Gracing The King

I was so busy eating fried banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches and chair-dancing in honor of Elvis’ (and David Bowie’s) birthday yesterday, I forgot to post these photos I’ve been holding for nearly a year. I visited one of my favorite buddies in Roanoke last March, and he took me on a tour of the town's cultural sites. The most brilliant was the miniature Graceland:

For a girl who loves her Elvis and misses her Barbies, this slice of heaven was absolutely divine. Sadly, I didn’t get close-ups so you could see the Barbie swimming pool or the lights in the performance arena (yes, there’s a performance arena!). It's the greatest dollhouse of all time.

Talk about your Mystery Train.

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The Art of the City

Part Two of My Annual San Francisco Travelogue

San Francisco is one of my favorite art towns. The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art was one of the first U.S. museums devoted to 20th century (and now 21st century) art. I rarely miss a visit when I hit the city — and last week was no exception.

Looking up at the SFMOMA atrium

I was most excited about seeing the Joseph Cornell show, and it was wonderful. Cornell created boxes and collages using found objects, something I’ve always wanted to do.

Joseph Cornell: Tilly Losch

Joseph Cornell: Cockatoo with Watch Faces

Joseph Cornell: Lauren Bacall

My favorite piece in the Cornell show was one dedicated to Emily Dickinson, but I couldn’t find a snap or postcard of it.

SFMOMA also had a Jeff Wall exhibition I enjoyed. With the snaps below, you lose the impact of Wall's huge photos (most of them backlit). I should be embarrassed to admit how much I identify with The Destroyed Room (but I’m not).

Jeff Wall: The Destroyed Room

Jeff Wall: Picture for Women

SFMOMA has a phenomenal permanent collection of photography —the Westons (bell peppers!) to Nan Goldin, Irving Penn to Harry Callahan, Lucas Samaras to Cindy Sherman, and everyone in between. Think of a photographer, and he or she is probably represented in the permanent collection. Here’s a new photo I saw and loved:

Seiichi Furuya: Graz

But art isn’t limited to gallery walls in San Francisco. Defenestration is alive and (fairly) well at 6th and Howard streets, near the Tenderloin. Artist Brian Goggin’s installation has furnished the exterior of this building for ten years. I’ve been by this corner several times, but it didn’t catch my eye until last week.




And is there anything more lovely, more moving, than this?


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Saving the Best for First

Part One of My Annual San Francisco Travelogue

Last week’s trip to San Francisco was wonderful. Of course it was. I was, after all, in my favorite U.S. city. I know the city pretty well, having been there seven or eight times and having read Maupin’s entire Tales of the City series. I discovered new spots and revisited favorite haunts. But I’ll tell you about those adventures later in the week. Let’s get to the good stuff first.

I cocktailed with Write Procrastinator.

Write Procrastinator posted a great retelling of our blogger summit. He’s a writer. He’s good at that. And he didn’t procrastinate over writing his post as I did.

The Grand Gentleman of The City knows me well, or at the very least has read my blog profile. He picked the perfect spot for a noir fan like me — former hangout of Dashiell Hammett, Sam Spade’s joint of choice in The Maltese Falcon. Sadly, said falcon was swiped last February.

John’s Grill

The dirty martinis were good, the appetizers okay, the service surly. Isn’t that what we want in a nearly hundred-year-old haunt?

Let’s dish about WP. That’s why we’re all reading this post, right?

First of all, he’s just damn cute. The only reason WP doesn’t get the full-on hawt rating is he’s a happily married man, and I don’t want Mrs. WP getting the wrong idea. He looks younger than he is (damn him).

WP, we forgot to compare eye freckles! A strong reason for me to book a return trip in 2008.

WP’s mama raised him right. The boy oozes manners and class. He knows how to open a door, how to hold a chair for a lass, how to make meet-up arrangements for hard-to-contact travelers. I was charmed before we even got to the talktalktalk.

And talktalktalk we did. We didn’t start off trying to think of something to say; we dove right in. I was so excited about finally meeting my blog buddy — someone with whom I’ve e-mailed since last summer — I probably jumped on 312 of his sentences. He told me all about growing up and living in The City. We talked books and bloggers, movies and music, lives and loves. It's always fascinating to talk to a writer since he knows how to use words.

