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  string(110) "Jax Lives - Craig Flux" Singleton remembers his friend and Binkis Recs co-founder  Christopher "Jax" Thurston""
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  string(110) "Jax Lives - Craig Flux" Singleton remembers his friend and Binkis Recs co-founder  Christopher "Jax" Thurston""
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  string(120) "Content:_:Jax Lives - Craig Flux" Singleton remembers his friend and Binkis Recs co-founder  Christopher "Jax" Thurston""
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  string(11251) "We met when we were 14 – 1990 – fresh out of junior high school, and we met at the High School of Art & Design in New York. We were both in the same social studies class for that entire year, each semester. And that first semester, we knew each other because he sat probably like three spaces behind me. We were always cracking jokes, but we never really introduced ourselves to each other.

We always ran into mutual friends, I guess you could say. Cats that he knew and I knew.

There was this mall at our train station – 53rd and Lex., the first stop in the city on the E train. And in the bottom was like a food mall, they had different food shops: pizzas, bagel spots, all that type of shit. So when we would be going through there going home, Jax would just be in there chilling. Just doing nothing.

Sometimes he might come up and be like, "Yo, let me borrow 35 cent, let me borrow a quarter, let me borrow 50 cent?" You know how that shit is.

And I was like, "Yo, what you need that shit for, man? You ain't got your own money?" And he said, "Naw, I spent it, whoopty-whoop. I just wanna get a soda or some shit."

So, I always remember him from that.

Then there was a time I was like, "Man, why you always in here. Where you live at?"

He said, "I live in Queens, Rochdale Village."

I was like, "Why you staying here? It takes mad long to get back to Queens, back to the crib."

He said, "I don't wanna go home 'cause I have to wash dishes. My brother be trying to skip on me washing dishes so the longer I wait, the more likely somebody'll do the dishes before I get to the crib."

We were bugging off of that.

Eventually, we all just started chilling in there. Some days we'd stay long, some days we'd go home early. And that's how we kinda connected.

Then the next semester in '91, we were in social studies class again and that's when we really connected. We just started dissing each other. And I guess, looking back at it, it could be seen like we were trying to size each other up to see if we were worthy of each other.

We didn't really start rhyming till like the last year, like '93-'94. We always would rhyme, but it wasn't like, "Yo, we rappers."

He came up with his name Jax, and he was telling me about the Jedis. Jedis Always eXist – that's what Jax means. So he was always into the Star Wars shit.

In 1994, Jax and Flux came to Atlanta. Jax enrolled in Clark Atlanta University, while Flux attended the Art Institute of Atlanta. They began hanging with a like-minded hip-hop collective called N.E.B.L.O.S., and also formed a loosely affiliated crew called Allstates (because the members were all from different states), which also consisted of a pre-Gangsta Grillz DJ Drama, Mike Self, Spice and Rubix. Eventually, Jax got the idea to form an independent record label he decided to call Binkis Records.

Jax had gone home and he saw his people struggling, and he was trying to come up with a way to where he could kinda benefit and basically save 'em all. Just get enough revenue and money to save his people. And he came to me that year, it was '97, and he was like "Yo, I got an idea. I want to start a record label."

I was like, "Word, man. Whatever you wanna do."

He said, "I wanna call it Binkis Records."

The word itself came about from my man Spice. He had this word him and his crew used to say, called "boonkas." It was a sound-effect-type word. When some shit happened, you'd be like, "Boon-kas!" Me and Jax used to bug off that shit, and we started saying it. And once, we were on campus and we were joking and shit – me, him and Spice – and he was like, "Yo, I'ma come up with my own shit. I'ma say 'Binkis.'" So that's how Binkis came about, and that's why he came up with Binkis Records.

My peoples at N.E.B.L.O.S., when we told them about Binkis Records, they were like that's what's up. They had bought some upgraded equipment and they gave us the old shit they used to use – a 12-second sampler and a TASCAM 8-track. Jax had a credit card and he went and bought a system, one of them little three CD joints with the double cassette deck. We used that as the receiver and we were in that muhfucka trying to figure out how to work the shit. He stayed on Fair Street at the time cause he was still working at Marco's Pita. They also gave us a turntable, 'cause we didn't have one. So once we figured out how it worked, they showed us how to make beats with it. That's when we started just going crazy.

A homegirl of ours had some of her pop's records. She let us hold those records. I got all my old records from my pops and my moms. He got records from his pops and moms. And that kinda like started our collection. Then we started making beats. And once we figured out how to do that, we got ourselves a little cheap microphone and a mic stand and we started recording there.

I think we were fully set up in '98.

In 1999, an early Binkis song, "Beat You in the Head," won several demo battles on New York DJ/radio host Bobbito's CM Famalam show (WKCR-FM 89.9). After including the song on his Farewell Fondle Em (Definitive Jux) compilation released in 2001, Bobbito released two Binkis 12-inches – "Bullitt" b/w "Eyearm," and "Marquee" b/w "That's What I'm Talking About" – on his Fruitmeat Records label. As the underground scene in Atlanta began to bubble, Jax earned a reputation for being a prolific MC. By the time Binkis released The Reign Begins in 2003 (Day By Day Entertainment), Jax had already been releasing solo material since 2001, beginning with Observe and J.F.K., and continuing with the Sharp Images EP, Black Capitalism, The Sharpener mix CD, and Sharper Images in '07. He also made feature appearances on other projects during the same time.

Sometime around The Reign Begins album, Jax came up with the meaning behind the BINKIS acronym: Before Ignorant Niggas Killed Intelligent Songs. And I was like, "Shit, yeah, that's it." Because that's what we represented – before just all the glamour, glitz and superficial music became the staple of what people call hip-hop.

We represent all of that shit, all the "underground" shit where people are not talking about superficial shit all the time. They're trying to get points across. They're trying to uplift. They're trying to just have fun – not fitting ourselves into any type of stereotype.

So that's what that shit stood for. And that's not the only thing it stood for. That was just one of the things, but the fact that Binkis is and could be anything we wanted it to be, that gave us that much more freedom to be ourselves.

Man, we would be going through some turmoil or whatever and you would never really know that shit because we all kept each other's spirits up. Plus, the shit that we would find funny a lot of people wouldn't even be laughing at.

These are some of the things I'm going to remember about him. Anytime I see like a mascot, or a dude in a dog suit, or some shit like that, I'ma think about him 'cause he always laughed at that shit. That's his shit – mascots. He'd die off that shit. The fact that it's a dude in a suit and he's pretending to be real and making them faces. It's just shit like that, we'd always be dying. We could be dead broke and we'd be laughing about that shit. Laughing about how much money we ain't got, any and everything.

We'd crack up just to be living and enjoying each other, enjoying our true selves.

He'd get ideas from his dreams on a consistent basis. A lot of song ideas, like "Lamax," that was a dream. One joint on J.F.K., "Do Not Be Alarmed, I'm the Sandman," that was about his dreams.

He would have dreams where he was battling rappers, like well-known rappers, and they'd be doing some shit. Like I know he had a dream where he had to battle KRS-One. KRS-One was rapping and he had Jax's pops in a head lock and Jax had to battle him to make him release him. And he battled him and he was shrinking, like the more he started battling and winning, KRS-One would shrink.

"Underpaidslavery" – that's a song based off him working at UPS, for real. He got into that shit from my man Goldi Gold who was working at UPS at the time. He was looking for a job and he didn't want to come work with me – I was working at the toy store – even though he worked with me there earlier. But he was trying to get a job. So my man Goldi told him UPS is always hiring. So, you know, he went to UPS, got on, and he thought he wouldn't be there as long as he was but he just stayed on.

A wake was held in Atlanta for Jax on Friday, Nov. 7. Funeral services commenced in New York on Saturday, Nov. 15.

We always used to take turns saying, "When I die, yo, I want muhfuckas clapping. I want that shit to be a party, son, a celebration. I want breakdancers and all types of shit." So we always kept that in mind and it just so happened that he told his wife, "When I die, bury me in my Binkis shirt and hat." And that's how it just so happened. He had his Binkis shirt on, matching hat, jeans and the sneakers. That was our uniform – the Binkis shirt, black and gold.

That's how he wanted to be buried and that's what's up. Knowing how we are – as far as me, Killa Kalm and Jax – we always knew we didn't want to be sad about the shit. So we always were looking at it on that level. Like, it's sad he's gone but I know he wouldn't want us to be sad and shit.

It's just wild, man – all that happened while the presidential election was going on. That joint is wild. Also, you know, he passed saying those last words to his song – which was basically a little bio, a little four-line bio. Election Day, one of his names was J.F.K. – Jax Forever King. So that whole thing's just got stuff that's like, you could say is coincidental but it probably really ain't.

That's how it happened.

We can all come up with our own reasons on why, taking into consideration all those different levels of coincidence, persay. Even without those, you could make up your own reasons why. I don't know what the end result is because, for one, we're still living. What I do know has changed since is the people that know him and know us – Binkis – the real people have gotten a lot closer. And it just let's us know that straight up and down, a lotta shit is meaningless.

A lotta stuff that we think means something doesn't mean anything at the end of the day. And that's why when you're talking to people, they talk about his person more so than the music. Because that's what you get from the dude. It just so happens that he's nice at doing music, 'cause even without that he's still the same person.

As far as Binkis Recs the group, of course it's going to be different. I mean, a big piece of energy just escaped. It's here, but it's not existing in its own temple to express itself. So that whole part is missing and that's what we're going to miss. We'll miss him. But at the same time, we all are Binkis. So that's the continuation.

We're just going to continue on the path as far as our last conversation of using Binkis as a way to umbrella some MCs that may want to do something. And as long as we're here, we're still gonna do music so it's gonna go on until I die, until Kill dies, until we all die – or somebody else picks it up."
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  string(11319) "We met when we were 14 – 1990 – fresh out of junior high school, and we met at the High School of Art & Design [in New York]. We were both in the same social studies class for that entire year, each semester. And that first semester, we knew each other because he sat probably like three spaces behind me. We were always cracking jokes, but we never really introduced ourselves to each other.

We always ran into mutual friends, I guess you could say. Cats that he knew and I knew.

There was this mall at our train station – 53rd and Lex., the first stop in the city on the E train. And in the bottom was like a food mall, they had different food shops: pizzas, bagel spots, all that type of shit. So when we would be going through there going home, Jax would just be in there chilling. Just doing nothing.

Sometimes he might come up and be like, "Yo, let me borrow 35 cent, let me borrow a quarter, let me borrow 50 cent?" You know how that shit is.

And I was like, "Yo, what you need that shit for, man? You ain't got your own money?" And he said, "Naw, I spent it, whoopty-whoop. I just wanna get a soda or some shit."

So, I always remember him from that.

Then there was a time I was like, "Man, why you always in here. Where you live at?"

He said, "I live in Queens, Rochdale Village."

I was like, "Why you staying here? It takes mad long to get back to Queens, back to the crib."

He said, "I don't wanna go home 'cause I have to wash dishes. My brother be trying to skip on me washing dishes so the longer I wait, the more likely somebody'll do the dishes before I get to the crib."

We were bugging off of that.

Eventually, we all just started chilling in there. Some days we'd stay long, some days we'd go home early. And that's how we kinda connected.

Then the next semester in '91, we were in social studies class again and that's when we really connected. We just started dissing each other. And I guess, looking back at it, it could be seen like we were trying to size each other up to see if we were worthy of each other.

We didn't really start rhyming till like the last year, like '93-'94. We always would rhyme, but it wasn't like, "Yo, we rappers."

He came up with his name Jax, and he was telling me about the Jedis. Jedis Always eXist – that's what Jax means. So he was always into the ''Star Wars'' shit.

''In 1994, Jax and Flux came to Atlanta. Jax enrolled in Clark Atlanta University, while Flux attended the Art Institute of Atlanta. They began hanging with a like-minded hip-hop collective called N.E.B.L.O.S., and also formed a loosely affiliated crew called Allstates (because the members were all from different states), which also consisted of a pre-Gangsta Grillz DJ Drama, Mike Self, Spice and Rubix. Eventually, Jax got the idea to form an independent record label he decided to call Binkis Records.''

Jax had gone home and he saw his people struggling, and he was trying to come up with a way to where he could kinda benefit and basically save 'em all. Just get enough revenue and money to save his people. And he came to me that year, it was '97, and he was like "Yo, I got an idea. I want to start a record label."

I was like, "Word, man. Whatever you wanna do."

He said, "I wanna call it Binkis Records."

The word itself came about from my man Spice. He had this word him and his crew used to say, called "boonkas." It was a sound-effect-type word. When some shit happened, you'd be like, "Boon-kas!" Me and Jax used to bug off that shit, and we started saying it. And once, we were on campus and we were joking and shit – me, him and Spice – and he was like, "Yo, I'ma come up with my own shit. I'ma say 'Binkis.'" So that's how Binkis came about, and that's why he came up with Binkis Records.

My peoples at N.E.B.L.O.S., when we told them about Binkis Records, they were like that's what's up. They had bought some upgraded equipment and they gave us the old shit they used to use – a 12-second sampler and a TASCAM 8-track. Jax had a credit card and he went and bought a system, one of them little three CD joints with the double cassette deck. We used that as the receiver and we were in that muhfucka trying to figure out how to work the shit. He stayed on Fair Street at the time cause he was still working at Marco's Pita. They also gave us a turntable, 'cause we didn't have one. So once we figured out how it worked, they showed us how to make beats with it. That's when we started just going crazy.

A homegirl of ours had some of her pop's records. She let us hold those records. I got all my old records from my pops and my moms. He got records from his pops and moms. And that kinda like started our collection. Then we started making beats. And once we figured out how to do that, we got ourselves a little cheap microphone and a mic stand and we started recording there.

I think we were fully set up in '98.

''In 1999, an early Binkis song, "Beat You in the Head," won several demo battles on New York DJ/radio host Bobbito's CM Famalam show (WKCR-FM 89.9). After including the song on his'' Farewell Fondle Em ''(Definitive Jux) compilation released in 2001, Bobbito released two Binkis 12-inches – "Bullitt" b/w "Eyearm," and "Marquee" b/w "That's What I'm Talking About" – on his Fruitmeat Records label. As the underground scene in Atlanta began to bubble, Jax earned a reputation for being a prolific MC. By the time Binkis released'' The Reign Begins ''in 2003 (Day By Day Entertainment), Jax had already been releasing solo material since 2001, beginning with'' Observe ''and'' J.F.K.'', and continuing with the'' Sharp Images ''EP,'' Black Capitalism'','' The Sharpener ''mix CD, and'' Sharper Images ''in '07. He also made feature appearances on other projects during the same time.''

Sometime around ''The Reign Begins'' album, Jax came up with [the meaning behind the BINKIS acronym]: Before Ignorant Niggas Killed Intelligent Songs. And I was like, "Shit, yeah, that's it." Because that's what we represented – before just all the glamour, glitz and superficial music became the staple of what people call hip-hop.

We represent all of that shit, all the "underground" shit where people are not talking about superficial shit all the time. They're trying to get points across. They're trying to uplift. They're trying to just have fun – not fitting ourselves into any type of stereotype.

So that's what that shit stood for. And that's not the only thing it stood for. That was just one of the things, but the fact that Binkis is and could be anything we wanted it to be, that gave us that much more freedom to be ourselves.

Man, we would be going through some turmoil or whatever [and] you would never really know that shit because we all kept each other's spirits up. Plus, the shit that we would find funny a lot of people wouldn't even be laughing at.

These are some of the things I'm going to remember about him. Anytime I see like a mascot, or a dude in a dog suit, or some shit like that, I'ma think about him 'cause he always laughed at that shit. That's his shit – mascots. He'd die off that shit. The fact that it's a dude in a suit and he's pretending to be real and making them faces. It's just shit like that, we'd always be dying. We could be dead broke and we'd be laughing about that shit. Laughing about how much money we ain't got, any and everything.

We'd crack up just to be living and enjoying each other, enjoying our true selves.

He'd get ideas from his dreams on a consistent basis. A lot of song ideas, like "Lamax," that was a dream. One joint on ''J.F.K.'', "Do Not Be Alarmed, I'm the Sandman," that was ''about'' his dreams.

He would have dreams where he was battling rappers, like well-known rappers, and they'd be doing some shit. Like I know he had a dream where he had to battle KRS-One. KRS-One was rapping and he had Jax's pops in a head lock and Jax had to battle him to make him release him. And he battled him and he was shrinking, like the more he started battling and winning, KRS-One would shrink.

"Underpaidslavery" – that's a song based off him working at UPS, for real. He got into that shit from my man Goldi Gold who was working at UPS at the time. He was looking for a job and he didn't want to come work with me – I was working at the toy store – even though he worked with me there earlier. But he was trying to get a job. So my man Goldi told him UPS is always hiring. So, you know, he went to UPS, got on, and he thought he wouldn't be there as long as he was but he just stayed on.

''A wake was held in Atlanta for Jax on Friday, Nov. 7. Funeral services commenced in New York on Saturday, Nov. 15.''

We always used to take turns saying, "When I die, yo, I want muhfuckas clapping. I want that shit to be a party, son, a celebration. I want breakdancers and all types of shit." So we always kept that in mind and it just so happened that he told his wife, "When I die, bury me in my Binkis shirt and hat." And that's how it just so happened. He had his Binkis shirt on, matching hat, jeans and the sneakers. That was our uniform – the Binkis shirt, black and gold.

That's how he wanted to be buried and that's what's up. Knowing how we are – as far as me, Killa Kalm and Jax – we always knew we didn't want to be sad about the shit. So we always were looking at it on that level. Like, it's sad he's gone but I know he wouldn't want us to be sad and shit.

It's just wild, man – all that happened while the [presidential] election was going on. That joint is wild. Also, you know, he passed saying those last words to his song – which was basically a little bio, a little four-line bio. Election Day, one of his names was J.F.K. – Jax Forever King. So that whole thing's just got stuff that's like, you could say is coincidental but it probably really ain't.

That's how it happened.

We can all come up with our own reasons on why, taking into consideration all those different levels of coincidence, persay. Even without those, you could make up your own reasons why. I don't know what the end result is because, for one, we're still living. What I do know has changed since is the people that know him and know us – Binkis – the real people have gotten a lot closer. And it just let's us know that straight up and down, a lotta shit is meaningless.

A lotta stuff that we think means something doesn't mean anything at the end of the day. And that's why when you're talking to people, they talk about his person more so than the music. Because that's what you get from the dude. It just so happens that he's nice at doing music, 'cause even without that he's still the same person.

As far as Binkis Recs the group, of course it's going to be different. I mean, a big piece of energy just escaped. It's here, but it's not existing in its own temple to express itself. So that whole part is missing and that's what we're going to miss. We'll miss him. But at the same time, we all are Binkis. So that's the continuation.

We're just going to continue on the path as far as our last conversation of using Binkis as a way to umbrella some MCs that may want to do something. And as long as we're here, we're still gonna do music so it's gonna go on until I die, until Kill dies, until we all die – or somebody else picks it up."
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  string(11619) "     Christopher "Jax" Thurston   2008-12-03T05:04:00+00:00 Jax Lives - Craig Flux" Singleton remembers his friend and Binkis Recs co-founder  Christopher "Jax" Thurston"     2008-12-03T05:04:00+00:00  We met when we were 14 – 1990 – fresh out of junior high school, and we met at the High School of Art & Design in New York. We were both in the same social studies class for that entire year, each semester. And that first semester, we knew each other because he sat probably like three spaces behind me. We were always cracking jokes, but we never really introduced ourselves to each other.

