Out of place

I hate Atlanta.

I'm sitting in a Panera inside the Lenox Mall located in the upscale Buckhead section of the city and finding it particularly ironic that this is the second time I've been here in as many years despite the hate-hate relationship I have with it. I've found the middle finger to be standard operating procedure when navigating this area. The roads and the drivers are fucking crazy. That's it. There's very little about this city that appeals to me. Whenever I find myself in a new place or a new situation, I have an almost immediate awareness that for one reason or another, I don't belong there. It doesn't fit. I feel the same way when I'm in a Banana Republic.

I enjoy traveling, don't get me wrong. I just don't like traveling to or within Atlanta, including the airport. The Atlanta airport is a self-contained microcosm of the city. If you've ever had a layover in Atlanta, I would say you've experienced everything the city has to offer.

The Panera was practically impossible to find, like everything else in this city. The hotel I stayed at last night was located on Peachtree Blvd, which is technically called Peachtree Industrial Blvd. according to MapQuest. But for sign purposes, 'Peachtree Blvd.' is explanation enough. Or at least it should be. There are no less than 103,472 Peachtree-somethings in the greater Atlanta area. I had to cross Peachtree Rd. and the we-couldn't-think-of-anything-else-to-call-it New Peachtree Road before I came to the boulevard. I think creativity should be considered when hiring for the city's planning commission. It should involve crayons and a life-sized maze.

It's not that I didn't have help in locating this particular Panera. Meredith has been here for two weeks and, as this is the last day of her conference, told me I could kill time at the right-down-the-road Panera. Which seemed pretty straightforward to me: I get in my car, I drive a little, I make no left or right turns in the process, and eventually I see the my destination on the left or right. I even employed the use of the GPS for good measure. But that's not how it went down. There's more than one Panera on this road. And she wasn't talking about the first one listed--the one I chose--which was the closest. Which was located inside the mall. Which the GPS failed to mention. I had to call the Panera to ascertain that little gem of information. I drove by the mall three times, each time hearing the soothing female GPS voice (Maggie, as we've dubbed her) inform me that I had arrived. I thought she was mocking me.

This mall is probably the nicest one I've been in. Everything is designer and overpriced. I'm sure there's a Banana Republic in here somewhere. Right about now I'm thinking that the restrooms in Neiman-Marcus must be immaculate; possibly adorned with Greco-Roman fountains if not gargoyle statues. It may be worth a visit. I once came across a bathroom in a department store in one of the malls back home. It was behind the fine china and crystal stemware displays and completely untainted by public use. The feeling I got from it I assume was similar to what Louis and Clark experienced the first time they saw the Pacific Ocean. I wonder if I'll have to tip anyone to hand me a paper towel.

If there was any doubt before (which there wasn't), it has been removed: someone just walked by with a Banana Republic shopping bag.

Ohhhhhh.....

Me, to my boss: I had to throw away the milk cartons in the display case. They expired a week ago. One guy told me it was cottage cheese.

My boss: What? No, the date said July '09.

Me: Ummm...no, that's July 9th.

A foray into art

A few months ago, I wrote about my attempt at suicide in 2004. You can read about it here.

The day I wrote that post, I submitted a painting to a local art show that was inspired by my experience. I got it back a while ago, but I wanted to include it here as part of the story. Below is the caption I wrote to go along with it.

The inspiration for this piece comes from the scar above my right eye, less than an inch long and barely noticeable. Seemingly insignificant, this scar is the only visible reminder I have of the day I gave up on life and resolved to end it by pushing my car off of its jack as I laid underneath it. After being airlifted to the hospital, I was released with five stitches, a couple of cracked ribs, and the secret reality of what looked like an accident. Some scars go much deeper than what stitches can mend. This is my attempt at healing.

P.S. I'm doing much better now.

A glimpse

Last night I was flipping through the channels and came to rest on "The Big Idea with Donny Deutsch" on CNBC for a few minutes. This show fascinates me, not because of its quality topics, award-winning journalism, or interesting guests, but because it makes me wonder how the hell these people are allowed to be on TV.

The premise of the show is all about the American Dream and how one achieves it at any cost. Popular catch phrases like "thinking outside the box," "forward thinking," and "greed is good" are thrown around. It's usually a pretty civil conversation featuring the CEO of a company who's made millions of dollars on a seemingly idiotic idea. Like those guys at Method who made cleaning supplies environmentally friendly and modern display art. But last night was different. Loud. Chaos. Smug. But I couldn't look away. All I could think was oh my gosh these people really do exist. AND THEY'RE ALL IN THE SAME ROOM.

They were discussing the benefits of S.O.B.-dom and the advantage it is in the business world. They trampled on the idea of the "nice guy," as they are wont to do, probably because it makes their personal S.O.B. stock soar, and made the case that you have to be an S.OB. to run a company. Or be the president. Or rule the world. Because for an S.O.B., that's definitely within the range of possibilities. If this was Dr. Phil, the topic would be embracing your inner-S.O.B. Listening to them speak, it became clear that they would be a therapist's dream casestudy and worst nightmare as a client at the same time.

But this idea--that you have to be an S.O.B. to get ahead--bothered me. And not only because I wholeheartedly disagree. There was something more, something deeper. And after a few minutes, I realized what it was.

Over the years, my definition of hell has shifted from the eternal burning to the eternal isolation, to whether it even exists, back to the eternal isolation, etc. But as I watched the S.O.B.'s talk about how great their S.O.B.-ness is, I saw a snippet of what hell would be for me: a room full of type-A personalities battling over the title of the biggest ego. AND I'M NOT ALLOWED TO POINT OUT THEIR INADIQUACIES.

And the fact that they kept saying 'S.O.B.' instead of separating the acronym into its very satisfying words was only moderately annoying, if not hellish in and of itself.

Still the luckiest

One year ago today, Meredith and I were married.


I think it was right around now that she and I were doing "the sprinkler" on the dance floor.

This is wrong on so many levels

I thought that we were past this as a society, but apparently certain grocery chains choose to remain ignorant. We're supposed to refer to them as "Sweet Little Pickles." It's less offensive and that's what the pickles prefer.

And I can't post this without mentioning how I waited close to 10 minutes to take this picture so that the lady, who was standing exactly where I needed to be, could examine EVERY FREAKIN' BOTTLE OF RELISH AND PICKLES in the display, checking them against her one and only coupon. Seriously. Every single one. At least once.

She went with the squeeze bottle relish in the end, which to me is equivalent to giving up. Of course, it may have been due to the fact that she was starting to feel my eyes burning holes in her skin.

Where despair and grace collide

When he went blundering back to God,
His songs half-written, his work half done,
Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod,
What hills of peace or pain he won?

I hope God smiled and took his hand,
And said, "Poor truant, passionate fool!
Life's book is hard to understand:
Why couldst thou not remain at school?"

~Charles Hanson Towne