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Southern fried

A whole 'nother Realm of consciousness

With cold concrete, my friends, we built civilization. And in a sub-basement we build a subculture. You may know it as the Concourse, others queue up for "the Q." The urban tribe has a "hole in the wall" in a hole in the ground.
These thoughts probably come across about as deep as my pockets, and just as moth bitten and full of holes. Who asked me to let all my hot air out? Or, as the sign on MJQ's shed reads, "Don't be an idiot, close the door." But I can't help it, it's like going through those double doors has put me in some futuristic speakeasy.
MJQ is the kind of place I go to be alone in a crowd and scribble notes. Make no mistake, the atmosphere's friendly. But it's also the kind of place where everyone seems to know everyone. People may notice you more easily when you're unknown, though they're likely to just shrug their shoulders and turn back to their own thing.
I go to MJQ to be left alone, not noted, for some a welcome change. And I go to MJQ because I don't have to change. Suede jacket, sweater, sneakers, snarky attitude. I'm in the door in my poorly hand-mended jeans, peering at my peers' appearances.
It's Friday night and 4 Kings Entertainment have sponsored "Realm 4," their latest in a series of local talent showcases, featuring hip-hop, trip-hop, drum 'n' bass and electronica. Everybody is looking good. Hip-hoppers mix with the Q crew of mods and '70s throwbacks. Elton John and Corey Hart, eat your hearts out. Women still wear their sunglasses at night — big, gold and gaudy. And men wear black and blue and get their hearts handed to them on a plate. Southern fried. Scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped and diced. Shot down like fighter pilots, they hunker in the bunker.
The temperature has dropped 10 degrees in the past hour and a crowd has dropped underground to huddle next to the uplit bar. Why turn up the heater when you can turn up the volume? After a while, people are always hot-steppin' enough to get the warm currents circulating. Most of the cats with skull caps are upfront, most of the chicks with feathered hair are hanging back. I always wonder if more people would throw their hands in the air and wave 'em like they just don't care if they actually didn't care about it being gauche.
From the stage a khaki-clad D.R.E.S. tha Beatnik is the scoutmaster, but no scout leader of mine ever called for "pandemonium up in this bitch." It's not your average troop hugging the stage.
The way the red siren lights are going off, I'd have to say the Survivalists are on stage, and the room is full of the sounds of the New York City streets. Stranger than a bull in a china shop, there are B-boys in the bistro.
The underground now has corporate sponsorship, as EASports PlayStation discs go out in the crowd along with Mecca shirts. My head's spinning with the implications — and the alcohol. Curry and the cold are still making my nose run. The late hour is letting my mouth run.
It's OK. The Atlanta underground is worth selling out. There's no selling out in filling every seat. If EASports want to pay for good players, I'll fill the bleachers to cheer the home team.
I was shagged out, so I headed home at only 2 a.m., lack of sense or lack of sleep inspiring me to write like a beat beat poet. Wait till I write about a rave like I'm Dr. Seuss.