We always ran into mutual friends, I guess you could say. Cats that he knew and I knew.

There was this mall at our train station – 53rd and Lex., the first stop in the city on the E train. And in the bottom was like a food mall, they had different food shops: pizzas, bagel spots, all that type of shit. So when we would be going through there going home, Jax would just be in there chilling. Just doing nothing.

Sometimes he might come up and be like, "Yo, let me borrow 35 cent, let me borrow a quarter, let me borrow 50 cent?" You know how that shit is.

And I was like, "Yo, what you need that shit for, man? You ain't got your own money?" And he said, "Naw, I spent it, whoopty-whoop. I just wanna get a soda or some shit."

So, I always remember him from that.

Then there was a time I was like, "Man, why you always in here. Where you live at?"

He said, "I live in Queens, Rochdale Village."

I was like, "Why you staying here? It takes mad long to get back to Queens, back to the crib."

He said, "I don't wanna go home 'cause I have to wash dishes. My brother be trying to skip on me washing dishes so the longer I wait, the more likely somebody'll do the dishes before I get to the crib."

We were bugging off of that.

Eventually, we all just started chilling in there. Some days we'd stay long, some days we'd go home early. And that's how we kinda connected.

Then the next semester in '91, we were in social studies class again and that's when we really connected. We just started dissing each other. And I guess, looking back at it, it could be seen like we were trying to size each other up to see if we were worthy of each other.

We didn't really start rhyming till like the last year, like '93-'94. We always would rhyme, but it wasn't like, "Yo, we rappers."

He came up with his name Jax, and he was telling me about the Jedis. Jedis Always eXist – that's what Jax means. So he was always into the Star Wars shit.

In 1994, Jax and Flux came to Atlanta. Jax enrolled in Clark Atlanta University, while Flux attended the Art Institute of Atlanta. They began hanging with a like-minded hip-hop collective called N.E.B.L.O.S., and also formed a loosely affiliated crew called Allstates (because the members were all from different states), which also consisted of a pre-Gangsta Grillz DJ Drama, Mike Self, Spice and Rubix. Eventually, Jax got the idea to form an independent record label he decided to call Binkis Records.

Jax had gone home and he saw his people struggling, and he was trying to come up with a way to where he could kinda benefit and basically save 'em all. Just get enough revenue and money to save his people. And he came to me that year, it was '97, and he was like "Yo, I got an idea. I want to start a record label."

I was like, "Word, man. Whatever you wanna do."

He said, "I wanna call it Binkis Records."

The word itself came about from my man Spice. He had this word him and his crew used to say, called "boonkas." It was a sound-effect-type word. When some shit happened, you'd be like, "Boon-kas!" Me and Jax used to bug off that shit, and we started saying it. And once, we were on campus and we were joking and shit – me, him and Spice – and he was like, "Yo, I'ma come up with my own shit. I'ma say 'Binkis.'" So that's how Binkis came about, and that's why he came up with Binkis Records.

My peoples at N.E.B.L.O.S., when we told them about Binkis Records, they were like that's what's up. They had bought some upgraded equipment and they gave us the old shit they used to use – a 12-second sampler and a TASCAM 8-track. Jax had a credit card and he went and bought a system, one of them little three CD joints with the double cassette deck. We used that as the receiver and we were in that muhfucka trying to figure out how to work the shit. He stayed on Fair Street at the time cause he was still working at Marco's Pita. They also gave us a turntable, 'cause we didn't have one. So once we figured out how it worked, they showed us how to make beats with it. That's when we started just going crazy.

A homegirl of ours had some of her pop's records. She let us hold those records. I got all my old records from my pops and my moms. He got records from his pops and moms. And that kinda like started our collection. Then we started making beats. And once we figured out how to do that, we got ourselves a little cheap microphone and a mic stand and we started recording there.

I think we were fully set up in '98.

In 1999, an early Binkis song, "Beat You in the Head," won several demo battles on New York DJ/radio host Bobbito's CM Famalam show (WKCR-FM 89.9). After including the song on his Farewell Fondle Em (Definitive Jux) compilation released in 2001, Bobbito released two Binkis 12-inches – "Bullitt" b/w "Eyearm," and "Marquee" b/w "That's What I'm Talking About" – on his Fruitmeat Records label. As the underground scene in Atlanta began to bubble, Jax earned a reputation for being a prolific MC. By the time Binkis released The Reign Begins in 2003 (Day By Day Entertainment), Jax had already been releasing solo material since 2001, beginning with Observe and J.F.K., and continuing with the Sharp Images EP, Black Capitalism, The Sharpener mix CD, and Sharper Images in '07. He also made feature appearances on other projects during the same time.

Sometime around The Reign Begins album, Jax came up with the meaning behind the BINKIS acronym: Before Ignorant Niggas Killed Intelligent Songs. And I was like, "Shit, yeah, that's it." Because that's what we represented – before just all the glamour, glitz and superficial music became the staple of what people call hip-hop.

We represent all of that shit, all the "underground" shit where people are not talking about superficial shit all the time. They're trying to get points across. They're trying to uplift. They're trying to just have fun – not fitting ourselves into any type of stereotype.

So that's what that shit stood for. And that's not the only thing it stood for. That was just one of the things, but the fact that Binkis is and could be anything we wanted it to be, that gave us that much more freedom to be ourselves.

Man, we would be going through some turmoil or whatever and you would never really know that shit because we all kept each other's spirits up. Plus, the shit that we would find funny a lot of people wouldn't even be laughing at.

These are some of the things I'm going to remember about him. Anytime I see like a mascot, or a dude in a dog suit, or some shit like that, I'ma think about him 'cause he always laughed at that shit. That's his shit – mascots. He'd die off that shit. The fact that it's a dude in a suit and he's pretending to be real and making them faces. It's just shit like that, we'd always be dying. We could be dead broke and we'd be laughing about that shit. Laughing about how much money we ain't got, any and everything.

We'd crack up just to be living and enjoying each other, enjoying our true selves.

He'd get ideas from his dreams on a consistent basis. A lot of song ideas, like "Lamax," that was a dream. One joint on J.F.K., "Do Not Be Alarmed, I'm the Sandman," that was about his dreams.

He would have dreams where he was battling rappers, like well-known rappers, and they'd be doing some shit. Like I know he had a dream where he had to battle KRS-One. KRS-One was rapping and he had Jax's pops in a head lock and Jax had to battle him to make him release him. And he battled him and he was shrinking, like the more he started battling and winning, KRS-One would shrink.

"Underpaidslavery" – that's a song based off him working at UPS, for real. He got into that shit from my man Goldi Gold who was working at UPS at the time. He was looking for a job and he didn't want to come work with me – I was working at the toy store – even though he worked with me there earlier. But he was trying to get a job. So my man Goldi told him UPS is always hiring. So, you know, he went to UPS, got on, and he thought he wouldn't be there as long as he was but he just stayed on.

A wake was held in Atlanta for Jax on Friday, Nov. 7. Funeral services commenced in New York on Saturday, Nov. 15.

We always used to take turns saying, "When I die, yo, I want muhfuckas clapping. I want that shit to be a party, son, a celebration. I want breakdancers and all types of shit." So we always kept that in mind and it just so happened that he told his wife, "When I die, bury me in my Binkis shirt and hat." And that's how it just so happened. He had his Binkis shirt on, matching hat, jeans and the sneakers. That was our uniform – the Binkis shirt, black and gold.

That's how he wanted to be buried and that's what's up. Knowing how we are – as far as me, Killa Kalm and Jax – we always knew we didn't want to be sad about the shit. So we always were looking at it on that level. Like, it's sad he's gone but I know he wouldn't want us to be sad and shit.

It's just wild, man – all that happened while the presidential election was going on. That joint is wild. Also, you know, he passed saying those last words to his song – which was basically a little bio, a little four-line bio. Election Day, one of his names was J.F.K. – Jax Forever King. So that whole thing's just got stuff that's like, you could say is coincidental but it probably really ain't.

That's how it happened.

We can all come up with our own reasons on why, taking into consideration all those different levels of coincidence, persay. Even without those, you could make up your own reasons why. I don't know what the end result is because, for one, we're still living. What I do know has changed since is the people that know him and know us – Binkis – the real people have gotten a lot closer. And it just let's us know that straight up and down, a lotta shit is meaningless.

A lotta stuff that we think means something doesn't mean anything at the end of the day. And that's why when you're talking to people, they talk about his person more so than the music. Because that's what you get from the dude. It just so happens that he's nice at doing music, 'cause even without that he's still the same person.

As far as Binkis Recs the group, of course it's going to be different. I mean, a big piece of energy just escaped. It's here, but it's not existing in its own temple to express itself. So that whole part is missing and that's what we're going to miss. We'll miss him. But at the same time, we all are Binkis. So that's the continuation.

We're just going to continue on the path as far as our last conversation of using Binkis as a way to umbrella some MCs that may want to do something. And as long as we're here, we're still gonna do music so it's gonna go on until I die, until Kill dies, until we all die – or somebody else picks it up.             13028694 1276633                          Jax Lives - Craig Flux" Singleton remembers his friend and Binkis Recs co-founder  Christopher "Jax" Thurston" "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday December 3, 2008 12:04 am EST
Christopher "Jax" Thurston | more...
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  string(46) "Redeye - Ring in the New Year December 27 2006"
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  string(49) "18th Annual Peach Drop, Jezolution 2006, and more"
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  string(49) "18th Annual Peach Drop, Jezolution 2006, and more"
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  string(4510) "All events take place Sun., Dec. 31.

18th Annual Peach Drop New Year's Eve tradition featuring an 800-pound peach and country band Lonestar. Noon-4 a.m. Free. Underground Atlanta, 50 Upper Alabama St. 404-523-2311. www.underground-atlanta.com.

2006 New Year's Celebration w/ Maze, Frankie Beverly, KEM 8 p.m. $85-$100. Atlanta Civic Center, 395 Piedmont Ave. 404-523-6275. atlantaciviccenter.com.

2007 New Year's Eve Celebration Performances, prizes, music, food and more. Doors open at 8:30 p.m., show starts at 10. $65. Whole World Theatre, 1216 Spring St. 404-817-7529. www.wholeworldtheatre.com.

Best New Year's Eve Party Period Hosted by V-103's Wanda Smith, with five rooms of live entertainment. 9 p.m.-3 a.m. $50-$100. Marriott Perimeter Center, 246 Perimeter Center Parkway Northeast. 770-394-6500. www .thebestnewyearseveparty .com.

Cabaret and Casino Night Proceeds benefit Aurora Theatre and Hudgens Arts Center. 7 p.m. $85. Hudgens Center for the Arts, Gwinnett Civic and Cultural Center, 6400 Sugarloaf Parkway, Building 300, Duluth. 678-407-6690. www.auroratheatre.com.

Countdown to Zero Hour Latin, hip-hop, techno and Brazilian music. 9 p.m.-2:30 a.m. $20 before midnight. La Rumba, 6317 Roswell Road. 404-303-1814. www .boomerangproductions.net.

THE DOWNTOWN COUNTDOWN NEW YEAR'S EVE BASH Live music from bands Rehab, Drivin N Cryin, Modern Skirts and Unzipped, four comedians, two DJs, open bar and food buffet included. 8:30 p.m. Hyatt Regency Atlanta, 265 Peachtree St. $149-$159. 800-422-7295. www .downtowncountdown.net.

Fourth Annual New Year's Eve Bash Free champagne toast, balloon drop and party favors. Live entertainment from Bill Gentry & the 35 Cent Rodeo. Doors open at 7 p.m. $25-$100. Wild Bill's, 2075 Market St., Duluth. 678-473-1000. www.wildbillsatlanta.com.

FOURTH ANNUAL LAST NEW YEAR'S EVE BASH AT THE MASQUERADE 6 p.m. $12. Masquerade, 695 North Ave. 404-577-8178. www.masq.com.

Heathen Chemistry New Year's Eve Indie-themed dance party with live DJs. 9 p.m.-1 a.m. $60. The Spotted Dog, 30 North Ave. 404-347-7337. www.heathenchemistry.net.

Jezolution 2006 Hosted by Atlanta's Jezebel magazine, the party features more than 40 open bars, two live bands, two DJs, full dinner and breakfast buffets and more. 8 p.m.-3 a.m. $150-$200. Grand Hyatt Atlanta, 3300 Peachtree Road. 404-364-3841. www.jezebelmagazine .com.

New Year's Eve Bash New Year's Eve buffet and bottle of champagne. Price includes DJ and party favors. Cost for bowling is additional. 8 p.m.-1 a.m. $60. AMF Chamblee Lanes, 2175 Savoy Drive, Chamblee. 770-451-8605.

New Year's Eve Cabaret Food, drinks and divas. 8 p.m. $30-$150. Onstage Atlanta, 2597 N. Decatur Road, Decatur. 404-897-1802. www .onstageatlanta.com.

New Year's Eve Celebration Food by Wolfgang Puck Catering and music by Groovetown. 8 p.m.-1 a.m. $150-$225. Georgia Aquarium, 225 Baker St. 404-581-4000. www .georgiaaquarium.org.

NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY Music by Mel and the Party Hats and DJ Danny, $1,000 cash balloon drop, $3 shots. 5 p.m. $30-$120. Andrew's Upstairs, 56 E. Andrews Drive, Suite 13. 404-467-1600. andrewsupstairs.com.

New Year's Eve with DJ Andre Perry 9 p.m.-3 a.m. Free before midnight, $10 after. Sutra Lounge, 1136 Crescent Ave. 404-607-1160. www .sutraloungeatl.com.

NYE in the ATL Hip-hop and urban-themed New Year's Eve bash. 6 p.m. $35-$75. Crowne Plaza Atlanta, 3377 Peachtree Road. 404-775-4118. www.nyeintheatl .com.

Princess Cruiser Ball Celebration featuring the Tongo Hiti Orchestra and the Dames Aflame dancers. 9 p.m. $10-$15. Trader Vic's, Hilton Atlanta, 255 Courtland St. 404-221-6339. www .xorbia.com/tickets.

PushPush NYE Benefit Benefit for PushPush Theater's New Street Art House space. Buffet, performances by various artists and a champagne toast and surprise for attendees. 8 p.m.-2 a.m. $35. PushPush Theater, 121 New St., Decatur. 404-377-6332. www.pushpushtheater.com.

Spiral Entertainment NYE 2006 A huge party w/ Funkel Esther and multiple DJs spinning. 9 p.m.-2:30 a.m. $150. Biltmore Ballrooms, 817 W. Peachtree St. 404-962-8700. www .spiralentertainment.com.

TAKE HOLD New Year's Eve Bash Buffet dinner, introductory dance class and general dancing. 8 p.m. $55. Take Hold Ballroom, 721 Miami Circle, Suite 103. 404-841-8001. www .takeholdballroom.com.

World Tour 2007 New Year's Eve Party New York, South Beach, Paris and Tokyo in one place for a huge party. 8 p.m. $60-$200. Renaissance Atlanta Hotel, 590 W. Peachtree St. 770-934-2975. www.worldtour2007nye.com."
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__18th Annual Peach Drop__ New Year's Eve tradition featuring an 800-pound peach and country band Lonestar. Noon-4 a.m. Free. Underground Atlanta, 50 Upper Alabama St. 404-523-2311. [http://www.underground-atlanta.com/|www.underground-atlanta.com].

__2006 New Year's Celebration w/ Maze, Frankie Beverly, KEM__ 8 p.m. $85-$100. Atlanta Civic Center, 395 Piedmont Ave. 404-523-6275. [http://atlantaciviccenter.com/|atlantaciviccenter.com].

__2007 New Year's Eve Celebration__ Performances, prizes, music, food and more. Doors open at 8:30 p.m., show starts at 10. $65. Whole World Theatre, 1216 Spring St. 404-817-7529. [http://www.wholeworldtheatre.com/|www.wholeworldtheatre.com].

__Best New Year's Eve Party Period__ Hosted by V-103's Wanda Smith, with five rooms of live entertainment. 9 p.m.-3 a.m. $50-$100. Marriott Perimeter Center, 246 Perimeter Center Parkway Northeast. 770-394-6500. www .thebestnewyearseveparty .com.

__Cabaret and Casino Night__ Proceeds benefit Aurora Theatre and Hudgens Arts Center. 7 p.m. $85. Hudgens Center for the Arts, Gwinnett Civic and Cultural Center, 6400 Sugarloaf Parkway, Building 300, Duluth. 678-407-6690. [http://www.auroratheatre.com/|www.auroratheatre.com].

__Countdown to Zero Hour__ Latin, hip-hop, techno and Brazilian music. 9 p.m.-2:30 a.m. $20 before midnight. La Rumba, 6317 Roswell Road. 404-303-1814. www .boomerangproductions.net.

__THE DOWNTOWN COUNTDOWN NEW YEAR'S EVE BASH__ Live music from bands Rehab, Drivin N Cryin, Modern Skirts and Unzipped, four comedians, two DJs, open bar and food buffet included. 8:30 p.m. Hyatt Regency Atlanta, 265 Peachtree St. $149-$159. 800-422-7295. www .downtowncountdown.net.

__Fourth Annual New Year's Eve Bash__ Free champagne toast, balloon drop and party favors. Live entertainment from Bill Gentry & the 35 Cent Rodeo. Doors open at 7 p.m. $25-$100. Wild Bill's, 2075 Market St., Duluth. 678-473-1000. [http://www.wildbillsatlanta.com/|www.wildbillsatlanta.com].

__FOURTH ANNUAL LAST NEW YEAR'S EVE BASH AT THE MASQUERADE__ 6 p.m. $12. Masquerade, 695 North Ave. 404-577-8178. [http://www.masq.com/|www.masq.com].

__Heathen Chemistry New Year's Eve__ Indie-themed dance party with live DJs. 9 p.m.-1 a.m. $60. The Spotted Dog, 30 North Ave. 404-347-7337. [http://www.heathenchemistry.net/|www.heathenchemistry.net].

__Jezolution 2006__ Hosted by Atlanta's ''Jezebel'' magazine, the party features more than 40 open bars, two live bands, two DJs, full dinner and breakfast buffets and more. 8 p.m.-3 a.m. $150-$200. Grand Hyatt Atlanta, 3300 Peachtree Road. 404-364-3841. www.jezebelmagazine .com.

__New Year's Eve Bash__ New Year's Eve buffet and bottle of champagne. Price includes DJ and party favors. Cost for bowling is additional. 8 p.m.-1 a.m. $60. AMF Chamblee Lanes, 2175 Savoy Drive, Chamblee. 770-451-8605.

__New Year's Eve Cabaret__ Food, drinks and divas. 8 p.m. $30-$150. Onstage Atlanta, 2597 N. Decatur Road, Decatur. 404-897-1802. www .onstageatlanta.com.

__New Year's Eve Celebration__ Food by Wolfgang Puck Catering and music by Groovetown. 8 p.m.-1 a.m. $150-$225. Georgia Aquarium, 225 Baker St. 404-581-4000. www .georgiaaquarium.org.

__NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY__ Music by Mel and the Party Hats and DJ Danny, $1,000 cash balloon drop, $3 shots. 5 p.m. $30-$120. Andrew's Upstairs, 56 E. Andrews Drive, Suite 13. 404-467-1600. [http://andrewsupstairs.com/|andrewsupstairs.com].

__New Year's Eve with DJ Andre Perry__ 9 p.m.-3 a.m. Free before midnight, $10 after. Sutra Lounge, 1136 Crescent Ave. 404-607-1160. www .sutraloungeatl.com.

