  The treachery!  The betrayal!  He would have to pay.  I flung myself headlong in his wake, hawking him down and extracting my toll of vengeance.  I savored the soft fluffy flump of the pillow on his treacherous hide.  Victory!  Another call went aloft and a group of guys lined up along the edge of the battlefield, words like "Guys vs. Girls" being bandied about.  They suddenly screamed like savages and hurled themselves into a waiting rank of ladies.  It was a bloodthirsty skirmish, pillows and billows flying unabashed, laughter filling the air like the wails of falling bombs.

(Photo credit: Steve Eberhardt)

          Sortie after sortie, volley after volley, the melee drew on, no mercy evident.  I stopped several times to collect my breath.  I hadn't had a work out like this in years.  I mean literally.  I had a GNG meeting to get to, so the Mister and I had to depart while battle was still in session, but for an otherwise average afternoon on a Saturday in early Spring, man you couldn't ask for more fun.  I knew absolutely no one their, outside the company of my son, but it felt just like being with a bunch’a friends, cutting up and totally not caring.  Job stresses?  Relationship issues?  Life givin' ya grief?  Pillow fighting in Grant Park comes highly recommended.  I slept like a baby.  (Different pillow, of course.)

al-Falaq visits Stories on the square: Read Georgia Nutts On Location.

Stories on the Square, 06.03.2014

"Junebugs"

           It all began with DAP Tales' challenge to herself to meet the people.  Seeking to overcome her shyness for public speaking, she signed us up for Stories on the Square, a forum for storytellers happening periodically in several locations around the Metro Atlanta area.  Actually, she only signed up herself, but who would I be to not jump in the pit with my betrothed?  So on a chilly evening just before Thanksgiving, 2013,  in we went:  she, I and GNG member Yvonne Walker.  That was my first foray into the world of telling stories publicly and my experience that night in Gwinnett was eye opening; feeling such welcoming attention and shared vulnerability with a group of folks I had never met was a new thing.  I loved it.

            So fast forwarding to June this year (2014, for archival purposes), I found myself driving up to Norcross to try it all again.  I approached The 45 South Cafe from my parking spot in the small pedestrian towne centre, passing neat boutique shops, bistros and diners in the air of an evening still exhaling the heat of late afternoon.  45 South Cafe itself is a tidy, warm space neatly divided into a few discreet areas, each begging for a body to sit comfortably in front of a nice cup of tea or coffee with a good, worn book and just relax.  I passed all these though, to find the Stories on the Square folks enjoying the cooling eve outside on the rear portico.  I was late and had to creep under a storyteller's line of sight to sign in (sorry, guys) but the atmosphere was as inviting and welcoming as I had remembered.  I sat and listened

            This having been only my second time meeting any of these folks present, there was an air of familiarity and personal attention that permeated everything.  Stories in various voices and cadences, projected through the modest PA system, bandied between the brick walls of the small courtyard, filling the evening.  I don't recall now all of the stories I heard since I had foolishly forgotten my notebook in  my rush to get there; but I do remember learning that a "Junebug" is a real and specific beetle, known for its brief tenure of activity only in June, and not just some homespun name for lost cousins twice removed, and there was a tender story about the meaning of butterflies in one's view of life and a smartly funny tale about insectophobia and bug collections.

            The sun had disappeared by the time I left but the sky was still replete with the glow of the day, clouds highlighted in soft lavender hues drifting along overhead.  An
Amtrak passenger train sliced shrilly through the scene, the easiness of the evening wrapping quickly back into place in its wake.  Different place, different season, but the feeling was all the same.  I'm sure I'll be visiting again soon.

 

GNG, alFalaq bloggs about Open Mic Night at the Mammal Gallery: Read Georgia Nutts

Mammal Gallery  hosts an open mic on the first Tuesday of every month!
GNG, alFalaq, decided to participate that Tuesday on January 7th, 2014.

Photo: Mammal Gallery on Facebook.

(All Al's photos were dark, fuzzy and completely un-useable. LOL)

 

Mammals Only at the Mammal Gallery by alFalaq

Following my Mapquest print out, I pulled my Nissan into a curbside parking spot on a deserted looking corner on Broad street in Downtown Atlanta.  I was fairly certain the place I needed to be was right across the street, though my confidence faltered at the darkened windows resting sleepily aloof behind padlocked burglar bars.  Leaving my car to walk across the street through the biting January breeze, I regarded the aged building skeptically.  Looking no less aged and no less permanently fixed to the locale, a lone man sat perched on an old wooden bar stool on the sidewalk, munching a burger in an undecorated white paper wrapper.  He seemed like he might be found there on that bar stool any hour of any day of the year.  Maybe even with that same damned sandwich in his hand.  I approached what seemed it would pass for the entrance to the Mammal Gallery and found it locked.  Referring again to my print out, I called the number Kitty had thoughtfully included in the notes.  Voice mail.  Looking to my last available resource, I took another look at Bar Stool Man, idly tossing in his direction the phrase, "This place even open?"

