Sixteen-thousand words. And and eensy smidge of commentary.

:: McDaniel Avenue ::

:: no pussies, whiners or momma’s boys (for RDB) ::

:: protection of the church ::

:: Scout visits Gotham ::

:: wedding spectres ::

:: evening reflection ::

:: low-key celebrity encounter number 458: ice-ice and baybeh ::

:: he sang ‘Billie Jean’ to entice me. ::

Okay, from top to bottom:

+ I had Scout, my sister Emma, and Lemmy with me. Lemmy, as you recall, is a skinny white kid who rocks the nerd vibe. What I haven’t told you is that he is a little overmothered. While Emma and Scout crawled around this scrappy neighborhood taking pictures alongside me (we were shooting with three wildly different kinds of cameras so as to compare and swap results for a project), Lemmy hung from a window shouting, “I AM WHITE, NOT ESPECIALLY STREETWISE AND VERY, VERRRRRRY AFRAID.” Okay, not really. He did, however –and my hand is to God on this one– occasionally roll said window down and holler something about hurrying up before we all got ’shanked’. Note to Whitest White Kid Ever: Only ignorant, nervous crackers get ’shanked’. And really, shanked?? Come the fuck on, Beavis. But yeah, walk in, ride out. Pretty accurate descriptor for that particular neighborhood.

+ The Ninja, my favorite coaster at Six Flags Over Georgia. This one is for Richard, who lives in the underprivileged land of New Zealand, where they deprive their children of key childhood developmental tools like Moon Pies^tm and monstrous roller coasters. I sent him a box of Moon Pies^tm, but I am not about to find a way to pack a orgasm-inducing thrill ride and ship it internationally. There are limits to my a) insanity and b) sense of friendship. Besides, Kiwi customs officials are onto me and I’m flagged four ways to Sunday, probably. I don’t want to talk about it, noseys, but there was once a Minor Incident where they acted Ugly and tore one of my packages all to shit and even confiscated some things. Talk about paranoid!

+ This church is the reason we stopped in Questionable Neighborhood in the first place. I kept driving past it and past it, because it was whispering things to me. Everyone in the car knew I would eventually pull over to investigate it. I stood in front of it for a long couple of minutes before I even raised my camera to my face; it speaks to certain spiritual awakenings occurring in me over the last couple of years. I know these locks are for practical reasons, I get that, but you get this: DON’T LOCK THE CHURCHES. Please don’t make me explain that remark to you.

+ Lots of times lately I think Scout wishes she were an only child. I think she is lonely in a way that no one will ever be able to salve, and I also think that –despite our hormone-infused tangleups lately– she enjoys our one-on-one time more than she is able to express to me. I am endeavoring to keep her afloat in the sea of testosterone we reside in; I am trying to remember that she thrives on female interaction more than I do.

+ If you are the kind of person that despises weddings, then you have never been to a reception hosted by the Superiors or their extended family. There is expensive booze and cheap entertainment. This particular fete ran for roughly five hours, had a no-holds barred layout of food and a fully stocked open bar. The whole room was one big pile of smiling faces and moving feet. And it was even better because Aunt Broash (you remember her, yeah?) was the matron-in-residence and she beamed and beamed and beamed from the other side of what turned out to be a miracle. My cousin Cort and her new husband sang ‘Jackson’ to one another while the rest of us hooted and yeehawed like hillbillies, us in our best hundredsofdollars shoes topped by bare legs. Scandalous.

+ I took a trip to the beach with my family and a family of our friends. We arrived ahead of them, around two in the morning. I’ve never been able to sleep especially late when I’m anywhere near the Gulf, so the morning hours found me stepping quietly out onto the balcony of my uncle’s condo as Maxim and the children slept. Stretched out along yards and yards of post-dawn beach were little dots; the little dots were people journalling, meditating and praying. My head was in a fucked-up place at the time, so it was amazing to be greeted with this. It occurred every morning and evening the first three days we were there….hundreds of people, focused, centered, still. I didn’t even speak with any of them; just the observance was enough to swing me back to center.

+ I’m always telling you people about my low-key celebrity encounters, I figured it was time to pony up and prove it. Now, we all know I’m not a name-dropper or anything, but this was VANILLA ICE. So cheesey and wonderful, how could I not force him to take a picture with my kid? Scout, bless her, is usually kind of blurty. This time she managed to contain herself until the man was in the car that had been waiting to take him and his children to dinner. She leaned in to me conspiratorially and whispered, “Now just who is Vanilla Ice, again? I mean, other than a reality teevee guy.” Aces.

+ An evening of rain had slowed business significantly. He was hollering, “Hey blondie! (me.) Hey pigtails! (also me) Hey, come playyyyy!” I hollered back, “You gotta entice me over there, ya hurr?” “I’ll sing you somethin’! Whatchoo want me to sing?” “Some Michael Jackson!” Without missing a beat he started, “For forty days and for forty nights….” with crotchgrabs and moonwalkings and ‘woo!’s and everything. I’m not exaggerating when I say I carry the party with me.

Hey, are you guys okay?