__NYE in the ATL__ Hip-hop and urban-themed New Year's Eve bash. 6 p.m. $35-$75. Crowne Plaza Atlanta, 3377 Peachtree Road. 404-775-4118. www.nyeintheatl .com.

__Princess Cruiser Ball__ Celebration featuring the Tongo Hiti Orchestra and the Dames Aflame dancers. 9 p.m. $10-$15. Trader Vic's, Hilton Atlanta, 255 Courtland St. 404-221-6339. www .xorbia.com/tickets.

__PushPush NYE Benefit__ Benefit for PushPush Theater's New Street Art House space. Buffet, performances by various artists and a champagne toast and surprise for attendees. 8 p.m.-2 a.m. $35. PushPush Theater, 121 New St., Decatur. 404-377-6332. [http://www.pushpushtheater.com/|www.pushpushtheater.com].

__Spiral Entertainment NYE 2006__ A huge party w/ Funkel Esther and multiple DJs spinning. 9 p.m.-2:30 a.m. $150. Biltmore Ballrooms, 817 W. Peachtree St. 404-962-8700. www .spiralentertainment.com.

__TAKE HOLD New Year's Eve Bash__ Buffet dinner, introductory dance class and general dancing. 8 p.m. $55. Take Hold Ballroom, 721 Miami Circle, Suite 103. 404-841-8001. www .takeholdballroom.com.

__World Tour 2007 New Year's Eve Party__ New York, South Beach, Paris and Tokyo in one place for a huge party. 8 p.m. $60-$200. Renaissance Atlanta Hotel, 590 W. Peachtree St. 770-934-2975. [http://www.worldtour2007nye.com/|www.worldtour2007nye.com]."
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18th Annual Peach Drop New Year's Eve tradition featuring an 800-pound peach and country band Lonestar. Noon-4 a.m. Free. Underground Atlanta, 50 Upper Alabama St. 404-523-2311. www.underground-atlanta.com.

2006 New Year's Celebration w/ Maze, Frankie Beverly, KEM 8 p.m. $85-$100. Atlanta Civic Center, 395 Piedmont Ave. 404-523-6275. atlantaciviccenter.com.

2007 New Year's Eve Celebration Performances, prizes, music, food and more. Doors open at 8:30 p.m., show starts at 10. $65. Whole World Theatre, 1216 Spring St. 404-817-7529. www.wholeworldtheatre.com.

Best New Year's Eve Party Period Hosted by V-103's Wanda Smith, with five rooms of live entertainment. 9 p.m.-3 a.m. $50-$100. Marriott Perimeter Center, 246 Perimeter Center Parkway Northeast. 770-394-6500. www .thebestnewyearseveparty .com.

Cabaret and Casino Night Proceeds benefit Aurora Theatre and Hudgens Arts Center. 7 p.m. $85. Hudgens Center for the Arts, Gwinnett Civic and Cultural Center, 6400 Sugarloaf Parkway, Building 300, Duluth. 678-407-6690. www.auroratheatre.com.

Countdown to Zero Hour Latin, hip-hop, techno and Brazilian music. 9 p.m.-2:30 a.m. $20 before midnight. La Rumba, 6317 Roswell Road. 404-303-1814. www .boomerangproductions.net.

THE DOWNTOWN COUNTDOWN NEW YEAR'S EVE BASH Live music from bands Rehab, Drivin N Cryin, Modern Skirts and Unzipped, four comedians, two DJs, open bar and food buffet included. 8:30 p.m. Hyatt Regency Atlanta, 265 Peachtree St. $149-$159. 800-422-7295. www .downtowncountdown.net.

Fourth Annual New Year's Eve Bash Free champagne toast, balloon drop and party favors. Live entertainment from Bill Gentry & the 35 Cent Rodeo. Doors open at 7 p.m. $25-$100. Wild Bill's, 2075 Market St., Duluth. 678-473-1000. www.wildbillsatlanta.com.

FOURTH ANNUAL LAST NEW YEAR'S EVE BASH AT THE MASQUERADE 6 p.m. $12. Masquerade, 695 North Ave. 404-577-8178. www.masq.com.

Heathen Chemistry New Year's Eve Indie-themed dance party with live DJs. 9 p.m.-1 a.m. $60. The Spotted Dog, 30 North Ave. 404-347-7337. www.heathenchemistry.net.

Jezolution 2006 Hosted by Atlanta's Jezebel magazine, the party features more than 40 open bars, two live bands, two DJs, full dinner and breakfast buffets and more. 8 p.m.-3 a.m. $150-$200. Grand Hyatt Atlanta, 3300 Peachtree Road. 404-364-3841. www.jezebelmagazine .com.

New Year's Eve Bash New Year's Eve buffet and bottle of champagne. Price includes DJ and party favors. Cost for bowling is additional. 8 p.m.-1 a.m. $60. AMF Chamblee Lanes, 2175 Savoy Drive, Chamblee. 770-451-8605.

New Year's Eve Cabaret Food, drinks and divas. 8 p.m. $30-$150. Onstage Atlanta, 2597 N. Decatur Road, Decatur. 404-897-1802. www .onstageatlanta.com.

New Year's Eve Celebration Food by Wolfgang Puck Catering and music by Groovetown. 8 p.m.-1 a.m. $150-$225. Georgia Aquarium, 225 Baker St. 404-581-4000. www .georgiaaquarium.org.

NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY Music by Mel and the Party Hats and DJ Danny, $1,000 cash balloon drop, $3 shots. 5 p.m. $30-$120. Andrew's Upstairs, 56 E. Andrews Drive, Suite 13. 404-467-1600. andrewsupstairs.com.

New Year's Eve with DJ Andre Perry 9 p.m.-3 a.m. Free before midnight, $10 after. Sutra Lounge, 1136 Crescent Ave. 404-607-1160. www .sutraloungeatl.com.

NYE in the ATL Hip-hop and urban-themed New Year's Eve bash. 6 p.m. $35-$75. Crowne Plaza Atlanta, 3377 Peachtree Road. 404-775-4118. www.nyeintheatl .com.

Princess Cruiser Ball Celebration featuring the Tongo Hiti Orchestra and the Dames Aflame dancers. 9 p.m. $10-$15. Trader Vic's, Hilton Atlanta, 255 Courtland St. 404-221-6339. www .xorbia.com/tickets.

PushPush NYE Benefit Benefit for PushPush Theater's New Street Art House space. Buffet, performances by various artists and a champagne toast and surprise for attendees. 8 p.m.-2 a.m. $35. PushPush Theater, 121 New St., Decatur. 404-377-6332. www.pushpushtheater.com.

Spiral Entertainment NYE 2006 A huge party w/ Funkel Esther and multiple DJs spinning. 9 p.m.-2:30 a.m. $150. Biltmore Ballrooms, 817 W. Peachtree St. 404-962-8700. www .spiralentertainment.com.

TAKE HOLD New Year's Eve Bash Buffet dinner, introductory dance class and general dancing. 8 p.m. $55. Take Hold Ballroom, 721 Miami Circle, Suite 103. 404-841-8001. www .takeholdballroom.com.

World Tour 2007 New Year's Eve Party New York, South Beach, Paris and Tokyo in one place for a huge party. 8 p.m. $60-$200. Renaissance Atlanta Hotel, 590 W. Peachtree St. 770-934-2975. www.worldtour2007nye.com.             13023414 1264750                          Redeye - Ring in the New Year December 27 2006 "
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Wednesday December 27, 2006 12:04 am EST
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  string(2879) "On Fri., Dec. 15, the Washington Capitals beat the Atlanta Thrashers in sudden-death overtime. And while packing my very last box, my loyal camera hit the ground with a resounding "thwack" after several years illustrating this column. Now merely a dashboard totem, that busted camera — like the Caps' victory — simply oozes symbolism.

I'm now in NoVA living life without obnoxious flashes in dark clubs. But I leave some parting thoughts: A 3-year-old told me Atlanta rain smells like dog poo and boy pee, and he's onto something. There is no "treat" in Blondie's "full treatment." I not only knew people who did shit in Karma's electrical closet, I knew druggies who shit in there; I miss those daze. Ponce de Leon plus trannies is like peanut butter in your chocolate: salty, creamy, inseparable. Escaping without a DUI, VD, OD — any acronym — takes skill! And you'll know nightlife is dead when the Masquerade closes, which I heard is happening next Halloween, maybe New Year's ... maybe 2012.

Finally, as I've never printed anything self-indulgent before, forgive my Academy address. Here's but a few people that in no specific order have made this experience:

Bill "Scarecrow" Kaelin, Pablo "King of Clubs," Gigantor, Degenerate FN, Heather's Tits, J-Luv + Special Sauce, Kevin O, Lil Steven, the Close, Jennifer Walker, Devin Walkley, Tyler "Camel Toe" Gambrell, Trina Trice, Aerial, Jason Jupiter + the Drag Queen Army, my 360 Media bitches, Tinker Clay, Poppy + Steve DeNiro, Jonathan Edwards, Oasis Rim, e50, Ken Forsythe, Gavin Frederick, Ulrica + Lytton, Chris Brann, Tattletale, Backstreet, Snowden, raves, Sockman, Faust & Shortee, Klever, DVA, Starboi, Byron Burroughs + Todd Terranova, the Crescent Room, the Chamber, David Cross + Bunker Spreckles, Rasta Root, Gnosis, Sharaab + Swivel, NHP brunch, the Echo Lounge, KITH @ the Clermont, BTN, Jeff Clark, Henry Owings, Bean Summer, MC Chante, 88.5, Mayhem + MJ, Tommie Sunshine, Ben Rose, Nomenclature, Arman Reyes, Karl Injex, Club 112, the Gold Club, the Atlanta Alliance, Greg Adamson, Kai Alce, Scott Herren, Grant Aaron, Bethany, The Captain, Gene Carbonell, D.R.E.S. tha Beatnik, Ying Yang Twins, Kim. + Crifizzle, Patrick Hill + Red Level Eleven, Chadford, Alex Weiss, Randy Castello, Chinaski, Alan Godfrey, Paul + Vicki Destructo, Craig "Happyland" Gates, Richard "Donkey" Devine, Matt Hemley, EastDevs, Russ Marshalek, Sterling McGarvey, Colin English, that Aphex Twin wheelchair guy parked in police-designated spots and anyone who has tried even if just to fail and try again.

You know, there's a million fine cities in the world, dude. But they don't all bring you lasagna at work. So thanks, Atlanta, for helping me make a business of having no business doing what I do in public. There's just one thing about living in you I never could stomach: All the damn vampires ..."
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I'm now in NoVA living life without obnoxious flashes in dark clubs. But I leave some parting thoughts: A 3-year-old told me Atlanta rain smells like dog poo and boy pee, and he's onto something. There is no "treat" in Blondie's "full treatment." I not only knew people who did shit in Karma's electrical closet, I knew druggies who __shit__ in there; I miss those daze. Ponce de Leon plus trannies is like peanut butter in your chocolate: salty, creamy, inseparable. Escaping without a DUI, VD, OD -- any acronym -- takes skill! And you'll know nightlife is dead when the Masquerade closes, which I heard is happening next Halloween, maybe New Year's ... maybe 2012.

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You know, there's a million fine cities in the world, dude. But they don't all bring you lasagna at work. So thanks, Atlanta, for helping me make a business of having no business doing what I do in public. There's just one thing about living in you I never could stomach: All the damn vampires ..."
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I'm now in NoVA living life without obnoxious flashes in dark clubs. But I leave some parting thoughts: A 3-year-old told me Atlanta rain smells like dog poo and boy pee, and he's onto something. There is no "treat" in Blondie's "full treatment." I not only knew people who did shit in Karma's electrical closet, I knew druggies who shit in there; I miss those daze. Ponce de Leon plus trannies is like peanut butter in your chocolate: salty, creamy, inseparable. Escaping without a DUI, VD, OD — any acronym — takes skill! And you'll know nightlife is dead when the Masquerade closes, which I heard is happening next Halloween, maybe New Year's ... maybe 2012.

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Bill "Scarecrow" Kaelin, Pablo "King of Clubs," Gigantor, Degenerate FN, Heather's Tits, J-Luv + Special Sauce, Kevin O, Lil Steven, the Close, Jennifer Walker, Devin Walkley, Tyler "Camel Toe" Gambrell, Trina Trice, Aerial, Jason Jupiter + the Drag Queen Army, my 360 Media bitches, Tinker Clay, Poppy + Steve DeNiro, Jonathan Edwards, Oasis Rim, e50, Ken Forsythe, Gavin Frederick, Ulrica + Lytton, Chris Brann, Tattletale, Backstreet, Snowden, raves, Sockman, Faust & Shortee, Klever, DVA, Starboi, Byron Burroughs + Todd Terranova, the Crescent Room, the Chamber, David Cross + Bunker Spreckles, Rasta Root, Gnosis, Sharaab + Swivel, NHP brunch, the Echo Lounge, KITH @ the Clermont, BTN, Jeff Clark, Henry Owings, Bean Summer, MC Chante, 88.5, Mayhem + MJ, Tommie Sunshine, Ben Rose, Nomenclature, Arman Reyes, Karl Injex, Club 112, the Gold Club, the Atlanta Alliance, Greg Adamson, Kai Alce, Scott Herren, Grant Aaron, Bethany, The Captain, Gene Carbonell, D.R.E.S. tha Beatnik, Ying Yang Twins, Kim. + Crifizzle, Patrick Hill + Red Level Eleven, Chadford, Alex Weiss, Randy Castello, Chinaski, Alan Godfrey, Paul + Vicki Destructo, Craig "Happyland" Gates, Richard "Donkey" Devine, Matt Hemley, EastDevs, Russ Marshalek, Sterling McGarvey, Colin English, that Aphex Twin wheelchair guy parked in police-designated spots and anyone who has tried even if just to fail and try again.

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Local Music Features

Wednesday December 20, 2006 12:04 am EST

On Fri., Dec. 15, the Washington Capitals beat the Atlanta Thrashers in sudden-death overtime. And while packing my very last box, my loyal camera hit the ground with a resounding "thwack" after several years illustrating this column. Now merely a dashboard totem, that busted camera — like the Caps' victory — simply oozes symbolism.

I'm now in NoVA living life without obnoxious...

| more...

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  string(2736) "Atlanta, we've had our shits. We've had our giggles. On numerous occasions, I've felt mild discomfort and even more discomforting elation while having both in the same place. But it's time for me to move on.

I didn't want to break up by phone so I'm coming out with it. Come the issue of Dec. 21, I will no longer be merely tired but also retired. As I just didn't feel like I wade through enough traffic and corruption, I'm moving to the D.C. area; meaning after nearly four years writing RedEye, and in many more various CL nightlife capacities, we have only one more week together. Consider it an early Christmas gift. ...

I've already had an offer from luvved-up Lunar-fixture Russ Marselek to take over this column for cheap, but only if he can rename it BrownEye. Cheeky — or is that nasty? — bastard. But I'm afraid the paper is still mulling over what manner of mini-features can appropriately fill my gaping hole.

To celebrate, I DJed for old times' sake at Bazzaar on Wed., Dec. 6. Reflecting on my Duran Duran-free set, resident DJ Jonathan Edwards commented that I "certainly tossed everybody's musical salads." Considering I was going for "gave the audience that old rusty trombone," I deem that high praise, indeed.

On Fri., Dec. 8, I ran into both decks-hoppin' DJ Klever and Afro-free Second Shift vocalist Jonathan Baker at L5P's Rag-O-Rama appreciating some vintage styles. Speaking of what's old is new again: Crisp cocktails by Eric Simpkins (formerly of New York's Pegu Club) at the very Audrey Hepburn-poised Bar at TROIS and Lara Creasy (formerly of Watershed) plus Liz Kim at Shaun's are celebrating artisanal tradition and seasonal ingredients.

With all this last-minute fun, I was having pangs of doubt about leaving. But those were alleviated when, at a holiday party co-hosted by sassy shutterbug Lisa Jordan, the conversations I had were about how awesome nightlife had been in the era of Nomenclature Museum. Then, taking a friend to Lotus, they played Def Leppard and Real McCoy. And next to where Lenny's né Dottie's used to be is now a sleek fill-up station for food and drink, the Standard. It's the same city, but a totally different scene.

I just hope with RedEye, I've shown that there's no one way to be right, and at least 184 bracing ways to be gloriously wrong. And next week, I'll share a jumble of my favorite moments from more than eight years watching people's desperate ploys to be seen and be scene. Because you can't spell "class" without "ass," as my old drinking pal/Birmingham, Ala., comedian Mike McCall always said between Jew jokes.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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  string(2770) "Atlanta, we've had our shits. We've had our giggles. On numerous occasions, I've felt mild discomfort and even more discomforting elation while having both in the same place. But it's time for me to move on.

I didn't want to break up by phone so I'm coming out with it. Come the issue of Dec. 21, I will no longer be merely tired but also retired. As I just didn't feel like I wade through enough traffic and corruption, I'm moving to the D.C. area; meaning after nearly four years writing RedEye, and in many more various ''CL'' nightlife capacities, we have only one more week together. Consider it an early Christmas gift. ...

I've already had an offer from luvved-up Lunar-fixture Russ Marselek to take over this column for cheap, but only if he can rename it BrownEye. Cheeky -- or is that nasty? -- bastard. But I'm afraid the paper is still mulling over what manner of mini-features can appropriately fill my gaping hole.

To celebrate, I DJed for old times' sake at Bazzaar on Wed., Dec. 6. Reflecting on my Duran Duran-free set, resident DJ Jonathan Edwards commented that I "certainly tossed everybody's musical salads." Considering I was going for "gave the audience that old rusty trombone," I deem that high praise, indeed.

On Fri., Dec. 8, I ran into both decks-hoppin' DJ Klever and Afro-free Second Shift vocalist Jonathan Baker at L5P's Rag-O-Rama appreciating some vintage styles. Speaking of what's old is new again: Crisp cocktails by Eric Simpkins (formerly of New York's Pegu Club) at the very Audrey Hepburn-poised Bar at TROIS and Lara Creasy (formerly of Watershed) plus Liz Kim at Shaun's are celebrating artisanal tradition and seasonal ingredients.

With all this last-minute fun, I was having pangs of doubt about leaving. But those were alleviated when, at a holiday party co-hosted by sassy shutterbug Lisa Jordan, the conversations I had were about how awesome nightlife had been in the era of Nomenclature Museum. Then, taking a friend to Lotus, they played Def Leppard and Real McCoy. And next to where Lenny's né Dottie's used to be is now a sleek fill-up station for food and drink, the Standard. It's the same city, but a totally different scene.

I just hope with RedEye, I've shown that there's no one way to be right, and at least 184 bracing ways to be gloriously wrong. And next week, I'll share a jumble of my favorite moments from more than eight years watching people's desperate ploys to be seen and be scene. Because you can't spell "class" without "ass," as my old drinking pal/Birmingham, Ala., comedian Mike McCall always said between Jew jokes.

RedEye ''celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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I didn't want to break up by phone so I'm coming out with it. Come the issue of Dec. 21, I will no longer be merely tired but also retired. As I just didn't feel like I wade through enough traffic and corruption, I'm moving to the D.C. area; meaning after nearly four years writing RedEye, and in many more various CL nightlife capacities, we have only one more week together. Consider it an early Christmas gift. ...

I've already had an offer from luvved-up Lunar-fixture Russ Marselek to take over this column for cheap, but only if he can rename it BrownEye. Cheeky — or is that nasty? — bastard. But I'm afraid the paper is still mulling over what manner of mini-features can appropriately fill my gaping hole.