The obligatory back o’ the bloggers’ head photo

The only downer: We had just a couple of hours. Had I blown off some work hours pre-vacation and planned my trip, we could have spent more time together. Met families. Seen sites.

Now, if I could only get the WP clan to visit Atlanta ...

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Mix Tape Friday: Goin' to California

In honor of my lovely week in San Francisco, this week’s mix tape is all about the City by the Bay. Did you know “(Sitting on the) Dock of the Bay” was inspired by a dock in Sausalito?

Led Zeppelin: Going to California

R.E.M.: I Remember California

Ocean Colour Scene: Golden Gate Bridge

Arctic Monkeys: Fake Tales of San Francisco

The Magnetic Fields: Come Back from San Francisco

The Decemberists: Grace Cathedral Hill

Elliott Smith: Coast to Coast

Wilco + Billy Bragg: California Stars

Sloan: Losing California

Pavement: Two States

Sleater-Kinney: Jumpers

The Ramones: California Sun

10,000 Maniacs: Hey, Jack Kerouac

Michael Stipe: My Gang

Richmond Fontaine: Postcard from California

Rufus Wainwright: California

Neko Case: In California

Joni Mitchell: California

Liz Phair: Why I Left California

Scott McKenzie: San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Flowers in Your Hair)

The Jayhawks: Nevada, California

Eric Burdon & The Animals: San Francisco Nights

Gram Parsons & The Fallen Angels: California Cotton Fields

Belle & Sebastian: Piazza, New York Catcher

Vanessa Carlton: San Francisco

The Village People: San Francisco, You’ve Got Me

The Mamas & The Papas: California Dreaming

Otis Redding: (Sitting on the) Dock of the Bay

Kristen Hersh: San Francisco

John Vanderslice: The Golden Gate

Madeleine Peyroux: California Rain

Annie Ross & The Low Note Quintet feat. Iggy Pop + Anthony Coleman: Evil California (These Blues)

Riz Ortolani: Golden Gate Bridge

Santana: Samba de Sausalito

Joe Jackson: San Francisco Fan

Tony Bennett: I Left My Heart in San Francisco

I’m on vacation, so I just don’t feel like writing about this collection of songs. I’d rather sit on my hotel bed, look lovingly (lustily?) at my baubles haul, and talking about what I’ve done and what I’ve seen. Music-chat among yourselves in the comment box, and I’ll chat back when I return home this weekend.

Here’s the goldrush in one easy-to-download zip file.

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Leaving My Heart

This is what I saw today:


God, I love San Francisco.

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A Whirlwind French Biennial

Sadly, the thrill that is fave friend French visiting Atlanta lasted just 30 hours over the weekend. But we did a helluva lot in those 30 hours.

French is one of my five most beloved non-DNA-sharing humans on this earth (that list includes my moon-based friends, too, come to think of it). We’re both single, we’re both obsessed with live music and movies and travel, and each thinks the other is the cat’s meow — as great friendships should be. I visit him nearly every summer in D.C., and he’s averaging an every-other-year Atlanta trip.

We met cute at the end of 1991. French had just moved to Atlanta to start grad school, and he was rooming with an old college buddy of mine. She had a brunch to introduce him to her multitudes, and introduced us with: “This is French. He loves R.E.M., and he can’t wait for you to take him on a tour of Athens!” As she flitted away, French looked me in the eye and said, “I hate R.E.M. and I have no interest in seeing Athens.” I laughed and demanded that he show me his CD collection that minute before we could consider continuing the conversation. He was redeemed by his extensive Elvis Costello collection. I loved him — and his honesty — from that moment to this one.

Back to the weekend recap. French landed on Atlanta soil around 10:30 Saturday morning, and I gave him the 45-minute what’s-changed tour as we headed for lunch at one of his best-remembered spots: La Fonda (fan-damn-tastic paella and fish tacos).

The rest of the day was spent hangin’ in my ‘hood:

We started out, of course, at Decatur CD — one of the best CD shops in town — where French picked up an Atlanta Rhythm Section disc (you started something, Write Procrastinator).


Then on to Twain’s, where we sampled many, many IPAs (so many, in fact, that my elbows are rubbed raw from propping my tipsy head) and fed the cute waiter, Powell, many, many Jelly Bellies.


