Scene & Herd - You’re famous
Therefore I love you
What kind of asshole goes to a 17-year-old girl’s birthday party and then goes home and writes a bitchy newspaper column about it?
Nice to meet you, my name is Andisheh Nouraee and I’m a columnist for Creative Loafing.
The girl I’m referring to is Diana DeGarmo, the Snellville native who just nabbed a silver medal in the karaoke Olympics called “American Idol.” Appropriately for someone following in the footsteps of the mighty Justin Guarini, the party wasn’t held in her back yard or even a Chuck E. Cheese. Nope, it was at Stone Mountain Park. Invitations were sent in convenient press release form.
DeGarmo spent the bulk of the shindig (4-7 p.m.) seated at a table in the park’s Memorial Hall autographing her photo. Some fans waited in line for more than three hours for the privilege of DeGarmo’s Sharpied autograph, pleasant smile, and polite Southern “thank yew!” To help her fans pass the waiting time, DeGarmo and her people were kind enough to set up an hors d’oeuvres table of sorts. Instead of edibles, though, this hors d’oeuvres table sold “Diana Rocks” T-shirts ($10), buttons ($1), parasols ($8) and autographable color glamour photos ($5). When you’ve got Paula Abdul’s seal of approval, Doritos and a celery plate just don’t cut it anymore.
I asked some people in the crowd, which included both kiddies and grown-ups, what it is they like about DeGarmo, and I also eavesdropped on other journalists asking the same sorts of questions. The consensus is that DeGarmo is sweet, fresh and inoffensive — words that could just as easily describe a puppy or a chocolate croissant.
I heard several parents refer to DeGarmo as a good role model for children, a comment that really makes my stomach turn. The only thing these parents really know about DeGarmo is that she can smile for cameras, say please and thank you, and sing better on cue than William Hung, but worse than Pinocchio or Fantasia or whatever her name is.
By waiting in line for hours in the heat, parents, who — last time I asked my therapist — are still the biggest influence on their children’s minds, are essentially telling their children that “famous” is the best thing they can be.
Spiritual sorbet: Knowing that I’d need to ritually cleanse myself of all things “American Midol,” I reversed a couple of hours last weekend for a visiting guitar god and his traveling band. Nope, I’m not talking about Clapton, who played Philips Arena last Friday. I’m talking about Wayne Kramer and the MC5, the Detroit band that was recording punk records way back in 1968, when punk icon Johnny Rotten was just 12.
Kramer, along with bassist Michael Davis and drummer Dennis Thompson, performed at the Echo Lounge on Sunday night as DKT/MC5. Out of respect for the band’s two deceased members, they added the DKT (which comes from the first letters of their last names). Subbing for late MC5 guitarist Fred “Sonic” Smith was Marshall “Played Buddy Holly in La Bamba” Crenshaw. Subbing for late MC5 singer Rob Tyner were Mark “Mudhoney” Arm and Evan “drugs, drugs, more drugs and the Lemonheads” Dando.
Despite the years and missing members, the band was still able to replicate the malevolence and the crunch that made songs like “Kick Out the Jams” and “Shakin’ Street” so great. Though he lacks Tyner’s fantastic ‘fro, Arms was great on his tracks. His interpretation of 1968’s “Starship,” with its spoken interlude about “sunfire” and “rising to infinity” will stick in my mind for its sheer audacity. Dando, who managed for the entire show to look like he had just awakened from a nap, was less impressive. He just seemed out of it. For those of you who weren’t close to the stage, the reason Dando kept crawling around was that laminated lyric sheets were taped to the floor for him.
Just when you thought it was safe: In most places, dumping 60 tons of sand onto a major thoroughfare at rush hour is considered a bad thing. In happy Decatur, though, it’s not only not a bad thing, it’s a reason for a party: the Decatur Beach Party.
On Friday afternoon, Decatur’s civic high priests closed off a stretch of Ponce between the courthouse and Church Street for a party whose proceeds will go to downtown improvement (removing all that sand, for starters).
The party was family-themed. In fact, the first thing I saw after paying my admission was a man yelling at a boy for getting lost. As the boy shivered and cried, the man directed this cryptic rebuke at him, “You can’t go wandering off. This ain’t no tattoo parlor.” Shortly thereafter, a police officer intervened.
On the beach itself, there was live music, arrhythmic jerking that may have been dancing, and frolicking in the sand. The faux beach was convincing, particularly to children, dozens of whom buried themselves or made castles. Perhaps it was too realistic, though. While watching a grown-up sand castle builder, I witnessed one little girl in a bathing suit empty her bladder in front of everyone. When ample flow ceased, she calmly walked to the “ocean” part of the beach, which consisted of a hose, presumably to wash off.
The park is alive: Last Thursday evening I trekked to Piedmont Park for its Screen on the Green screening on the green of The Sound of Music. I thought I’d arrived early enough for a good seat, but by the time I did, the closest seat I could get was farther from the screen than the Von Trapps had to run to escape. I went to the front row and asked people how early they had to arrive to get such a good spot. Most had arrived an hour or two earlier. One couple ‘fessed up to arriving just 20 minutes before and squeezing into a tiny spot that earlier arrivals left unclaimed. He explained that it’s easy to get a good viewing spot as a late arrival “if you’re willing to be an asshole.”
I’m glad I’m not the only asshole around here.