To celebrate, I DJed for old times' sake at Bazzaar on Wed., Dec. 6. Reflecting on my Duran Duran-free set, resident DJ Jonathan Edwards commented that I "certainly tossed everybody's musical salads." Considering I was going for "gave the audience that old rusty trombone," I deem that high praise, indeed.

On Fri., Dec. 8, I ran into both decks-hoppin' DJ Klever and Afro-free Second Shift vocalist Jonathan Baker at L5P's Rag-O-Rama appreciating some vintage styles. Speaking of what's old is new again: Crisp cocktails by Eric Simpkins (formerly of New York's Pegu Club) at the very Audrey Hepburn-poised Bar at TROIS and Lara Creasy (formerly of Watershed) plus Liz Kim at Shaun's are celebrating artisanal tradition and seasonal ingredients.

With all this last-minute fun, I was having pangs of doubt about leaving. But those were alleviated when, at a holiday party co-hosted by sassy shutterbug Lisa Jordan, the conversations I had were about how awesome nightlife had been in the era of Nomenclature Museum. Then, taking a friend to Lotus, they played Def Leppard and Real McCoy. And next to where Lenny's né Dottie's used to be is now a sleek fill-up station for food and drink, the Standard. It's the same city, but a totally different scene.

I just hope with RedEye, I've shown that there's no one way to be right, and at least 184 bracing ways to be gloriously wrong. And next week, I'll share a jumble of my favorite moments from more than eight years watching people's desperate ploys to be seen and be scene. Because you can't spell "class" without "ass," as my old drinking pal/Birmingham, Ala., comedian Mike McCall always said between Jew jokes.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13023317 1264533                          Redeye - Ballz deep in getting the ball rollin' December 13 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday December 13, 2006 12:04 am EST
A last hurrah at Rag-O-Rama, Shaun's, and Bazaar | more...
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  string(2861) "Whether you've shared drinks or just ink with me — are a hater or a supporter — one thing you know fershur is mah feelings awn hipsters. I think hipsters are little more than the personality holes on an otherwise passable scene. Personality holes are those glaring tears in a façade — say the split shoulder seam on a thrift-store jacket's sleeve — that the hipster leaves frayed as some delusional form of cred. That's the hipster's funniest character trait — they wanna be of the Now (even more preferably the Generation NeXt) and yet they love for the Future Present to appear unnaturally aged. You little twats. I've actually got gray pubes and clothes I never meant to tear and I'd be happy to see either mended.

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That gig had me bummed most of the weekend. But on Sun., Dec. 3, I went to my friend Laura's graduation party at Blind Willie's, and I'm glad I did. On the opposite end of personality holes, that hole in the wall had actual personalities. Stop in to catch 60-year showbiz veteran Tommy Brown, who can belt an R&B number, tell a great dirty baby joke or just go off on why BMI-withheld royalties fuel more blues. Many musicians might agree ASCAP is missing an "S" in the middle.

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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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Along with being prematurely distressed, these personality holes are often just that: holes, generally vacant. There's no story to them. "So, how did your $269 jeans get all those rips and red-panda semen stains?" "Oh, they came that way, though I had to pay extra to upgrade from the whale-shark semen splatters everyone else is wearing this season." These people have to borrow someone else's back-story, including the music of other people's childhoods. Case in point: I was at this DJ gig at __Azul__ on __Fri., Dec. 1__, and experienced all this griping from a twentysomething crowd that instead of letting a DJ give them something new to talk about wanted to hear New Wave/Indie 101 playlist-friendly shit like Duran Duran. What, the new Bond movie remind you how awesome ''A View to a Kill'' wasn't? It was no ''Diamonds Are Forever''.

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RedEye ''celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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Along with being prematurely distressed, these personality holes are often just that: holes, generally vacant. There's no story to them. "So, how did your $269 jeans get all those rips and red-panda semen stains?" "Oh, they came that way, though I had to pay extra to upgrade from the whale-shark semen splatters everyone else is wearing this season." These people have to borrow someone else's back-story, including the music of other people's childhoods. Case in point: I was at this DJ gig at Azul on Fri., Dec. 1, and experienced all this griping from a twentysomething crowd that instead of letting a DJ give them something new to talk about wanted to hear New Wave/Indie 101 playlist-friendly shit like Duran Duran. What, the new Bond movie remind you how awesome A View to a Kill wasn't? It was no Diamonds Are Forever.

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That gig had me bummed most of the weekend. But on Sun., Dec. 3, I went to my friend Laura's graduation party at Blind Willie's, and I'm glad I did. On the opposite end of personality holes, that hole in the wall had actual personalities. Stop in to catch 60-year showbiz veteran Tommy Brown, who can belt an R&B number, tell a great dirty baby joke or just go off on why BMI-withheld royalties fuel more blues. Many musicians might agree ASCAP is missing an "S" in the middle.

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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13023247 1264365                          Redeye - Dipping into Some Holes December 06 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday December 6, 2006 12:04 am EST
Blind Willie's, Azul and lots of hipsters | more...
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Perhaps in Thanksgiving's honor, one of my friends was later offered a stuffin'. While on a rare visit (for me) to the Local, l.z.beth ran into two recent, almost concurrent conquests, and before leaving for MJQ was offered the "Double Unicorn." While I'm still unraveling exactly what that provides, I believe it's either they were offering to become erect and "cross horns" while placing testicles simultaneously over her mouth and eyes ooor they wanted to merge into a uni-cornhole. You never know what style of sweet sickness is going on between those skater types, brosef...

So now we come full circle to my own public pants-off dance-off. And you know why you should give thanks? Because I have pictures and have chosen not to share them. Cheers...

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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So now we come full circle to my own public pants-off dance-off. And you know why you should give thanks? Because I have pictures and have chosen not to share them. Cheers...

''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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Of course, the evening began less in the gutter and more in the stars. Sometimes I forget Atlanta has a skyline, and one sporting bling at that. This one rare night riding rear gunner, I didn't neglect the journey for the destination and saw through the smog before returning to a self-induced haze. So gilded capitol and gleaming spires, I salute you, even if you did threaten to kill me once. But who hasn't ended a night on mescaline with paranoid delusions of inanimate objects. All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi...

This night, however, the beverage of choice was wine. Only a few years ago, I was barely a pre-oenophile, and now I'm more a concentrated pinotphile. All it took was a healthy curiosity and a hearty bladder — just like my summer playing watersports.

Our party of bon vivants — l.z.beth, the Persian Surgeon and myself — satisfied this night's cravings visiting Glenwood Park's Vino Libro. A steady ebb and flow of what felt like low-key neighborhood dwellers trickled through the Fabergé village. The surroundings have a pristine, West Village movie-set feel. And the Libro bistro itself offers a diffused living — but not romper — room for both the prone and poised, where on this occasion at least discreet conversation was broken only by the celebratory clink of glass. Though I'll admit we neglected to discuss the wines' merits in between ribald discussions of boys and toys. You know how us girls get when together...

Perhaps in Thanksgiving's honor, one of my friends was later offered a stuffin'. While on a rare visit (for me) to the Local, l.z.beth ran into two recent, almost concurrent conquests, and before leaving for MJQ was offered the "Double Unicorn." While I'm still unraveling exactly what that provides, I believe it's either they were offering to become erect and "cross horns" while placing testicles simultaneously over her mouth and eyes ooor they wanted to merge into a uni-cornhole. You never know what style of sweet sickness is going on between those skater types, brosef...

So now we come full circle to my own public pants-off dance-off. And you know why you should give thanks? Because I have pictures and have chosen not to share them. Cheers...

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13023183 1264180                          Redeye - Thanks for the giving and taking it November 29 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday November 29, 2006 12:04 am EST
MJQ, Vino Libro and lots of libations | more...
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  string(52) "Redeye - Pissing away the nightlife November 22 2006"
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  string(2778) "I hold few truths to be absolute, but you can believe the following things are absolutely true: No matter how deep you roll, wearing sandals makes you less manly. Even if a dude sounds like a 12-year-old eunuch, if he struts in falsetto, his balls are bigger than yours. If Benjamin were an ice-cream flavor, he'd be pralines and dick. Alls I'm sayin' is 24; that's it, that's the highest number ... Fuggedaboutit! And no woman will love you if you don't wash your hands and give her a disease.

I consider most of those truths to be self-evident. But that last one, well, I got that one from the toilet. It's amazing the crap spoken in the crapper at clubs. There I was in a stall listening to this wasted fellow go on and on about how he didn't have a dollar for the attendant so he shouldn't be allowed to wash his hands. But the attendant requested, nay, demanded he do it gratis — for the sake of the public health and potential love. I can't wait for some kid to be told, "And your mommy would never have married me were it not for that nice bathroom attendant and his antimicrobial soap."

The next night at a different venue, I listened to a guy give the attendant a dollar, then explain how he'd give more but he had three ladies needing drinks and he was "gonna sink him some pink tonight! Yee-haw!"

I share these stories because Bathroom Attendants of the World, I salute you! The verbal diarrhea you put up with may be worse than the fluids. Well, not all the fluids.

As the end of the year approaches, I just want to go with the flow and give everyone his or her due. So congratulations to the following: P'Cheen turned 1 recently, and Eleven50 turned 6. At some point, In Like Flynn's Kenny Flynn has a celebration. SoCo Audio's Michael Scott had a birthday, while the DSC's Preston Craig celebrated his special B-day needs with meat skewers and discussion of the homosexual subtext of Top Gun, appropriately. And Tongue & Groove celebrated 12 years nestled in Buckhead. That's one year short of a bar mitzvah, and considering the infanticide of most of the Buckhead scene, becoming a man without being shut down by The Man is no mean feat.

Finally, on a more somber note, several benefits have been held recently for the family of Marcus Madison, a security officer senselessly gunned down while merely trying to protect those out to have a good time. Just last week, I was celebrating bouncers, and now I urge you to extend some thanks. Those inclined might contact info@beneaththenoise.com or jcarter@sol-fusion.com about memorial funds. And remember, party with a positive purpose and freely pour respect above all else.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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I consider most of those truths to be self-evident. But that last one, well, I got that one from the toilet. It's amazing the crap spoken in the crapper at clubs. There I was in a stall listening to this ''wasted'' fellow go on and on about how he didn't have a dollar for the attendant so he shouldn't be allowed to wash his hands. But the attendant requested, nay, ''demanded'' he do it gratis -- for the sake of the public health and potential love. I can't wait for some kid to be told, "And your mommy would never have married me were it not for that nice bathroom attendant and his antimicrobial soap."

The next night at a different venue, I listened to a guy give the attendant a dollar, then explain how he'd give more but he had three ladies needing drinks and he was "gonna sink him some pink tonight! Yee-haw!"

I share these stories because __Bathroom Attendants of the World__, I salute you! The verbal diarrhea you put up with may be worse than the fluids. Well, not all the fluids.

As the end of the year approaches, I just want to go with the flow and give everyone his or her due. So congratulations to the following: __P'Cheen__ turned 1 recently, and __Eleven50__ turned 6. At some point, In Like Flynn's __Kenny Flynn__ has a celebration. SoCo Audio's __Michael Scott__ had a birthday, while the DSC's __Preston Craig__ celebrated his special B-day needs with meat skewers and discussion of the homosexual subtext of ''Top Gun'', appropriately. And __Tongue & Groove__ celebrated 12 years nestled in Buckhead. That's one year short of a bar mitzvah, and considering the infanticide of most of the Buckhead scene, becoming a man without being shut down by The Man is no mean feat.

Finally, on a more somber note, several benefits have been held recently for the family of __Marcus Madison__, a security officer senselessly gunned down while merely trying to protect those out to have a good time. Just last week, I was celebrating bouncers, and now I urge you to extend some thanks. Those inclined might contact [mailto:info@beneaththenoise.com|info@beneaththenoise.com] or [mailto:jcarter@sol-fusion.com|jcarter@sol-fusion.com] about memorial funds. And remember, party with a positive purpose and freely pour respect above all else.

''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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I consider most of those truths to be self-evident. But that last one, well, I got that one from the toilet. It's amazing the crap spoken in the crapper at clubs. There I was in a stall listening to this wasted fellow go on and on about how he didn't have a dollar for the attendant so he shouldn't be allowed to wash his hands. But the attendant requested, nay, demanded he do it gratis — for the sake of the public health and potential love. I can't wait for some kid to be told, "And your mommy would never have married me were it not for that nice bathroom attendant and his antimicrobial soap."

The next night at a different venue, I listened to a guy give the attendant a dollar, then explain how he'd give more but he had three ladies needing drinks and he was "gonna sink him some pink tonight! Yee-haw!"

I share these stories because Bathroom Attendants of the World, I salute you! The verbal diarrhea you put up with may be worse than the fluids. Well, not all the fluids.

As the end of the year approaches, I just want to go with the flow and give everyone his or her due. So congratulations to the following: P'Cheen turned 1 recently, and Eleven50 turned 6. At some point, In Like Flynn's Kenny Flynn has a celebration. SoCo Audio's Michael Scott had a birthday, while the DSC's Preston Craig celebrated his special B-day needs with meat skewers and discussion of the homosexual subtext of Top Gun, appropriately. And Tongue & Groove celebrated 12 years nestled in Buckhead. That's one year short of a bar mitzvah, and considering the infanticide of most of the Buckhead scene, becoming a man without being shut down by The Man is no mean feat.

Finally, on a more somber note, several benefits have been held recently for the family of Marcus Madison, a security officer senselessly gunned down while merely trying to protect those out to have a good time. Just last week, I was celebrating bouncers, and now I urge you to extend some thanks. Those inclined might contact info@beneaththenoise.com or jcarter@sol-fusion.com about memorial funds. And remember, party with a positive purpose and freely pour respect above all else.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13023136 1264093                          Redeye - Pissing away the nightlife November 22 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday November 22, 2006 12:04 am EST
I salute you, Mr. Bathroom Attendant | more...
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  string(2960) ""Don't you know who I am?!?" goes the incensed cry echoing citywide. Almost every night, the indignant and undignified all demand full recognition from people they rarely offer even grudging gratitude. They all want to get their best foot forward even if they can't bother putting on a good face; of course, Andrew Jackson, Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin's faces are always most welcome. Do we know who they are? Yeah, they're usually bitches thinking their thong or wallet is the only one that matters.

More interesting is the guy being yelled at. It's the club bouncer — the guy everybody wants to act like they know but rarely gets to know. So RedEye celebrates the security by sharing insight borrowed from this column's favorite velvet-rope wrangler, Todd Terranova.

A Vermont-via-L.A.'s-Sunset-Strip transplant, having worked the Whiskey-a-Go-Go, Kaya, Eleven50 and now Lotus Lounge to name a few, Terranova wanted to be an accountant. But when they told him he had to work days and couldn't demand clients show him their tits before they could enter the office, he decided to become a bouncer instead. Besides, would an accountant have gotten to get drunk one night with Johnny Depp, Al Jourgensen and the Red Hot Chili Peppers; had sex over urinals, pool tables and in beer coolers; or crushed eye sockets and gotten stabbed — all for either $6 an hour or $1,500 a night?

And Dilbert probably gets fewer opportunities to break up/turn down group lesbian sex during operating hours. For the sake of the public health, there must be a line, which unfortunately stops right before "penetration of the finger kind." And that's just a Tuesday; imagine what Terranova's weekends are like.

Despite what you might imagine about bouncers — that they're all dumb apes in it for tagging endless trim — it's actually a much more delicate, demanding job of balancing the needs of 1,000 friends-for-five-minutes with those of the club and with those of your own. Every once in a while, you see Pink's tits, Nikki Taylor's ass or tell Jewel she's a stuck-up bitch; see a man shot dead, find yourself knee-deep between skinheads and a black gang or even be forced to run for your life. But mostly, you spend nights sizing people up more than anybody has to get shaken down.

Lawsuits have taken away the fun, says Terranova. Nobody can take their knocks anymore, so a good bouncer is a wise judge of character and knows how to defuse a situation. Don't believe, however, that would prevent at least the world's most disorienting, demeaning open-handed slap if you're a deserving bitch.

Just remember when you step up to the door, you need to bring some respect to the bouncer if you want recognition or else you're just hanging yourself with the velvet rope. Win 'em with kindness, or at least a $20.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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  string(3004) ""Don't you know who ''I am?!?''" goes the incensed cry echoing citywide. Almost every night, the indignant and undignified all demand full recognition from people they rarely offer even grudging gratitude. They all want to get their best foot forward even if they can't bother putting on a good face; of course, Andrew Jackson, Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Franklin's faces are always most welcome. Do we know who they are? Yeah, they're usually bitches thinking their thong or wallet is the only one that matters.

More interesting is the guy being yelled ''at''. It's the __club bouncer__ -- the guy everybody wants to act like they know but rarely gets to know. So ''RedEye'' celebrates the security by sharing insight borrowed from this column's favorite velvet-rope wrangler, __Todd Terranova__.

A Vermont-via-L.A.'s-Sunset-Strip transplant, having worked the Whiskey-a-Go-Go, Kaya, Eleven50 and now __Lotus Lounge__ to name a few, Terranova wanted to be an accountant. But when they told him he had to work days and couldn't demand clients show him their tits before they could enter the office, he decided to become a bouncer instead. Besides, would an accountant have gotten to get drunk one night with Johnny Depp, Al Jourgensen and the Red Hot Chili Peppers; had sex over urinals, pool tables and in beer coolers; or crushed eye sockets and gotten stabbed -- all for either $6 an hour or $1,500 a night?

And Dilbert probably gets fewer opportunities to break up/turn down group lesbian sex during operating hours. For the sake of the public health, there must be a line, which unfortunately stops right before "penetration of the finger kind." And that's just a Tuesday; imagine what Terranova's weekends are like.

Despite what you might imagine about bouncers -- that they're all dumb apes in it for tagging endless trim -- it's actually a much more delicate, demanding job of balancing the needs of 1,000 friends-for-five-minutes with those of the club and with those of your own. Every once in a while, you see Pink's tits, Nikki Taylor's ass or tell Jewel she's a stuck-up bitch; see a man shot dead, find yourself knee-deep between skinheads and a black gang or even be forced to run for your life. But mostly, you spend nights sizing people up more than anybody has to get shaken down.

Lawsuits have taken away the fun, says Terranova. Nobody can take their knocks anymore, so a good bouncer is a wise judge of character and knows how to defuse a situation. Don't believe, however, that would prevent at least the world's most disorienting, demeaning open-handed slap if you're a deserving bitch.

Just remember when you step up to the door, you need to bring some respect to the bouncer if you want recognition or else you're just hanging yourself with the velvet rope. Win 'em with kindness, or at least a $20.

RedEye ''celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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More interesting is the guy being yelled at. It's the club bouncer — the guy everybody wants to act like they know but rarely gets to know. So RedEye celebrates the security by sharing insight borrowed from this column's favorite velvet-rope wrangler, Todd Terranova.

A Vermont-via-L.A.'s-Sunset-Strip transplant, having worked the Whiskey-a-Go-Go, Kaya, Eleven50 and now Lotus Lounge to name a few, Terranova wanted to be an accountant. But when they told him he had to work days and couldn't demand clients show him their tits before they could enter the office, he decided to become a bouncer instead. Besides, would an accountant have gotten to get drunk one night with Johnny Depp, Al Jourgensen and the Red Hot Chili Peppers; had sex over urinals, pool tables and in beer coolers; or crushed eye sockets and gotten stabbed — all for either $6 an hour or $1,500 a night?