What else after an afternoon of beers but an evening showing of Knocked Up (which we both enjoyed and recommend)? Post-movie, we ended the day on the patio of The Angel, a pub off the square, toasting each other’s brilliance and nibbling away the night.

Sunday began with breakfast at Crescent Moon.


Fortified by eggs and grits and a shared appetizer of biscuits with sausage gravy, we hit Wordsmiths Books, which opened in the neighborhood this weekend. I picked up a couple of must-reads and perused the Baby Got Books shelf.

Sorry, Perry, but I love having a bookstore down the street!

The CD and books joneses were fed, so we headed to historic Oakland Cemetery, which has been interring Atlanta’s crème de la crème — including Margaret Mitchell and Bobby Jones — and hoi polloi since 1850.

Oakland Cemetery is a very cool spot in Atlanta, one I rarely get to. We spent more than an hour there, and still didn’t cover every section.

Former Mayor Maynard Jackson, who died in 2003, is buried here. One of the guides told us his widow comes out regularly to talk to him.


There are a lot of old magnolias throughout Oakland Cemetery, and most are beginning to bloom.

This lion status honors the CSA soldiers who died during the Civil War.

Isn't this warped cement cool? No cracks!

It was hot, damn hot, so we cooled off our cemetery-dead feet over my beloved margarita swirls. Damn, I love me some swirls.

With tequila coursing through our veins, we headed for the new World of Coca-Cola museum.

This was a bittersweet stop on the French tour. My father spent his career with Coca-Cola Bottling, and he loved all things Coke. This being my second Father's Day without him, I got a wee bit sad as we raced through the museum. He would have loved it.

These bottles were created around the world for the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games. They were on display at the Coca-Cola headquarters back when I worked there, so it was great seeing my old friends again.

From there, we raced to the airport so that French could make his 6 p.m. flight back to reality.

*sigh*

I’m already lonely. I miss my boy. But I’ll see him in a month, when I hit D.C. for The Wedding of the Year.

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Chattanooga: More Than a Choo-choo

How memorable was your holiday weekend? Mine was grand — filled with cocktails and conversation, art and baubles, restaurants and hotel rooms, books and movies, quiet and noise — exactly how a holiday weekend should be spent.

I hope my readers to the north and across the ocean enjoyed a lovely spring weekend, even if they didn’t get Monday off for Memorial Day.

One of the highlights of the weekend was an overnight trip to Chattanooga, a couple of hours north of Atlanta. Chattanooga’s a lovely town, surrounded by mountains and the Tennessee River. The architecture is different than Atlanta — more mid-century, Rock-and-Doris buildings.

Chattanooga’s going through a bit of a renaissance, with the Arts District coming to life since my last visit (maybe 1999?). Lots of little galleries and inns overlooking the river.

Bakery in the Arts District, shot from the sculpture garden

Another photo of the Arts District, also from the sculpture garden

One cool part of Chattanooga is the pedestrian bridge across the Tennessee River. The bridge was closed to traffic years ago, and it’s cool to be able to walk across that long bridge.

The building with the glass triangles is the Tennessee Aquarium, which revitalized tourism in Chattanooga. Now you can see fishes and Rock City.

A bridge too far, from the pedestrian bridge

From the other side of the pedestrian bridge

Another funky side of Chatta-boogie: On the other side of the pedestrian bridge, Northside’s Frazier Avenue has bronze dance steps embedded in the sidewalk:

Everyone wants to copy that cool Canadian cat Dale, it seems. Grooviness knows no nationality.

Here's a photo of the aquarium, from the Street o' Dance Steps. It looks like a giant kitty is about to pounce the other side of the river.


I, of course, came home wanting to pack my dancing shoes and move to Chattanooga.

I almost forgot! On the way home, we stopped for a late lunch in White, Georgia:

I don’t care if it was a roadkill burger. That was one helluva great hand-shaped patty.

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Reality Bites

I took a break from reality for the last ten days … and it was wonderful. I danced and sang along to great live music. I ate and drank and shopped like a trust-fund baby. And tomorrow I rejoin the world of grown-ups. I hope you hear the sad, resigned sigh in that sentence.

Quick rundown of my recent adventures:

Death Cab for Cutie with Ted Leo & The Pharmacists (11.17.06)

The night before I bolted to Baltimore, Dan and I hit the fabulous Fox Theater to see Death Cab for Cutie, with opening act Ted Leo & The Pharmacists (hence the subhead above).