"You gotta knock on the door," he replied, continuing: "Knock real hard," then muttered something about if I can hear the dog start barking, someone would be along soon after.  I turned back to the door to the place; it was a standard store front door of a sheet of Plexiglas in an aluminum frame.  Inside it, a staircase ascended away through darkness.  I knocked as hard as I dared, watching my reflecting bend and dance in the vibrating Plexiglas.  I knocked again after a couple of listless minutes on the sidewalk, daring a little harder.  I could hear the rough, muffled chant of a large dog barking echoing somewhere inside.  Momentarily, a tall slim guy in clothes that could as easily have been worn for the city as for mountain biking stepped slowly down the stairs and opened the door.

Trailing him up the stairs, I could smell air heavy with earthy aromas as I breached the door at the top landing, finding only a couple guys dressed in similar mountain biker apparel and a gent in a suit and trench, who spoke with a French sounding accent, a bit diluted.  Canadian, maybe… who knows?  After a few questions, I was told by a young man sitting cross legged on the bar that I was waaaay early; the event would begin about ten; people would start arriving at about nine, the place would fill up fast, he told me.  Okay.  I'll say my good faith was holding my reactionary judgment in reserve.  A few paintings held places of note along the walls or propped up on tables.  A mural close to the large windows exhibited an infant, snobbily enjoying a refreshing Sunkist Orange soda to the chagrin of another who was without.  Just beneath the mural was a use-weathered couch, whereon I planted myself and read a book of Walt Whitman from a coffee table.  Someone here had good taste in literature.

I'll admit I was surprised and pleased when, about nine o'clock people did indeed begin to filter in from the shadowed staircase and by nine-thirty, the space seemed filled with folks milling about, chatting discreetly but happily.  Every now and then, a peal of laughter would echo from the white painted antique brick walls.  I met Anna, the organizer of the event, who sweetly said I could go up first, since I would have to leave to go to work soon.  When things got started and I stepped onto the small performance area before the large window, everyone gave their attention so securely to what I was saying and gave such a warm response; I could not have felt better.  I stayed as long as I could to hear the works and performances of some of the other artists; a few songwriters and poets; a performance piece involving a man dressed as a soldier munching some crackers, a vacuum cleaner, some electric toothbrushes and a juggler.  It actually made a pretty good impact, when it was finished.  You had to be there.  Even Anna herself treated us to a musical performance which was only slightly startling (the screaming caught me off guard, the first time) but quite sincere.

Despite the winter's teeth, scraping just outside the window, the room held a lot of warmth, human and emotional; artistic seeds were sprouting in the balminess of it.  I can say I regretted having to leave for work, not having seen what else would be up for offer that night.

The Georgia Nutts Guild visits Stories on the Square

Part of being a GNG is to share your talent as a writer. Just three members of the GNG dropped by the Uptown Grill for Stories on the Square and we were glad we did it. Everyone was warm and friendly and we will be doing this again!

Because I was so nervous, the two conspirators smiling in the pic above, spiked my drink. I don't drink alcohol and I could tell it was in the Coke, but I drank it anyway. I was so nervous, I thought I was going to have a heart attack -- my heart was pounding, but the drink (and all the laughing) made me feel better. Unfortunately, all of the recorded stories were removed from Sound Cloud, so I am unable to share them with y'all!

Morning Traditions by Denise Mount of Stories on the Square

 My Traditions by Yvonne Walker, GNG

 

Feline Traditions by alFalaq, GNG.

Crick Crack Traditions by DAP Tales, a.ka. D. P Bates, GNG.

Traditional Shopping by Bill Brown

A Turkey Of A Tradition by Jill

Traditional Fatherly Advice by Cynthia

Easter Bunny Busted by John Nelson: MC of the Stories on the Square

In a Nuttshell Vol 1-- $2.99 by the Georgia Nutts Guild

Well my friends... We did it! Our first edition of GNG books is out. We would be honored if you support our guild when you purchase our book: In a Nuttshell, Vol 1, 2012 - 13 Just $2.99 for Kindle download.