And Dilbert probably gets fewer opportunities to break up/turn down group lesbian sex during operating hours. For the sake of the public health, there must be a line, which unfortunately stops right before "penetration of the finger kind." And that's just a Tuesday; imagine what Terranova's weekends are like.

Despite what you might imagine about bouncers — that they're all dumb apes in it for tagging endless trim — it's actually a much more delicate, demanding job of balancing the needs of 1,000 friends-for-five-minutes with those of the club and with those of your own. Every once in a while, you see Pink's tits, Nikki Taylor's ass or tell Jewel she's a stuck-up bitch; see a man shot dead, find yourself knee-deep between skinheads and a black gang or even be forced to run for your life. But mostly, you spend nights sizing people up more than anybody has to get shaken down.

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Just remember when you step up to the door, you need to bring some respect to the bouncer if you want recognition or else you're just hanging yourself with the velvet rope. Win 'em with kindness, or at least a $20.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13023095 1264005                          Redeye - Out through the In door November 15 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday November 15, 2006 12:04 am EST
How to bounce around | more...
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  string(3075) "Apropos of nuttin', I'm rolling down the interstate this weekend when "Tumbling Dice" comes on the radio. And it gets me thinking about what's wrong with rock. "Men" are so worried about products and placement and how white the media and its whores think a man's shirt should be that they have forgotten what makes a man is simply women.

Listening to the Rolling Stones, you can imagine them — at any age, creepy or not — splayed across the courtyard of a French villa, maybe in L.A., working up arrangements through a bleary haze. There are silky scarves strewn everywhere, mostly around the men's necks, and even when there are no birds around the room smells like sex. It's like musky muff was rubbed everywhere. And this fierce grasp of the feminine, dear friends, is what gives the Rolling Stones swagger.

Now I start to imagine a modern band — from the Killers to Nickelback, Panic! At The Disco to the Fray — and all I can think is, "Man, I bet they smell like balls." I'm not saying they've got balls; actually, I'm saying precisely the opposite. There's this stench of desperation in today's rock that smells like skid marks, like friction-streaked lotion and dead, droopy skin. It's the smell of trying to take talent out of first gear but burning out the clutch. What passes for rock today is often so masturbatory and forced that it is not just crazy it's nuts.

With that out of my system, let me tell you why I like Atlanta's own the Close. I can't honestly claim there will be no smell of balls onstage; I don't think I've ever seen bassist Dustan Nigro in anything but the same pair of black pants — when he's not disrobing in the crowd, that is. But desperation I do not smell. Additionally, Nigro is balanced out by keyboardist Theresa M.F. (the "gamine indie rock diva," according to the press release I have no choice but to poke a little fun at), who I'm sure smells purty. Also in the band is Brooks, the tallest lead singer/guitarist in ATL indie rawk, as well as drummer Air Justice, who does an uncanny imitation of the percussionist in the band's touring music video.

I caught these steadfast underdogs at the Earl on Sat., Nov. 4, where they were celebrating the release of the band's first album in three years,Sun, Burn (Goodnight Records), by playing it in its entirety. Unofficial fifth member Marc "Hoss" Crifasi chummed it up with me front-and-center as chiming wisps and taut sincerity issued forth. I'm not calling the Close the Stones — the Close is wiry but akin to Karate, the Van Pelt and Impossible Five. Nor am I commenting on their pungency firsthand. But I will applaud the band for making songs of weary soul(s) seem effortless and not overpowering. It's ballsy to confront emotions, not just force them out. Bands that don't seem in a rush eventually provide a bigger one once they're in the pocket. While the rest of the motherfuckers are playing pocket pool.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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  string(3137) "Apropos of nuttin', I'm rolling down the interstate this weekend when "Tumbling Dice" comes on the radio. And it gets me thinking about what's wrong with rock. "Men" are so worried about products and placement and how white the media and its whores think a man's shirt should be that they have forgotten what makes a man is simply women.

Listening to the Rolling Stones, you can imagine them -- at any age, creepy or not -- splayed across the courtyard of a French villa, maybe in L.A., working up arrangements through a bleary haze. There are silky scarves strewn everywhere, mostly around the men's necks, and even when there are no birds around the room smells like sex. It's like musky muff was rubbed ''everywhere''. And this fierce grasp of the feminine, dear friends, is what gives the Rolling Stones swagger.

Now I start to imagine a modern band -- from the Killers to Nickelback, Panic! At The Disco to the Fray -- and all I can think is, "Man, I bet ''they'' smell like ''balls''." I'm not saying they've ''got'' balls; actually, I'm saying precisely the opposite. There's this stench of desperation in today's rock that smells like skid marks, like friction-streaked lotion and dead, droopy skin. It's the smell of trying to take talent out of first gear but burning out the clutch. What passes for rock today is often so masturbatory and forced that it is not just crazy it's nuts.

With that out of my system, let me tell you why I like Atlanta's own __the Close__. I can't honestly claim there will be no smell of balls onstage; I don't think I've ever seen bassist __Dustan Nigro__ in anything but the same pair of black pants -- when he's not disrobing in the crowd, that is. But desperation I do not smell. Additionally, Nigro is balanced out by keyboardist __Theresa M.F.__ (the "gamine indie rock diva," according to the press release I have no choice but to poke a little fun at), who I'm sure smells purty. Also in the band is __Brooks__, the tallest lead singer/guitarist in ATL indie rawk, as well as drummer __Air Justice__, who does an uncanny imitation of the percussionist in the band's touring music video.

I caught these steadfast underdogs at __the Earl__ on __Sat., Nov. 4__, where they were celebrating the release of the band's first album in three years,''Sun, Burn'' (Goodnight Records), by playing it in its entirety. Unofficial fifth member __Marc "Hoss" Crifasi__ chummed it up with me front-and-center as chiming wisps and taut sincerity issued forth. I'm not calling the Close the Stones -- the Close is wiry but akin to Karate, the Van Pelt and Impossible Five. Nor am I commenting on their pungency firsthand. But I will applaud the band for making songs of weary soul(s) seem effortless and not overpowering. It's ballsy to confront emotions, not just force them out. Bands that don't seem in a rush eventually provide a bigger one once they're in the pocket. While the rest of the motherfuckers are playing pocket pool.

RedEye ''celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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  string(3337) "    The Close at the Earl   2006-11-08T05:04:00+00:00 Redeye - Driving stoned, rolling on November 08 2006   Tony Ware 1223520 2006-11-08T05:04:00+00:00  Apropos of nuttin', I'm rolling down the interstate this weekend when "Tumbling Dice" comes on the radio. And it gets me thinking about what's wrong with rock. "Men" are so worried about products and placement and how white the media and its whores think a man's shirt should be that they have forgotten what makes a man is simply women.

Listening to the Rolling Stones, you can imagine them — at any age, creepy or not — splayed across the courtyard of a French villa, maybe in L.A., working up arrangements through a bleary haze. There are silky scarves strewn everywhere, mostly around the men's necks, and even when there are no birds around the room smells like sex. It's like musky muff was rubbed everywhere. And this fierce grasp of the feminine, dear friends, is what gives the Rolling Stones swagger.

Now I start to imagine a modern band — from the Killers to Nickelback, Panic! At The Disco to the Fray — and all I can think is, "Man, I bet they smell like balls." I'm not saying they've got balls; actually, I'm saying precisely the opposite. There's this stench of desperation in today's rock that smells like skid marks, like friction-streaked lotion and dead, droopy skin. It's the smell of trying to take talent out of first gear but burning out the clutch. What passes for rock today is often so masturbatory and forced that it is not just crazy it's nuts.

With that out of my system, let me tell you why I like Atlanta's own the Close. I can't honestly claim there will be no smell of balls onstage; I don't think I've ever seen bassist Dustan Nigro in anything but the same pair of black pants — when he's not disrobing in the crowd, that is. But desperation I do not smell. Additionally, Nigro is balanced out by keyboardist Theresa M.F. (the "gamine indie rock diva," according to the press release I have no choice but to poke a little fun at), who I'm sure smells purty. Also in the band is Brooks, the tallest lead singer/guitarist in ATL indie rawk, as well as drummer Air Justice, who does an uncanny imitation of the percussionist in the band's touring music video.

I caught these steadfast underdogs at the Earl on Sat., Nov. 4, where they were celebrating the release of the band's first album in three years,Sun, Burn (Goodnight Records), by playing it in its entirety. Unofficial fifth member Marc "Hoss" Crifasi chummed it up with me front-and-center as chiming wisps and taut sincerity issued forth. I'm not calling the Close the Stones — the Close is wiry but akin to Karate, the Van Pelt and Impossible Five. Nor am I commenting on their pungency firsthand. But I will applaud the band for making songs of weary soul(s) seem effortless and not overpowering. It's ballsy to confront emotions, not just force them out. Bands that don't seem in a rush eventually provide a bigger one once they're in the pocket. While the rest of the motherfuckers are playing pocket pool.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13023014 1263793                          Redeye - Driving stoned, rolling on November 08 2006 "
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Wednesday November 8, 2006 12:04 am EST
The Close at the Earl | more...
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  string(2741) "I stopped having epiphanies years ago after the epiphany that they were just drugs talking. At first, I believed my attitude would improve, but then the music didn't. "Progressive house." A "peanut" is neither a pea nor a nut, if you get my meaning. And now it's years later...

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One of my favorite electronic acts since 2003's Deep Cuts, the Knife is a Swedish brother-sister synth-pop duo with no business being played here. Above me is the lounge for VIPs, which I decide stands for Very Impressionable Prissies as a Catholic schoolgirl, a nurse and Rainbow Brite are simultaneously coaxed to di-splay their thong-hugged bits to the plebes below, their ass cheeks suctioned to the skybox glass. It's undoubtedly not my imagination, as guys to both sides almost simultaneously needle my sides and nod upward; I have nothing in common with Borat #26 and a Day-Glo "pimp," but poontang breeds solidarity. Still, it feels likes I'm disassociated — behind a screen watching someone else's life stream as Quicktime at half-speed — because the Knife is too intimate, internalized for this Big Room set and sound.

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The song transitions out just as the bartender acknowledges my existence, and my lost innocence drowns again in vodka-Red Bull.

While the Knife may have opened the door to my imagination, my actual draw to Eleven50 this "Halloween" was at the front door. It was my friend Jackie V's last night manning the register for Liquified after more than a decade. Seriously, she's been taking your money and your crap since you was in short ... make that phat pants. And, dudes, you were never doing her a favor when you slipped her a chronic crumb that could barely get an ant high. She was never going to remember you — your visor's not that distinctive. I'm sure she'll miss the bean counting, and I'll miss her, so here's to you, JV, for toughing it out one last time on your tuffet.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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One of my favorite electronic acts since 2003's ''Deep Cuts'', the Knife is a Swedish brother-sister synth-pop duo with no business being played here. Above me is the lounge for VIPs, which I decide stands for Very Impressionable Prissies as a Catholic schoolgirl, a nurse and Rainbow Brite are simultaneously coaxed to di-splay their thong-hugged bits to the plebes below, their ass cheeks suctioned to the skybox glass. It's undoubtedly not my imagination, as guys to both sides almost simultaneously needle my sides and nod upward; I have nothing in common with Borat #26 and a Day-Glo "pimp," but poontang breeds solidarity. Still, it feels likes I'm disassociated -- behind a screen watching someone else's life stream as Quicktime at half-speed -- because the Knife is too intimate, internalized for this Big Room set and sound.

"Down here, it's our time," says Sean Astin in ''Goonies''. And, indeed, the Knife is comparable to ''Goonies'' the way the group's 2006 full-length ''Silent Shout'' is the Goth electrohaus equivalent to an elaborate, ''35mm'' pirate adventure alongside a well-meaning mutant. Like ''Goonies''' plethora of booby traps, Knife songs feature a share of nervy, knotty passages. But once unpacked, the Knife is as gratifying as finding a marble bag full of One-Eyed Willie's "rich stuff."

The song transitions out just as the bartender acknowledges my existence, and my lost innocence drowns again in vodka-Red Bull.

While the Knife may have opened the door to my imagination, my actual draw to Eleven50 this "Halloween" was at the front door. It was my friend __Jackie V__'s last night manning the register for Liquified after more than a decade. Seriously, she's been taking your money and your crap since you was in short ... make that ''phat'' pants. And, dudes, you were never doing her a favor when you slipped her a chronic crumb that could barely get an ant high. She was never going to remember you -- your visor's not that distinctive. I'm sure she'll miss the bean counting, and I'll miss her, so here's to you, JV, for toughing it out one last time on your tuffet.

''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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  string(3016) "    Hello to Eleven50, goodbye to Jackie   2006-11-01T05:04:00+00:00 Redeye - Doin' the truffle shuffle November 01 2006   Tony Ware 1223520 2006-11-01T05:04:00+00:00  I stopped having epiphanies years ago after the epiphany that they were just drugs talking. At first, I believed my attitude would improve, but then the music didn't. "Progressive house." A "peanut" is neither a pea nor a nut, if you get my meaning. And now it's years later...

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"Down here, it's our time," says Sean Astin in Goonies. And, indeed, the Knife is comparable to Goonies the way the group's 2006 full-length Silent Shout is the Goth electrohaus equivalent to an elaborate, 35mm pirate adventure alongside a well-meaning mutant. Like Goonies' plethora of booby traps, Knife songs feature a share of nervy, knotty passages. But once unpacked, the Knife is as gratifying as finding a marble bag full of One-Eyed Willie's "rich stuff."

The song transitions out just as the bartender acknowledges my existence, and my lost innocence drowns again in vodka-Red Bull.

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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022956 1263659                          Redeye - Doin' the truffle shuffle November 01 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday November 1, 2006 12:04 am EST
Hello to Eleven50, goodbye to Jackie | more...
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  string(53) "Redeye - Bois, tois and heavy petting October 25 2006"
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  string(2674) "The last few weeks, it seems, Atlanta has gone all punch drunk. Bands have traded guitar hooks for right hooks and DJs traded decks for decking crowd members. I won't revisit the particulars, but it's been like a deli opened that only serves knuckle sandwiches.

I prefer loved-up to roughed-up, so I partied among crowds where the only muscle — besides the love muscle — is for pure show. I enjoyed a two-night Tabernacle stand Oct. 18-19, catching first Scissor Sisters and then the Pet Shop Boys.

While there were surely some people at Scissor Sisters who have had a dangerous bone in their bodies, I didn't feel threatened. How can you feel threatened hanging out with Sons of Dorothy and even some chick dressed as Dorothy? Indeed, for one night the Tabernacle was, as Scissor Sisters' female lead Ana Matronic dubbed it, not a house of God but a "House of Odd." I mean, male lead Jake Shears, whose family was in attendance, has exactly two modes: "Off" and "Prance." You can't be threatened by a man with a flawless falsetto, who sports lamé yet is not lame and can cup a twink audience in his palm, tugging gently at their ... Anyhoo, maybe you could be threatened by a cluster of bears (thems big, hairy gay mens), but only because the band dubbed them "Pooh corner." Ick.

Scissor Sisters rocked out extended versions from their two albums to date, belting Bee Gees-meets-Elton John cabaret jams. The Pet Shop Boys, meanwhile, had to do the opposite — condensing some hits in order to tightly pack a set drawing from the U.K. duo's two-decade-plus career. In front of a modular, semi-transparent set, the Boys presented their psychosexual aesthetic celebrating tolerance and curiosities to a disco beat. My friend Toby celebrated his birthday, my pal BK Broiler had a rebirth and Nicole Paige Brooks stood in rapture. And at one point, there was a dancing top hat, a great complement to the mesh(?!) tails Jake Shears previously sported. Over two nights I went from go-go glam rock circuit party to fastidious flamboyant synth-pop. Atlanta truly appreciates a gay old time...

And now a birthday roll call: Krog Bar has been around for one year, MJQ for nine years and J-Luv for forever and a day. Kidding. Just forever. And we're happy to have them all long as they wanna hang.

Finally, spurred by the past week's costumed balls and birthdays I should mention Liquified's 12th anniversary on Sat., Oct. 28 at Eleven50 with a five-hour DJ set from U.K. prog-breaks outfit Hybrid plus Ian James and Prince Presto.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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I prefer loved-up to roughed-up, so I partied among crowds where the only muscle -- besides the love muscle -- is for pure show. I enjoyed a two-night Tabernacle stand __Oct. 18-19__, catching first __Scissor Sisters__ and then __the Pet Shop Boys__.

While there were surely some people at Scissor Sisters who have had a dangerous bone in their bodies, I didn't feel threatened. How can you feel threatened hanging out with Sons of Dorothy and even some chick dressed as Dorothy? Indeed, for one night the Tabernacle was, as Scissor Sisters' female lead Ana Matronic dubbed it, not a house of God but a "House of Odd." I mean, male lead Jake Shears, whose family was in attendance, has exactly two modes: "Off" and "Prance." You can't be threatened by a man with a flawless falsetto, who sports lamé yet is not lame and can cup a twink audience in his palm, tugging gently at their ... Anyhoo, maybe you could be threatened by a cluster of bears (thems big, hairy gay mens), but only because the band dubbed them "Pooh corner." Ick.

Scissor Sisters rocked out extended versions from their two albums to date, belting Bee Gees-meets-Elton John cabaret jams. The Pet Shop Boys, meanwhile, had to do the opposite -- condensing some hits in order to tightly pack a set drawing from the U.K. duo's two-decade-plus career. In front of a modular, semi-transparent set, the Boys presented their psychosexual aesthetic celebrating tolerance and curiosities to a disco beat. My friend __Toby__ celebrated his birthday, my pal __BK Broiler__ had a rebirth and __Nicole Paige Brooks__ stood in rapture. And at one point, there was a dancing top hat, a great complement to the mesh(?!) tails Jake Shears previously sported. Over two nights I went from go-go glam rock circuit party to fastidious flamboyant synth-pop. Atlanta truly appreciates a gay old time...

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''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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  string(2976) "    Pet Shop Boys and Scissor Sisters, anniversaries all around   2006-10-25T04:04:00+00:00 Redeye - Bois, tois and heavy petting October 25 2006   Tony Ware 1223520 2006-10-25T04:04:00+00:00  The last few weeks, it seems, Atlanta has gone all punch drunk. Bands have traded guitar hooks for right hooks and DJs traded decks for decking crowd members. I won't revisit the particulars, but it's been like a deli opened that only serves knuckle sandwiches.

I prefer loved-up to roughed-up, so I partied among crowds where the only muscle — besides the love muscle — is for pure show. I enjoyed a two-night Tabernacle stand Oct. 18-19, catching first Scissor Sisters and then the Pet Shop Boys.

While there were surely some people at Scissor Sisters who have had a dangerous bone in their bodies, I didn't feel threatened. How can you feel threatened hanging out with Sons of Dorothy and even some chick dressed as Dorothy? Indeed, for one night the Tabernacle was, as Scissor Sisters' female lead Ana Matronic dubbed it, not a house of God but a "House of Odd." I mean, male lead Jake Shears, whose family was in attendance, has exactly two modes: "Off" and "Prance." You can't be threatened by a man with a flawless falsetto, who sports lamé yet is not lame and can cup a twink audience in his palm, tugging gently at their ... Anyhoo, maybe you could be threatened by a cluster of bears (thems big, hairy gay mens), but only because the band dubbed them "Pooh corner." Ick.