And, yes, Grant Miller, you may call me An Anonymous Hipster.

The show itself was great. Ted and the boys kicked ass on stage. Ted’s just damn cool, and his set was my fave of the night. Death Cab for Cutie were quite good, too. But. It was The Place to Be for the pretty twenties; every time I went to the lobby for a beer or a trip to the powder room (the best in Atlanta, by the way), I felt as it I were stepping onto the set of “The OC”; scads of beautifully clad twentysomethings mingled and ogled, seeing and being seen, forgetting they were there for a concert. Those who went to their seats cheered loudly only during the recognizables riffs. The kids didn’t ruin the show; their being there to be there and not to enjoy the music just took away some of the atmosphere that should have been there (did you count my use of “there” there?).

I Was Charmed by the Charm City

I’m too tired tonight (tryptophan + red wine = tired chick), so the travelogue will come later this week, after I’m back in the swing of reality. But I’ll say this much: Baltimore has the friendliest guys I’ve been around in ages. Everywhere we went, we ran into wonderful people to chat up, to give us great restaurant recommendations, to shoot the breeze as we downed beers. And I got to say “Homicide” (from the opening credits of the greatest show ever) at least fifteen times a day; I love running a joke into the ground … especially when French laughs every time.

Robyn Hitchcock and The Venus 3 (11.20.06)

One of the reasons for our trip to Baltimore was to see Robyn Hitchcock with The Venus 3 — the V3 being the beloved Peter Buck of R.E.M., the adorable Scott McCaughey (Minus 5; Paul Westerberg’s faves Young Fresh Fellows; the second R.E.M. guitarist), and Bill Reiflin (formerly of Ministry, now drummer for R.E.M. and Minus 5). I haven’t seen Robyn Hitchcock since maybe 1992 and Georgia wasn’t on the schedule, so French and I decided to catch the Balm’er show.

And what a show it was. Robyn sounds wonderful, and you can tell he has fun playing with his pals. They played my fave, “Madonna of the Wasps” … but the encore may be my favorite in five years. They started with “Not Dark Yet,” one of my very favorite Dylan tunes. Robyn’s voice is lovelier than Dylan’s, which brought a different feel to the song. The next song still sends shivers down my spine: a cover of The Beatles’ “She Said She Said.” W.O.W. The song is perfect for Robyn’s voice and Peter’s guitar style. I was jumping and squealing and singing and dancing with joy during those three minutes, kids. Robyn told me after the show (yes, read those words again, kids: Robyn told me after the show) that they decided just that afternoon to play “She Said She Said” and learned it that day. Brilliant, magical, sublime. They closed the show, of course, with the Soft Boys’ “I Wanna Destroy You.”

Robyn Hitchcock has been inducted into the Cup Hall of Hair Fame, along with the illustrious, lustrous manes of Emmylou Harris and Oliver Platt. His hair is perfect.

French and I hung around after the show, waiting on our personal taxi (French makes friends with all the right people) and just enjoying that post-show high. I made a tactical error during the show. My general rule is I don’t drink during concerts so that I can fully enjoy the music and keep the giggly fangirl at bay. Well … we had a bit to drink at dinner (thanks, in part, to our favorite bartender evah, but that’s a story for another day) … and I sucked down three Bass Ales during the show. Multiple six cocktails with my concert high … and Giggly Fangirl joined the night.

Peter Buck was working the merch table, selling CDs and signing autographs for fans. Well, Fangirl jumped out of her hiding place … grabbed her passport … and asked Mr. Buck to sign in. “But won’t that invalidate your passport?” I told him I didn’t care, that it was the only thing I had for him to sign. I felt like a dork as soon as I did it … but then I get to show y’all:

After that bit o’ embarrassment, we got to talk to Scott McCaughey for a bit. Scott may be the coolest, happiest musician I’ve ever met. You can tell he gets such joy from playing and touring. He always takes the time to chat with his fans. I think he’s replaced Peter Buck as the musician I most want to be friends with.

Before we left Ottobar, Robyn came out and chatted with us for a couple of minutes. Yes, Giggly Fangirl had quite the night.

A Thankful Thanksgiving

Our family’s Thanksgiving holiday was casual and happy, spent at the Lake Burton house.