Scissor Sisters rocked out extended versions from their two albums to date, belting Bee Gees-meets-Elton John cabaret jams. The Pet Shop Boys, meanwhile, had to do the opposite — condensing some hits in order to tightly pack a set drawing from the U.K. duo's two-decade-plus career. In front of a modular, semi-transparent set, the Boys presented their psychosexual aesthetic celebrating tolerance and curiosities to a disco beat. My friend Toby celebrated his birthday, my pal BK Broiler had a rebirth and Nicole Paige Brooks stood in rapture. And at one point, there was a dancing top hat, a great complement to the mesh(?!) tails Jake Shears previously sported. Over two nights I went from go-go glam rock circuit party to fastidious flamboyant synth-pop. Atlanta truly appreciates a gay old time...

And now a birthday roll call: Krog Bar has been around for one year, MJQ for nine years and J-Luv for forever and a day. Kidding. Just forever. And we're happy to have them all long as they wanna hang.

Finally, spurred by the past week's costumed balls and birthdays I should mention Liquified's 12th anniversary on Sat., Oct. 28 at Eleven50 with a five-hour DJ set from U.K. prog-breaks outfit Hybrid plus Ian James and Prince Presto.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022916 1263580                          Redeye - Bois, tois and heavy petting October 25 2006 "
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Wednesday October 25, 2006 12:04 am EDT
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  string(2861) "It's fall, and there's a crisp air of setting back clocks and getting off rocks. "To everything there is a season" — that's some Ecclesiastes on that ass. And while we're getting biblical, let's talk about Lenny's on Sat., Oct. 14, hosting the Atlanta 2006 Laptop Battle Finals.

"What's a 'Laptop Battle'?" you ask. It's like a crackled LCD on LSD; it's when speakers spew sonic rainbow showers. It's Rocktober for geeks, trading power chords for PowerBooks to advance to the national finals in Seattle. This is hot audio sex on a magnetic spinning platter. Hosted by Matt Jeanes of Larvae, the lineup featured laptop artists all seeming named like Metroid or Space Ghost characters (minus "Graham Coleman," named after the cracker and the camping gear). A standout was risiculous gesticulous sample-smudging miniDESTROY!, who kept crowd attention cradled like balls in a palm and looked in my opinion like Jeffrey Sebelia from "Project Runway."

This tale of mice and men featured melodic jabba to digitally mangled gabba snaking through the dark sea of hoodies and chicks who look either too young to already be hanging out in a dive bar or too old to still be hanging out in a dive bar. Either way, hurray beer!

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This all reminds me of a conversation. A colleague has conceived of specialized coupling called Pjörn — unrelenting all-Icelandic sex set to the digitally twiddled symphonies, make that nymphonies, of Björk. Imagine an all-white room filled with pixyish seductresses bound in FireWire cables and burning with geothermal desire. An electron microscope would find a microcosm of giggling whales and pirouetting polar bears in the opalescent emissions of their mercurial sex. And when the guys ejaculate glittery strands of musical notes they stretch out their arms and honk like giant swans. If Fischerspooner and that Cremaster Cycle could be a hit, then some Chelsea art gallery is gonna eat this shit up.

However, until those royalties trickle in I cover fully clothed nightlife. So I visited eleven50, where locally based DJ/producer Gene Carbonell commemorated his retirement from live performance with unrelenting seks-tual tension. With a rarified selection sense, Carbonell wove through 10-plus undulating years of prog rafters-rattlers, including his own dark drivers and those of Bedrock, BBE, Red Shift and more. You'll be missed, have no doubt.

?''??
RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.

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"What's a 'Laptop Battle'?" you ask. It's like a crackled LCD on LSD; it's when speakers spew sonic rainbow showers. It's Rocktober for geeks, trading power chords for PowerBooks to advance to the national finals in Seattle. This is hot audio sex on a magnetic spinning platter. Hosted by __Matt Jeanes__ of __Larvae__, the lineup featured laptop artists all seeming named like Metroid or Space Ghost characters (minus "__Graham Coleman__," named after the cracker and the camping gear). A standout was risiculous gesticulous sample-smudging __miniDESTROY!__, who kept crowd attention cradled like balls in a palm and looked in my opinion like Jeffrey Sebelia from "Project Runway."

This tale of mice and men featured melodic jabba to digitally mangled gabba snaking through the dark sea of hoodies and chicks who look either too young to already be hanging out in a dive bar or too old to still be hanging out in a dive bar. Either way, hurray beer!

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This all reminds me of a conversation. A colleague has conceived of specialized coupling called Pjörn -- unrelenting all-Icelandic sex set to the digitally twiddled symphonies, make that nymphonies, of Björk. Imagine an all-white room filled with pixyish seductresses bound in FireWire cables and burning with geothermal desire. An electron microscope would find a microcosm of giggling whales and pirouetting polar bears in the opalescent emissions of their mercurial sex. And when the guys ejaculate glittery strands of musical notes they stretch out their arms and honk like giant swans. If Fischerspooner and that ''Cremaster Cycle'' could be a hit, then some Chelsea art gallery is gonna eat this shit up.

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?''??
RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.

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"What's a 'Laptop Battle'?" you ask. It's like a crackled LCD on LSD; it's when speakers spew sonic rainbow showers. It's Rocktober for geeks, trading power chords for PowerBooks to advance to the national finals in Seattle. This is hot audio sex on a magnetic spinning platter. Hosted by Matt Jeanes of Larvae, the lineup featured laptop artists all seeming named like Metroid or Space Ghost characters (minus "Graham Coleman," named after the cracker and the camping gear). A standout was risiculous gesticulous sample-smudging miniDESTROY!, who kept crowd attention cradled like balls in a palm and looked in my opinion like Jeffrey Sebelia from "Project Runway."

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This all reminds me of a conversation. A colleague has conceived of specialized coupling called Pjörn — unrelenting all-Icelandic sex set to the digitally twiddled symphonies, make that nymphonies, of Björk. Imagine an all-white room filled with pixyish seductresses bound in FireWire cables and burning with geothermal desire. An electron microscope would find a microcosm of giggling whales and pirouetting polar bears in the opalescent emissions of their mercurial sex. And when the guys ejaculate glittery strands of musical notes they stretch out their arms and honk like giant swans. If Fischerspooner and that Cremaster Cycle could be a hit, then some Chelsea art gallery is gonna eat this shit up.

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?''??
RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.

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Local Music Features

Wednesday October 18, 2006 12:04 am EDT
Laptop Battle Finals at Lenny's, Gene Carbonell at Eleven50 | more...

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  string(2812) ""Nightlife in Midtown is already a zoo, so why not try a circus?" I muttered on Saturday, Oct. 7, while weaving to Crescent Avenue's Sutra Lounge. Should I be worried that panhandlers look at me like I'm the crazy person as I grumble and stomp to inspirato? Naw, there's no accounting for taste. And this week is about taste — for the dirty, the delectable and sometimes both.

Let's start with the dirty.

Out of sheer fear, I skipped Mary's Hanky Code Party. I'm kind of color-blind, and didn't want to confuse mauve (navel worship) and magenta (armpit freak). It would be the pits if I couldn't suck pits.

But on the Saturday in question, I did have a goal as I groused: to attend the Sutra-hosted performance by Cirque de Luna, touting itself as "the city's first adult circus." Walking into Sutra a little before 10 p.m., however, I worried I was in the wrong place. A DJ wearing jackboots was playing Nine Inch Nails, Peter Murphy and other tracks for an eight-inch-platform, anime-backpack, utilikilt, puffy-shirt, chain-mail crowd. Goths ... so archaic.

I've had this nightmare before. It starts at Dragon*Con, where someone dressed as a Tuscan Raider spikes my drink. I wake up in darkness, tethered in a spread-eagle formation. There's atrocious "darkwave"/EBM playing, and in the air stagnant lube. And I'm introduced to the "Hot Poker" — unfortunately a person, not just an object. Actually, I think that is my sleep-interrupting goth neighbors' life ...

Thankfully, the evening's ringmaster — Professor Phinius T. Reinhart, esq., I believe — snapped me out of it with offers of "sin-sorial bliss" and a shitload of alliteration that made even me envious. "Luscious libertines," anyone?

No, I didn't see that many, either. There were some body-painted box dancers. And there was some cowgirl burlesque, and a hypnotist who appeared to swallow a 4-foot balloon. To the side, an artist did chalk sketches of the action. But the evening's tit-illating vignette was Blackjack and the Beasts of Desire, whose feral females naturally turned everyone's thoughts to pussy. And when a new DJ dropped Missy Elliott, "Promiscuous," etc., there were screeches of heat and leg-rubbing. The circus itself, not so "adult," but far more entertaining than Midtown's traditional clowns — so visit www.cirquedeluna.com for future performances.

As for the weekend's delectable tastes, in honor of CL's Food Issue was a visit to 5 Seasons Brewing for the seasonal Bavarian Ecstasy Festbier. A full, sweet malt Märzen with a roasted pilsen finish, this limited Oktoberfest brew is a copper, caramel treat — so definitely go grab some while it lasts.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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  string(2889) ""Nightlife in Midtown is already a zoo, so why not try a circus?" I muttered on Saturday, Oct. 7, while weaving to Crescent Avenue's __Sutra Lounge__. Should I be worried that panhandlers look at me like I'm the crazy person as I grumble and stomp to inspirato? Naw, there's no accounting for taste. And this week is about taste -- for the dirty, the delectable and sometimes both.

Let's start with the dirty.

Out of sheer fear, I skipped __Mary's Hanky Code Party__. I'm kind of color-blind, and didn't want to confuse mauve (navel worship) and magenta (armpit freak). It would be the pits if I couldn't suck pits.

But on the Saturday in question, I did have a goal as I groused: to attend the Sutra-hosted performance by __Cirque de Luna__, touting itself as "the city's first adult circus." Walking into Sutra a little before 10 p.m., however, I worried I was in the wrong place. A DJ wearing jackboots was playing Nine Inch Nails, Peter Murphy and other tracks for an eight-inch-platform, anime-backpack, utilikilt, puffy-shirt, chain-mail crowd. Goths ... so archaic.

I've had this nightmare before. It starts at __Dragon*Con__, where someone dressed as a Tuscan Raider spikes my drink. I wake up in darkness, tethered in a spread-eagle formation. There's atrocious "darkwave"/EBM playing, and in the air stagnant lube. And I'm introduced to the "Hot Poker" -- unfortunately a person, not just an object. Actually, I think that is my sleep-interrupting goth neighbors' life ...

Thankfully, the evening's ringmaster -- Professor Phinius T. Reinhart, esq., I believe -- snapped me out of it with offers of "sin-sorial bliss" and a shitload of alliteration that made even me envious. "Luscious libertines," anyone?

No, I didn't see that many, either. There were some body-painted box dancers. And there was some cowgirl burlesque, and a hypnotist who appeared to swallow a 4-foot balloon. To the side, an artist did chalk sketches of the action. But the evening's tit-illating vignette was __Blackjack and the Beasts of Desire__, whose feral females naturally turned everyone's thoughts to pussy. And when a new DJ dropped Missy Elliott, "Promiscuous," etc., there were screeches of heat and leg-rubbing. The circus itself, not so "adult," but far more entertaining than Midtown's traditional clowns -- so visit__ [http://www.cirquedeluna.com/|www.cirquedeluna.com] __for future performances.

As for the weekend's delectable tastes, in honor of ''CL'''s Food Issue was a visit to __5 Seasons Brewing__ for the seasonal __Bavarian Ecstasy Festbier__. A full, sweet malt Märzen with a roasted pilsen finish, this limited Oktoberfest brew is a copper, caramel treat -- so definitely go grab some while it lasts.

''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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  string(3097) "    Sutra Lounge's Cirque de Luna, 5 Seasons Brewing   2006-10-11T04:04:00+00:00 Redeye - Big tops and bare bottoms October 11 2006   Tony Ware 1223520 2006-10-11T04:04:00+00:00  "Nightlife in Midtown is already a zoo, so why not try a circus?" I muttered on Saturday, Oct. 7, while weaving to Crescent Avenue's Sutra Lounge. Should I be worried that panhandlers look at me like I'm the crazy person as I grumble and stomp to inspirato? Naw, there's no accounting for taste. And this week is about taste — for the dirty, the delectable and sometimes both.

Let's start with the dirty.

Out of sheer fear, I skipped Mary's Hanky Code Party. I'm kind of color-blind, and didn't want to confuse mauve (navel worship) and magenta (armpit freak). It would be the pits if I couldn't suck pits.

But on the Saturday in question, I did have a goal as I groused: to attend the Sutra-hosted performance by Cirque de Luna, touting itself as "the city's first adult circus." Walking into Sutra a little before 10 p.m., however, I worried I was in the wrong place. A DJ wearing jackboots was playing Nine Inch Nails, Peter Murphy and other tracks for an eight-inch-platform, anime-backpack, utilikilt, puffy-shirt, chain-mail crowd. Goths ... so archaic.

I've had this nightmare before. It starts at Dragon*Con, where someone dressed as a Tuscan Raider spikes my drink. I wake up in darkness, tethered in a spread-eagle formation. There's atrocious "darkwave"/EBM playing, and in the air stagnant lube. And I'm introduced to the "Hot Poker" — unfortunately a person, not just an object. Actually, I think that is my sleep-interrupting goth neighbors' life ...

Thankfully, the evening's ringmaster — Professor Phinius T. Reinhart, esq., I believe — snapped me out of it with offers of "sin-sorial bliss" and a shitload of alliteration that made even me envious. "Luscious libertines," anyone?

No, I didn't see that many, either. There were some body-painted box dancers. And there was some cowgirl burlesque, and a hypnotist who appeared to swallow a 4-foot balloon. To the side, an artist did chalk sketches of the action. But the evening's tit-illating vignette was Blackjack and the Beasts of Desire, whose feral females naturally turned everyone's thoughts to pussy. And when a new DJ dropped Missy Elliott, "Promiscuous," etc., there were screeches of heat and leg-rubbing. The circus itself, not so "adult," but far more entertaining than Midtown's traditional clowns — so visit www.cirquedeluna.com for future performances.

As for the weekend's delectable tastes, in honor of CL's Food Issue was a visit to 5 Seasons Brewing for the seasonal Bavarian Ecstasy Festbier. A full, sweet malt Märzen with a roasted pilsen finish, this limited Oktoberfest brew is a copper, caramel treat — so definitely go grab some while it lasts.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022776 1263248                          Redeye - Big tops and bare bottoms October 11 2006 "
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Wednesday October 11, 2006 12:04 am EDT
Sutra Lounge's Cirque de Luna, 5 Seasons Brewing | more...
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  string(2924) "Forget seasonal depression and say hurray for seasonal expression. We're nearing sweater weather; life can get no better. Because the mercury drop only inspires many people to ramp up bringing the heat.

It was a weekend speckled with oddities. Sipping a beer on Highland and Sampson, where Best Of winner P'cheen soon will expand its square footage, I watched as like 100 cyclists flocked like crows. There was even a high-wheeler. All that was missing was a paperboy yelling for his $2.

What I thought was a sign of the impending apocalypse actually turned out to be the monthly last-Friday pro-bike mobilization of www.criticalmassatlanta.org. The reason I bring this up — surreal aspect of seeing smoking, Sparks-drinking cyclists aside — is that maybe I don't go outside as much during the summer but this brisk time of year (gearing up for the holidays) really seems to bring people together.

Case in point: Underground on the same evening, Friday, Sept. 29. This ghost town of a financial sinkhole was bustling for Sol_Fusion's Fourth Anniversary, also the launch party for new club Sugarhill in the former Future/Mercury Lounge space. What once was a cybernetic, austere environment has been recast as earthy through the use of red tones, curtains and stone accents.

It was difficult to discern too many details of Sugarhill, however, as I was overwhelmed by the onslaught of people — a phenomenon I hadn't seen in Underground in ages. But I knew it was the fashionable place to be because among the attendees was none other than "Project Runway" finalist Michael Knight. You think for the 2008 Knight Rider they'll get him to design the upholstery? Regardless, the scene was so happening the fire marshal halted the entrance line for a bit. Haute.

Not only was this weekend time for dancing, but it's also homecoming-dance season. And one of the biggest recent homecomings was that of Gnarls Barkley to the Tabernacle on Sunday, Oct. 1. Hitting the stage a little after 9 p.m. to an uproar of applause, Georgia sons Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse laid down some ruddy funk shui, with Greenhornes and Doors covers tucked inside.

Gnarls Barkley emerged in Roman/gladiator outfits (the Polyphonic Spree-like band renamed "Chariots of Fire," according to Cee-Lo) and performed the triumphant refrain of Queen's "We Are the Champions." And they were the champions of summer with the song "Crazy," more infectious than HPV and funkier than slept-in PVC. Crazy to think that song first emerged in early 2006 and now it's October, making Gnarls Barkley's constant costumes finally appropriate. Considering the lyrics' shades of unhinged the atmosphere was nothing but joyous. Congrats, boys. Even while the temperature may be dropping, intensity levels are doing anything but.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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It was a weekend speckled with oddities. Sipping a beer on Highland and Sampson, where Best Of winner __P'cheen__ soon will expand its square footage, I watched as like 100 cyclists flocked like crows. There was even a high-wheeler. All that was missing was a paperboy yelling for his $2.

What I thought was a sign of the impending apocalypse actually turned out to be the monthly last-Friday pro-bike mobilization of __[http://www.criticalmassatlanta.org/|www.criticalmassatlanta.org]__. The reason I bring this up -- surreal aspect of seeing smoking, Sparks-drinking cyclists aside -- is that maybe I don't go outside as much during the summer but this brisk time of year (gearing up for the holidays) really seems to bring people together.

Case in point: Underground on the same evening, Friday, Sept. 29. This ghost town of a financial sinkhole was bustling for __Sol_Fusion's Fourth Anniversary__, also the launch party for new club __Sugarhill__ in the former Future/Mercury Lounge space. What once was a cybernetic, austere environment has been recast as earthy through the use of red tones, curtains and stone accents.

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Not only was this weekend time for dancing, but it's also homecoming-dance season. And one of the biggest recent homecomings was that of __Gnarls Barkley__ to the Tabernacle on Sunday, Oct. 1. Hitting the stage a little after 9 p.m. to an uproar of applause, Georgia sons Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse laid down some ruddy funk shui, with Greenhornes and Doors covers tucked inside.

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''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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It was a weekend speckled with oddities. Sipping a beer on Highland and Sampson, where Best Of winner P'cheen soon will expand its square footage, I watched as like 100 cyclists flocked like crows. There was even a high-wheeler. All that was missing was a paperboy yelling for his $2.

What I thought was a sign of the impending apocalypse actually turned out to be the monthly last-Friday pro-bike mobilization of www.criticalmassatlanta.org. The reason I bring this up — surreal aspect of seeing smoking, Sparks-drinking cyclists aside — is that maybe I don't go outside as much during the summer but this brisk time of year (gearing up for the holidays) really seems to bring people together.

Case in point: Underground on the same evening, Friday, Sept. 29. This ghost town of a financial sinkhole was bustling for Sol_Fusion's Fourth Anniversary, also the launch party for new club Sugarhill in the former Future/Mercury Lounge space. What once was a cybernetic, austere environment has been recast as earthy through the use of red tones, curtains and stone accents.

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Not only was this weekend time for dancing, but it's also homecoming-dance season. And one of the biggest recent homecomings was that of Gnarls Barkley to the Tabernacle on Sunday, Oct. 1. Hitting the stage a little after 9 p.m. to an uproar of applause, Georgia sons Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse laid down some ruddy funk shui, with Greenhornes and Doors covers tucked inside.

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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022735 1263160                          Redeye - Bundle up and get down October 04 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday October 4, 2006 12:04 am EDT
P'cheen, Sugarhill, and Gnarls Barkley | more...
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  string(2752) "After nigh on 15 years sailing around this landlocked port of call, it is rare, rare indeed that anyone can take me somewhere new, physically. But on Sat., Sept. 23, at the Warren in Virginia-Highland, someone did take me somewhere new physiologically.

I just felt left out. It was Rosh Hashanah and I didn't have anything to atone for, no really good resolutions. I'm not even really Jewish. But when Grey Martin — an old friend, former neighbor and Atlanta Brewing Company sales manager extraordinaire — invited me to have some cocktails and kawfee tawk, I figured maybe I could find something to regret.

The invitation in question was for a round or three of Whynattes, a drink that follows the Irish Car Bomb template, but replaces Guinness with a latte and a whiskey shot with Jägermeister. Don't believe me? Click on over to www.whynatte.com for the straight poop.

Also in the seven-person drink-pounding partay (seven is a Yahweh-favored number) was Jesse Altman, a creator of this illustrious libation. Born on a vacation from desperation and confrontation, the Whynatte was genius disguised as potentially combustible chemistry. In the past two years, it has chugged from Santa Cruz, Calif., to New York, New York. And it's entrenched in at least a half-dozen Atlanta bars (including the Warren, Apres Diem, the North Highland Pub, L5P'sFront Page News  and Trader Vic's).

Honestly, the Warren was never my joint. Not that the surroundings aren't pleasant, but it's a membership club and as Groucho Marx said, I would never want to be a member of any club that would have me. Ha. Wisdom. Yet how could I pass up this opportunity? And once I was introduced to our waitress, Jenny, I recognized kindred spirits — people who wanted to cure a cough and get wired all with one drink. Plus, it never hurts to be around hot-tays with Whynattes (and our little kosher clique was supernova).

Jenny made the medicine of the future with an alternate recipe featuring coffee and Bailey's, as this night a proper latte was not easily available for multiple rounds, and we wanted multiple rounds. Because every time someone does a Whynatte it's like Gene Kelly tapping (someone) in the street — everyone's "Gotta DANCE!" Wow, my mom would be proud of that reference. I'm gittin' olde. Maybe it's more like Pringles, or German porn — once you pop you can't stop.

Seriously, curiosity (among other things) was aroused. Whynattes were bought, eh (sheesh, I'm Canadian now). The legend spread. The only problem: I love eggs and bacon with coffee. And I won't repent! Man, I'd be a baaaaad Jew.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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I just felt left out. It was __Rosh Hashanah__ and I didn't have anything to atone for, no really good resolutions. I'm not even really Jewish. But when __Grey Martin__ -- an old friend, former neighbor and __Atlanta Brewing Company__ sales manager extraordinaire -- invited me to have some cocktails and kawfee tawk, I figured maybe I could find something to regret.

The invitation in question was for a round or three of __Whynattes__, a drink that follows the Irish Car Bomb template, but replaces Guinness with a latte and a whiskey shot with Jägermeister. Don't believe me? Click on over to [http://www.whynatte.com/|www.whynatte.com] for the straight poop.

Also in the seven-person drink-pounding partay (seven is a Yahweh-favored number) was __Jesse Altman__, a creator of this illustrious libation. Born on a vacation from desperation and confrontation, the Whynatte was genius disguised as potentially combustible chemistry. In the past two years, it has chugged from Santa Cruz, Calif., to New York, New York. And it's entrenched in at least a half-dozen Atlanta bars (including the Warren, __Apres Diem, the North Highland Pub, L5P'sFront Page News__  and __Trader Vic's__).

Honestly, the Warren was never my joint. Not that the surroundings aren't pleasant, but it's a membership club and as Groucho Marx said, I would never want to be a member of any club that would have me. Ha. Wisdom. Yet how could I pass up this opportunity? And once I was introduced to our waitress, __Jenny__, I recognized kindred spirits -- people who wanted to cure a cough and get wired all with one drink. Plus, it never hurts to be around hot-tays with Whynattes (and our little kosher clique was supernova).

Jenny made the medicine of the future with an alternate recipe featuring coffee and Bailey's, as this night a proper latte was not easily available for multiple rounds, and we wanted multiple rounds. Because every time someone does a Whynatte it's like Gene Kelly tapping (someone) in the street -- everyone's "Gotta DANCE!" Wow, my mom would be proud of that reference. I'm gittin' olde. Maybe it's more like Pringles, or German porn -- once you pop you can't stop.

Seriously, curiosity (among other things) was aroused. Whynattes were bought, eh (sheesh, I'm Canadian now). The legend spread. The only problem: I love eggs and bacon with coffee. And I won't repent! Man, I'd be a baaaaad Jew.

''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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  string(3016) "    Whynattes at the Warren   2006-09-27T04:04:00+00:00 Redeye - Turn your head and coffee September 27 2006   Tony Ware 1223520 2006-09-27T04:04:00+00:00  After nigh on 15 years sailing around this landlocked port of call, it is rare, rare indeed that anyone can take me somewhere new, physically. But on Sat., Sept. 23, at the Warren in Virginia-Highland, someone did take me somewhere new physiologically.

I just felt left out. It was Rosh Hashanah and I didn't have anything to atone for, no really good resolutions. I'm not even really Jewish. But when Grey Martin — an old friend, former neighbor and Atlanta Brewing Company sales manager extraordinaire — invited me to have some cocktails and kawfee tawk, I figured maybe I could find something to regret.

The invitation in question was for a round or three of Whynattes, a drink that follows the Irish Car Bomb template, but replaces Guinness with a latte and a whiskey shot with Jägermeister. Don't believe me? Click on over to www.whynatte.com for the straight poop.

Also in the seven-person drink-pounding partay (seven is a Yahweh-favored number) was Jesse Altman, a creator of this illustrious libation. Born on a vacation from desperation and confrontation, the Whynatte was genius disguised as potentially combustible chemistry. In the past two years, it has chugged from Santa Cruz, Calif., to New York, New York. And it's entrenched in at least a half-dozen Atlanta bars (including the Warren, Apres Diem, the North Highland Pub, L5P'sFront Page News  and Trader Vic's).

Honestly, the Warren was never my joint. Not that the surroundings aren't pleasant, but it's a membership club and as Groucho Marx said, I would never want to be a member of any club that would have me. Ha. Wisdom. Yet how could I pass up this opportunity? And once I was introduced to our waitress, Jenny, I recognized kindred spirits — people who wanted to cure a cough and get wired all with one drink. Plus, it never hurts to be around hot-tays with Whynattes (and our little kosher clique was supernova).

Jenny made the medicine of the future with an alternate recipe featuring coffee and Bailey's, as this night a proper latte was not easily available for multiple rounds, and we wanted multiple rounds. Because every time someone does a Whynatte it's like Gene Kelly tapping (someone) in the street — everyone's "Gotta DANCE!" Wow, my mom would be proud of that reference. I'm gittin' olde. Maybe it's more like Pringles, or German porn — once you pop you can't stop.

Seriously, curiosity (among other things) was aroused. Whynattes were bought, eh (sheesh, I'm Canadian now). The legend spread. The only problem: I love eggs and bacon with coffee. And I won't repent! Man, I'd be a baaaaad Jew.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022658 1263007                          Redeye - Turn your head and coffee September 27 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday September 27, 2006 12:04 am EDT
Whynattes at the Warren | more...
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  string(2828) "I'm pretty lucky. I get paid to go out, often have drinks freely poured for me and to date I've never had an accident and never been mugged. But, dammit, now I've been robbed.

That's right, I feel something has been stolen from me, and that's the respect and recognition I deserved for kicking off "Turn It Up": The First Ever East Atlanta Air Guitar Championship at the Earl on Mon., Sept. 11. Performing by the stage name Lord Shreddlin von Riffington III, Esq., I opened the gates of Valhalla with a riveting — nah, revolutionary — self-assembled riff medley featuring Son Volt, the Ramones, DragonForce and the Who. And I was thematic! Doffing my fluffy pink bathrobe, I represented those who jam in their jammies! Yet instead of accolades, I was handed walking papers, left POed in my PJs.

But at least I wasn't Earl booking agent Patrick "Shreddy Lee" Hill. Not only did the Rush fan end up the only person with a lower score than myself, but he also lost his shirt! Literally! And once that happened, I feel we all lost a little ... a little lunch and Jägermeister, participants' free "liquid courage."

Actually, I'm going to band with my brother. As the first two competitors, we both were ganked by Nasty McNasty, Airsteban, Jimi Appendix, and Mulletedega Roadrash — judges guided too much by cock and not enough by rock (actually, Mulletedega remained laudably impartial). My score was almost doubled by Roberta Plant, merely because she had — how you say? — tittay. No costume, not even bare breasts. Karma? So many hours have been beaten to tits and now the tits beat us boys. Thankfully, in the finale air-off, AC/DC appreciator Darryl (aka Right Exstacy) won out.

Hill and I learned the hard way: You can't break the mold yet to be set. But we maintain our airs as visionaries till the next competition. Judges, we understand to air is human. And that was my air-ing of grievances.

Speaking of those drinks, on Sat., Sept. 16, I revisited Lindbergh City Station's Lotus Lounge. With several semi-private themed rooms for hire, each with its own liquor-sponsored cocktail list, this joint offers 60(!) signature drinks (all available for $13 at the non-members/non-reserved main bar). Cantaloupe martinis; tequila, berries and muddled basil mojito; champagne, sparkling sake and blueberries; Amarula, Kahlua and coffee-infused vodka — if you couldn't tell from the flowers, this joint definitely skews toward the ladies and established businessmen who love bankrolling them. If you go, say hi to my feminine friend the Muskox, Todd Terranova, manning the velvet rope. Take him whey protein/weight-gainer brownies to earn, duh, brownie points.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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  string(2838) "I'm pretty lucky. I get paid to go out, often have drinks freely poured for me and to date I've never had an accident and never been mugged. But, dammit, now I've been robbed.

That's right, I feel something has been stolen from me, and that's the respect and recognition I deserved for kicking off "Turn It Up": The First Ever East Atlanta Air Guitar Championship at the Earl on Mon., Sept. 11. Performing by the stage name Lord Shreddlin von Riffington III, Esq., I opened the gates of Valhalla with a riveting -- nah, revolutionary -- self-assembled riff medley featuring Son Volt, the Ramones, DragonForce and the Who. And I was thematic! Doffing my fluffy pink bathrobe, I represented those who jam in their jammies! Yet instead of accolades, I was handed walking papers, left POed in my PJs.

But at least I wasn't Earl booking agent Patrick "Shreddy Lee" Hill. Not only did the Rush fan end up the only person with a lower score than myself, but he also lost his shirt! Literally! And once that happened, I feel we all lost a little ... a little lunch and Jägermeister, participants' free "liquid courage."

Actually, I'm going to band with my brother. As the first two competitors, we both were ganked by Nasty McNasty, Airsteban, Jimi Appendix, and Mulletedega Roadrash -- judges guided too much by cock and not enough by rock (actually, Mulletedega remained laudably impartial). My score was almost doubled by Roberta Plant, merely because she had -- how you say? -- tittay. No costume, not even bare breasts. Karma? So many hours have been beaten to tits and now the tits beat us boys. Thankfully, in the finale air-off, AC/DC appreciator Darryl (aka Right Exstacy) won out.

Hill and I learned the hard way: You can't break the mold yet to be set. But we maintain our airs as visionaries till the next competition. Judges, we understand to air is human. And that was my air-ing of grievances.

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''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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That's right, I feel something has been stolen from me, and that's the respect and recognition I deserved for kicking off "Turn It Up": The First Ever East Atlanta Air Guitar Championship at the Earl on Mon., Sept. 11. Performing by the stage name Lord Shreddlin von Riffington III, Esq., I opened the gates of Valhalla with a riveting — nah, revolutionary — self-assembled riff medley featuring Son Volt, the Ramones, DragonForce and the Who. And I was thematic! Doffing my fluffy pink bathrobe, I represented those who jam in their jammies! Yet instead of accolades, I was handed walking papers, left POed in my PJs.

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Actually, I'm going to band with my brother. As the first two competitors, we both were ganked by Nasty McNasty, Airsteban, Jimi Appendix, and Mulletedega Roadrash — judges guided too much by cock and not enough by rock (actually, Mulletedega remained laudably impartial). My score was almost doubled by Roberta Plant, merely because she had — how you say? — tittay. No costume, not even bare breasts. Karma? So many hours have been beaten to tits and now the tits beat us boys. Thankfully, in the finale air-off, AC/DC appreciator Darryl (aka Right Exstacy) won out.

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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022616 1262888                          Redeye - Strings attached September 20 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday September 20, 2006 12:04 am EDT
Air Guitar Championship stolen at the Earl | more...
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First stop was the Sept. 8 launch party for Chuck D's new record label, SLAMjamz, produced at the Loft by Beneath the Noise (whose B-Free also celebrated a weekend b-day, respek'). The groups — such as Most Hi-Fi, Dirty North and all-female MCs Crew Grrl Order — weren't bad, and the different b-boys/dancers either provided or incited during different sets were a trip. But best was any time D derided recording-industry bullshit.

Next was a post-band-performance spin through the new Lenny's, located — for those not bombarded by multiple EXCLAMATION-RIDDEN!!! MySpace bulletins — in the old Neutron Bomb space on Decatur Street. Comparing the old Lenny's to the new is like comparing collegiate studio apartments to starter homes, and not just because of the size increase. (No longer must you dread a pool cue braining you on the way to the bathroom.) Now, instead of crust and accumulation, you can't help but notice there's more potential than anything in particular. In this black-light line drawing of a venue, ghostly minimalism is in abundance — kind of like the frat-house basements I rocked steady in my mid-'90s booty-music DJ career. It's an inky canvas that creatively lit bands and clubbers with actual flair can inject with agendas. So put away black pegged jeans, thrift-store granny couture and nuevo-retardo Daisy Dookie shorts and get sartorial throughout the color spectrum, bitches. Bring your graffiti guys, check it out and later we'll revisit.

Finally, I hit the Mark just as the anniversary party became private, and I raised my lighter to the Downtown beacon during a few Blondie-meets-Black Sheep vibes. Classics gone contemporary has always been the Mark's way, so way to go on three years...

Not least among these birthdays was mine, held Sept. 9 at Bazzaar. Getting older is dirty bidness, and the way I do you'd think I'm Enron. To make sure the party got and stayed hype, I shared with everyone a huge stash ... of fake 'stashes. Pornstaches. Molestaches. You know how us little hoodrats take five-cent rides. Also thanks to booty beats, Nicole Paige Brooks and other ballsy chicks, Blue Steel™ and Le Tigre™, fake-blood baptisms plus Drinky McDrinkerson the Drunk Who Drinks rum tum tugging it. My birthday was hair-raising and lip-trembling — an appropriately messy afterbirth to the week's events.

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First stop was the Sept. 8 launch party for Chuck D's new record label, SLAMjamz, produced at the Loft by Beneath the Noise (whose B-Free also celebrated a weekend b-day, respek'). The groups -- such as Most Hi-Fi, Dirty North and all-female MCs Crew Grrl Order -- weren't bad, and the different b-boys/dancers either provided or incited during different sets were a trip. But best was any time D derided recording-industry bullshit.

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''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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First stop was the Sept. 8 launch party for Chuck D's new record label, SLAMjamz, produced at the Loft by Beneath the Noise (whose B-Free also celebrated a weekend b-day, respek'). The groups — such as Most Hi-Fi, Dirty North and all-female MCs Crew Grrl Order — weren't bad, and the different b-boys/dancers either provided or incited during different sets were a trip. But best was any time D derided recording-industry bullshit.

Next was a post-band-performance spin through the new Lenny's, located — for those not bombarded by multiple EXCLAMATION-RIDDEN!!! MySpace bulletins — in the old Neutron Bomb space on Decatur Street. Comparing the old Lenny's to the new is like comparing collegiate studio apartments to starter homes, and not just because of the size increase. (No longer must you dread a pool cue braining you on the way to the bathroom.) Now, instead of crust and accumulation, you can't help but notice there's more potential than anything in particular. In this black-light line drawing of a venue, ghostly minimalism is in abundance — kind of like the frat-house basements I rocked steady in my mid-'90s booty-music DJ career. It's an inky canvas that creatively lit bands and clubbers with actual flair can inject with agendas. So put away black pegged jeans, thrift-store granny couture and nuevo-retardo Daisy Dookie shorts and get sartorial throughout the color spectrum, bitches. Bring your graffiti guys, check it out and later we'll revisit.

Finally, I hit the Mark just as the anniversary party became private, and I raised my lighter to the Downtown beacon during a few Blondie-meets-Black Sheep vibes. Classics gone contemporary has always been the Mark's way, so way to go on three years...

Not least among these birthdays was mine, held Sept. 9 at Bazzaar. Getting older is dirty bidness, and the way I do you'd think I'm Enron. To make sure the party got and stayed hype, I shared with everyone a huge stash ... of fake 'stashes. Pornstaches. Molestaches. You know how us little hoodrats take five-cent rides. Also thanks to booty beats, Nicole Paige Brooks and other ballsy chicks, Blue Steel™ and Le Tigre™, fake-blood baptisms plus Drinky McDrinkerson the Drunk Who Drinks rum tum tugging it. My birthday was hair-raising and lip-trembling — an appropriately messy afterbirth to the week's events.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022563 1262757                          Redeye - Fake mustaches, real spankings September 13 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday September 13, 2006 12:04 am EDT
Celebrating the birthday at Bazzaar | more...
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  string(2724) "For many, Labor Day weekend is a three-day smorgasbord of kickball, drive-ins, watermelon and mai tais. But if I'm going to keep people outta their chairs and going outta their minds, I can't dally. Baked beans? Only if you're wrestling in them. Just 5 percent alcohol? Only if she's 5'3".

I'm on a full-blown binge to bring sexy back. So what was I doing Downtown for the annual Dragon*Con costume contest? My God, even the most camp drag queens would blush at this menagerie of poor judgment. Seriously, where's the quality control? Where's the draaaaama? Slap on a dirty Sanchez and you're Super Mario. Dress as a dancing hippo and you're a metaphor for much of what goes down around you. Dear Jedi: We get it — you spend primo private time acrobatically handling your "light saber." And your "Wookies."

OK, easy targets disengaged, because my visiting pal the Reverend John Ling explained how it's not the contestants' fault. They are but mere shells, inside of which gestate telepathic radioactive spiders that are just having a laugh until they break forth and devour their unwilling hosts. That I can buy.

Actually, I realize while watching this spectacle that it's a prime casting pool for my acquaintance J. Gaybel. Over much beer and BBQ he introduced to me his proposed venture: porn featuring socially awkward men who weep alone while they masturbate. He's going to call it Tearjerkers. Interested participants can e-mail tearjerkerscasting@gmail.com, but only if you're the real deal — no wiping onion juice on your jimmy. Hee-hee. Tearjerkers. I'm gonna laugh about that for years to ... come. Or maybe it's just heatstroke. I admit it. I dallied.

Mistakenly, I figured being indoors would cool things off. But I found no such luck at the Earl on Sun., Sept. 3, during the sweat-beaded Dumpsterdive Records One-Year Anniversary. Dropping it like the hotness were local Arc the Finger Records artists Intellekt & Dirty Digits, among many others. Repping for those of us 5'7" and funkdafied, the IDD duo kicked out its jazzy ADD Intellektual Property, revising topics such as gettin' your game on (but with Mario Kart) and "Phenom Mental" lyrical performance. ATL "true schoolers" can stuff backpacks tight with new tunes this season.