The entire Coffey clan was there, and it was a wonderful day. Thanksgiving is one of the best holidays, I think, because it’s all about being with family and friends, just enjoying each other’s company and retelling our favorite family tales.

A Blog Brag

I met Gizmorox from My Head Is a Box Filled with Nothing this weekend! She was visiting friends for the holiday, so we met for brunch. She’s a very cool woman … and she’s quite the cutie, guys.

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The Cup Returns

I’ve been soaking up the charm (and libations) (and great food) (and baubles and music) of Baltimore for the last few days. I meant to post while there, but the evil corrupter (and great travel companion) French made me drink too much, and my fingers couldn’t stay balanced on the keyboard.

I’ll write more about Baltimore this weekend. It definitely lived up to its Charm City nickname, and Fells Point is high on my list of to-move-to places.

Coming up: the friendliest drinking guys on the Eastern Seaboard … how I embarrassed myself with Peter Buck … chatting up Scott McCaughey and Robyn Hitchcock.

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A Room with a View

The Final Lake Burton Rumination

I had the downstairs to myself last weekend. My bedroom opened up to the screened porch, so I kept the door open all weekend. I woke up in the middle of each night to sit on that darkened porch … enjoy the alive solitude of 3 a.m. … stare at the still lake, the black sky baubled with millions stars … hum along with the cricket serenade … leave my worries and thoughts and stresses farther behind with every rock of the chair.

From the porch, at dusk

When (and notice I didn't write “if”) that house becomes mine, I plan to knock down walls and make the lake-facing side all windows. Without window treatments. Just the sky and lake and trees for curtains.

Captain brother-in-law, with sister’s beloved beagle

Brother at the helm

I love living life by boat — getting up in the early morn and zipping to the marina for the morning paper (and a fabulous boho skirt), taking two or three rides every day, cruising in the evening with a glass of wine and gentle breeze.

Georgia trivia: There are no natural lakes in the state; they’re all man-made (man-dug?). ‘Tis true; my mama told me so. Lake Burton is owned by Georgia Power.

A bank of kudzu

One downside about the most beautiful spot in Georgia is it’s where the very moneyed have their weekend homes, pricing paupers such as I out of the market. Folks are building McMansions up there — seven bed/ten bath behemoths (or, as I call these houses, behomeths) that are priced around six million. Yes, I mean dollars.

Here are some houses snapped from the boat.

I could be very happy here

Not quite what I’d call a lake house

This could be yours — for $6 million (and your soul)

Lake Burton is glorious. It needs me as much as I need it. I’m gonna suck up bigtime to the brother-in-law so that he’ll invite me up every three weeks. And introduce me to his widowed dad.

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Hey, Kids, Shake a Leg

The Drive to Lake Burton

In the beach vs. mountain question, I’ve always picked mountains. I love the north Georgia mountains — the peace in the green, the silence in chirping crickets and singing birds. It’s the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, so everything is green and blue and leafy. My soul relaxes as soon as I spot the first mountain.

The drive to Lake Burton is just under two hours from my place. Last Saturday’s drive was wonderful. The sunroof and windows were down … our local station was in the middle of a Smells Like the ‘90s weekend, so the music was great … the weather was glorious, a bit overcast, but humidity-free. I zoomed and sang and danced in the driver’s seat all the way to the driveway.


The Sautee-Nacoochee Indian Mound has always been a favorite spot on my mountain tours. Legend has it that it’s the resting place of two tragic young lovers from warring Cherokee and Chickasaw tribes. Sometimes called the Romeo and Juliet Indian Mound, it was built by mound builders in 10,000 B.C.

There are many Indian mounds around the state. If you ever make it to Georgia, I recommend an afternoon trip to the Etowah Indian Mounds, about 45 minutes north of Atlanta. Very cool place.

And here’s the Lake Burton house. Beautiful, isn’t it? On the outside, anyway. Inside, it’s a museum for 1974 décor.

Can’t you see me writing great stories and novels here? Dancing to and singing along with R.E.M. from one end of the porch to the other? Just look at that porch, that view. You know how I love porches (I'm on my porch as I'm writing this, in fact).



And the level below has a screened porch running the length of the house. The home is owned by my brother-in-law’s father. Widowed father. I’m seriously considering roping him into marrying me so that I can get that house. Do you blame me?

Tomorrow: Photos from around the lake.

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