On a final note, it's my birthday week! I originally intended a private celebration but have changed it to semi-public. If you visit Bazzaar on Sat., Sept. 9, you can party with me, the Midnight Mayor of Midtown, but only if you're wearing a fake mustache. No, seriously. I want things to get hairy. That's how I bring sexy back.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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I'm on a full-blown binge to bring sexy back. So what was I doing Downtown for the annual Dragon*Con costume contest? My God, even the most camp drag queens would blush at this menagerie of poor judgment. Seriously, where's the quality control? Where's the draaaaama? Slap on a dirty Sanchez and you're Super Mario. Dress as a dancing hippo and you're a metaphor for much of what goes down around you. Dear Jedi: We get it -- you spend primo private time acrobatically handling your "light saber." And your "Wookies."

OK, easy targets disengaged, because my visiting pal the Reverend John Ling explained how it's not the contestants' fault. They are but mere shells, inside of which gestate telepathic radioactive spiders that are just having a laugh until they break forth and devour their unwilling hosts. That I can buy.

Actually, I realize while watching this spectacle that it's a prime casting pool for my acquaintance J. Gaybel. Over much beer and BBQ he introduced to me his proposed venture: porn featuring socially awkward men who weep alone while they masturbate. He's going to call it Tearjerkers. Interested participants can e-mail [mailto:tearjerkerscasting@gmail.com|tearjerkerscasting@gmail.com], but only if you're the real deal -- no wiping onion juice on your jimmy. Hee-hee. Tearjerkers. I'm gonna laugh about that for years to ... come. Or maybe it's just heatstroke. I admit it. I dallied.

Mistakenly, I figured being indoors would cool things off. But I found no such luck at the Earl on Sun., Sept. 3, during the sweat-beaded Dumpsterdive Records One-Year Anniversary. Dropping it like the hotness were local Arc the Finger Records artists Intellekt & Dirty Digits, among many others. Repping for those of us 5'7" and funkdafied, the IDD duo kicked out its jazzy ADD Intellektual Property, revising topics such as gettin' your game on (but with Mario Kart) and "Phenom Mental" lyrical performance. ATL "true schoolers" can stuff backpacks tight with new tunes this season.

On a final note, it's my birthday week! I originally intended a private celebration but have changed it to semi-public. If you visit Bazzaar on Sat., Sept. 9, you can party with me, the Midnight Mayor of Midtown, but only if you're wearing a fake mustache. No, seriously. I want things to get hairy. That's how I bring sexy back.

''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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I'm on a full-blown binge to bring sexy back. So what was I doing Downtown for the annual Dragon*Con costume contest? My God, even the most camp drag queens would blush at this menagerie of poor judgment. Seriously, where's the quality control? Where's the draaaaama? Slap on a dirty Sanchez and you're Super Mario. Dress as a dancing hippo and you're a metaphor for much of what goes down around you. Dear Jedi: We get it — you spend primo private time acrobatically handling your "light saber." And your "Wookies."

OK, easy targets disengaged, because my visiting pal the Reverend John Ling explained how it's not the contestants' fault. They are but mere shells, inside of which gestate telepathic radioactive spiders that are just having a laugh until they break forth and devour their unwilling hosts. That I can buy.

Actually, I realize while watching this spectacle that it's a prime casting pool for my acquaintance J. Gaybel. Over much beer and BBQ he introduced to me his proposed venture: porn featuring socially awkward men who weep alone while they masturbate. He's going to call it Tearjerkers. Interested participants can e-mail tearjerkerscasting@gmail.com, but only if you're the real deal — no wiping onion juice on your jimmy. Hee-hee. Tearjerkers. I'm gonna laugh about that for years to ... come. Or maybe it's just heatstroke. I admit it. I dallied.

Mistakenly, I figured being indoors would cool things off. But I found no such luck at the Earl on Sun., Sept. 3, during the sweat-beaded Dumpsterdive Records One-Year Anniversary. Dropping it like the hotness were local Arc the Finger Records artists Intellekt & Dirty Digits, among many others. Repping for those of us 5'7" and funkdafied, the IDD duo kicked out its jazzy ADD Intellektual Property, revising topics such as gettin' your game on (but with Mario Kart) and "Phenom Mental" lyrical performance. ATL "true schoolers" can stuff backpacks tight with new tunes this season.

On a final note, it's my birthday week! I originally intended a private celebration but have changed it to semi-public. If you visit Bazzaar on Sat., Sept. 9, you can party with me, the Midnight Mayor of Midtown, but only if you're wearing a fake mustache. No, seriously. I want things to get hairy. That's how I bring sexy back.

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Local Music Features

Wednesday September 6, 2006 12:04 am EDT
Dragon*Con and divin' at the Dumpster | more...
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  string(2809) "Butter bean puree, mango-chardonnay reduction, allspice tincture — are these ingredients in your libations lexicon? Yes, if you sup and/or sip at Restaurant Eugene's Friday night cocktail flights. Fate provoked me to dip in on what mixologist Greg Best had brewing in the city's most spirited cocktail kitchen. And with the "new" Bond venture, Casino Royale, coming in November, there's no better time to sample Best's revitalizing Vesper — Bond creator Ian Fleming's (and Bond's) original cocktail of choice. Boodles gin, Ketel One vodka and Lillet Blonde, plus a true citrus oil burst cut all heat and tension ... in both the cocktail and life. Follow this fellow's ventures, as Best is the one to best in culinary cocktails.

Randomly, two nights later I ventured next door to Starfish Sushi. Starfish offers a $10 sake tasting; featured are any four sakes served in what I'll describe as crystalline coquetiers. I recommend the Zen sake, which lends itself well to a serene sipping experience.

All my twilit tippling has resulted in a steely liver and, oddly, acute insomnia. Many nights I experience a woozy parade of shitty movies, pink elephants and sports stackers ads. Speaking of shitty pink movies, Rent has been repeating incessantly. Man, is this movie's core horribly dated. Perhaps in 1996 there were bastions of bohemia, but now "shabby chic" is as close as it gets. "Bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens, carcinogens, hallucinogens, men, Pee Wee Herman ... To sodomy, it's between God and me, to S&M" — that's an MTV-branded schoolyard rhyme. The only line in the entire movie that truly resonated was, "So let's find a bar/So dark we forget who we are," and only because I started thinking how increasingly rare such places are locally.

Case in point: the soon-to-launch Lotus Lounge, opening Sept. 8 in Lindbergh City Center. This Piedmont Road-side apartment "neighborhood" is described as "uptown," and from a build-out preview I saw, Lotus aims to suit. A fan of private, themed rooms peeks out from two levels over a central bar, the overriding décor to be aqueous and indulgent. These petals draw inspiration from lavish Middle and Far Eastern settings to which the lotus is indigenous. But despite the fantasy fare, Lotus is not a place to forget who you are; with plasma screens, humidors, signature cocktails and liquor lockers, it's definitely to show others what you're about, especially if that is being minted. Those interested in transcending the main level can spend $100 to $2,500 developing privileges and dictating environment. But, hey, not everybody has the worries of, and needs an escape from, the reality of rent.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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Randomly, two nights later I ventured next door to Starfish Sushi. Starfish offers a $10 sake tasting; featured are any four sakes served in what I'll describe as crystalline coquetiers. I recommend the Zen sake, which lends itself well to a serene sipping experience.

All my twilit tippling has resulted in a steely liver and, oddly, acute insomnia. Many nights I experience a woozy parade of shitty movies, pink elephants and sports stackers ads. Speaking of shitty pink movies, ''Rent'' has been repeating incessantly. Man, is this movie's core horribly dated. Perhaps in 1996 there were bastions of bohemia, but now "shabby chic" is as close as it gets. "Bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens, carcinogens, hallucinogens, men, Pee Wee Herman ... To sodomy, it's between God and me, to S&M" -- that's an MTV-branded schoolyard rhyme. The only line in the entire movie that truly resonated was, "So let's find a bar/So dark we forget who we are," and only because I started thinking how increasingly rare such places are locally.

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RedEye ''celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022259 1262201                          Redeye - A potpourri of consecutiveness August 30 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday August 30, 2006 12:04 am EDT
Taking a sip or three at Restaurant Eugene | more...
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  string(2752) "The Internet was abuzz for weeks. I was even offered a personalized invitation. Finally, Fri., Aug. 18, was upon us. But the Monday after, it became apparent that hype doesn't always translate into heat.

I'm talking about slithering sounds, about writhing bodies. I'm talking about an event with word of mouf but not nearly as many fleet of phoot. I'm talking about two things: snakes and planes. But I could just as easily be talking about Doc Martin and Derrick Carter at the House in Underground Atlanta.

Both events had highlights and plot holes. Apparently, "snake vision" is like getting dusted, so clubbers can identify. And both events showed talk is cheap and events expensive. Despite Samuel L. Jackson's personal pleas, Snakes on a Plane made only $15 million of its $33-million budget. And MJ's House event came up short in attendance by a good 100 or more. Despite past technical glitches, it didn't suffer for vibe — attracting discerning DJs, including Kevin O, Jonathan Edwards, Keiran and Kai Alce.

Around midnight, bass was folding in on itself, creating the feeling of an Impala's rattling trunk at times and causing turntable skips. But Doc rode it through with aplomb — steady, deep and swingin'. Unfortunately, I had to exit around 2 a.m., but here's what I've since understood: Issues resolved, Derrick Carter banged it out in proper, tech-house style. But the turnout capped. So who's lamer — the locale or the locals? I don't dig Underground, nor do I think "keeping it underground" means keeping it only behind certain doors. Come on, peeps — invite a crush for a four-on-the-floor spank; maybe it'll help get 'em on all fours. Atlanta's house nation did itself a disservice.

On Sat., Aug. 19, I caught Snowden at the Drunken Unicorn, where the local band celebrated its full-length debut, Anti-Anti. Walking up a couple of songs in, I found a capacity crowd and was stalled in the entrance hall. Where was a scene Moses when I needed one? Watching Snowden, I thought how unfortunate it is that "Anxiety Always" is already a taken title. Bathed in red from below, the band projects anguish and unease, but firmly gripped by friction and tenacious will. Even Jeff Clark was seen captivated, bobbing his head like a cobra (snake references, SO hot right now).

Finally, on Sun., Aug. 20, I wound up down on Castleberry Hill's Walker Street, where the recent openings of Wasabi and the artisan, opulent hacienda No Más! Cantina mark a wave of upcoming nightlife and dining developments. In the near future we'll drink it all in, from sake "sangria" to tequila sunrises.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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I'm talking about slithering sounds, about writhing bodies. I'm talking about an event with word of mouf but not nearly as many fleet of phoot. I'm talking about two things: snakes and planes. But I could just as easily be talking about Doc Martin and Derrick Carter at the House in Underground Atlanta.

Both events had highlights and plot holes. Apparently, "snake vision" is like getting dusted, so clubbers can identify. And both events showed talk is cheap and events expensive. Despite Samuel L. Jackson's personal pleas, ''Snakes on a Plane'' made only $15 million of its $33-million budget. And MJ's House event came up short in attendance by a good 100 or more. Despite past technical glitches, it didn't suffer for vibe -- attracting discerning DJs, including Kevin O, Jonathan Edwards, Keiran and Kai Alce.

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On Sat., Aug. 19, I caught Snowden at the Drunken Unicorn, where the local band celebrated its full-length debut, ''Anti-Anti''. Walking up a couple of songs in, I found a capacity crowd and was stalled in the entrance hall. Where was a scene Moses when I needed one? Watching Snowden, I thought how unfortunate it is that "Anxiety Always" is already a taken title. Bathed in red from below, the band projects anguish and unease, but firmly gripped by friction and tenacious will. Even Jeff Clark was seen captivated, bobbing his head like a cobra (snake references, SO hot right now).

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RedEye ''celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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I'm talking about slithering sounds, about writhing bodies. I'm talking about an event with word of mouf but not nearly as many fleet of phoot. I'm talking about two things: snakes and planes. But I could just as easily be talking about Doc Martin and Derrick Carter at the House in Underground Atlanta.

Both events had highlights and plot holes. Apparently, "snake vision" is like getting dusted, so clubbers can identify. And both events showed talk is cheap and events expensive. Despite Samuel L. Jackson's personal pleas, Snakes on a Plane made only $15 million of its $33-million budget. And MJ's House event came up short in attendance by a good 100 or more. Despite past technical glitches, it didn't suffer for vibe — attracting discerning DJs, including Kevin O, Jonathan Edwards, Keiran and Kai Alce.

Around midnight, bass was folding in on itself, creating the feeling of an Impala's rattling trunk at times and causing turntable skips. But Doc rode it through with aplomb — steady, deep and swingin'. Unfortunately, I had to exit around 2 a.m., but here's what I've since understood: Issues resolved, Derrick Carter banged it out in proper, tech-house style. But the turnout capped. So who's lamer — the locale or the locals? I don't dig Underground, nor do I think "keeping it underground" means keeping it only behind certain doors. Come on, peeps — invite a crush for a four-on-the-floor spank; maybe it'll help get 'em on all fours. Atlanta's house nation did itself a disservice.

On Sat., Aug. 19, I caught Snowden at the Drunken Unicorn, where the local band celebrated its full-length debut, Anti-Anti. Walking up a couple of songs in, I found a capacity crowd and was stalled in the entrance hall. Where was a scene Moses when I needed one? Watching Snowden, I thought how unfortunate it is that "Anxiety Always" is already a taken title. Bathed in red from below, the band projects anguish and unease, but firmly gripped by friction and tenacious will. Even Jeff Clark was seen captivated, bobbing his head like a cobra (snake references, SO hot right now).

Finally, on Sun., Aug. 20, I wound up down on Castleberry Hill's Walker Street, where the recent openings of Wasabi and the artisan, opulent hacienda No Más! Cantina mark a wave of upcoming nightlife and dining developments. In the near future we'll drink it all in, from sake "sangria" to tequila sunrises.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13022057 1261796                          Redeye - Snakes on the wane August 23 2006 "
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A Doc in the House, Snowden at the Drunken Unicorn | more...
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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.











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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.











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Wednesday August 16, 2006 12:04 am EDT
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  string(2553) "Getting turned away from an event is usually deeply frustrating, even possibly insulting if you're working press. But being turned away from a benefit can actually be reassuring. On Fri., Aug. 4, I attempted to attend the Justin Parker Blue Ribbon Benefit held at the Star Bar, only to find the venue already bulging from capacity at barely 10 p.m.

Walking by choppers gleaming from a sheen of light rain, then past a patio overflowing into the parking lot, I was heartened to see a deluge of support even while the weather threatened to offer a comparable surge. Others who were also forced to forego Brass Castle, the Selmanaires, Bitch, Artemis Pyledriver and Stevie T. & the Tombstones, among others (as well as those who did or didn't attend the Earl's simultaneous benefit), can still donate to Parker, who had both legs amputated after an SUV struck Liberty Tattoo. For more information, email ria@riasbluebird.com or alexis@rivalentertainment.com.

On Sat., Aug 5, there was also a benefit and a perceivable threat of being denied entry. I mounted this challenge from the rear (as always), arriving uncomfortably early to dip inside Vision's back door for the Midtown megaclub's closing night. Right before I entered, a fireworks barrage went off from Piedmont Park's direction, marking the surreal beginning of one excessive evening.

In the "Heaven" room around 10 p.m., Jezebel magazine held its "20 Most Eligible Bachelors and Bachelorettes Auction," to benefit Dare to Share. I hung around long enough to see a date with sponsor Q100's Jamie Massey (a seemingly winsome lass) go for over $1,000, then began twitching, allergic to the indulgent lifestyles oozing around me. The next four hours proved equally incongruous.

From the central V.I.P. circle, I watched a steady trickle become an untamed swell. A stomping house remix of Flashdance's "What a Feeling" somehow became a fitting witching-hour tribute to what was briefly a Peachtree-corridor anchor. And by night's end, the walls were as sweat-slathered as another dearly departed temple of decadence, Backstreet. My head was swooning, I'll say from humidity, so I struggled upstream.

Later, I found that Vision's Gidewon brothers purchased Compound as of Fri., Aug. 4. They also have money down on the former Velvet Room's neighboring plot, so expect a club around November. It's like a Diddy production: "Can't stop, won't stop, bad boy for life."

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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On Sat., Aug 5, there was also a benefit and a perceivable threat of being denied entry. I mounted this challenge from the rear (as always), arriving uncomfortably early to dip inside Vision's back door for the Midtown megaclub's closing night. Right before I entered, a fireworks barrage went off from Piedmont Park's direction, marking the surreal beginning of one excessive evening.

In the "Heaven" room around 10 p.m., Jezebel magazine held its "20 Most Eligible Bachelors and Bachelorettes Auction," to benefit Dare to Share. I hung around long enough to see a date with sponsor Q100's Jamie Massey (a seemingly winsome lass) go for over $1,000, then began twitching, allergic to the indulgent lifestyles oozing around me. The next four hours proved equally incongruous.

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Later, I found that Vision's Gidewon brothers purchased Compound as of Fri., Aug. 4. They also have money down on the former Velvet Room's neighboring plot, so expect a club around November. It's like a Diddy production: "Can't stop, won't stop, bad boy for life."

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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Walking by choppers gleaming from a sheen of light rain, then past a patio overflowing into the parking lot, I was heartened to see a deluge of support even while the weather threatened to offer a comparable surge. Others who were also forced to forego Brass Castle, the Selmanaires, Bitch, Artemis Pyledriver and Stevie T. & the Tombstones, among others (as well as those who did or didn't attend the Earl's simultaneous benefit), can still donate to Parker, who had both legs amputated after an SUV struck Liberty Tattoo. For more information, email ria@riasbluebird.com or alexis@rivalentertainment.com.

On Sat., Aug 5, there was also a benefit and a perceivable threat of being denied entry. I mounted this challenge from the rear (as always), arriving uncomfortably early to dip inside Vision's back door for the Midtown megaclub's closing night. Right before I entered, a fireworks barrage went off from Piedmont Park's direction, marking the surreal beginning of one excessive evening.

In the "Heaven" room around 10 p.m., Jezebel magazine held its "20 Most Eligible Bachelors and Bachelorettes Auction," to benefit Dare to Share. I hung around long enough to see a date with sponsor Q100's Jamie Massey (a seemingly winsome lass) go for over $1,000, then began twitching, allergic to the indulgent lifestyles oozing around me. The next four hours proved equally incongruous.

From the central V.I.P. circle, I watched a steady trickle become an untamed swell. A stomping house remix of Flashdance's "What a Feeling" somehow became a fitting witching-hour tribute to what was briefly a Peachtree-corridor anchor. And by night's end, the walls were as sweat-slathered as another dearly departed temple of decadence, Backstreet. My head was swooning, I'll say from humidity, so I struggled upstream.

Later, I found that Vision's Gidewon brothers purchased Compound as of Fri., Aug. 4. They also have money down on the former Velvet Room's neighboring plot, so expect a club around November. It's like a Diddy production: "Can't stop, won't stop, bad boy for life."

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13021813 1261318                          Redeye - Of benefits and blurry vision August 09 2006 "
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Wednesday August 9, 2006 12:04 am EDT
It's good to be turned away from a benefit | more...
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  string(2730) "This week, we continue outing the old and butting in on the new.

First, on Thurs., July 27, I caught the most engaging band I've seen in a looooong time. Cali quartet Eagles of Death Metal — opening for Peaches at the Variety Playhouse — freewheeled through raunch 'n' roll led by Jesse Hughes, who, sporting a resplendent pornstache, yelped like a glam greaser-meets-vintage WWF manager. I can't endorse an act more firmly. Speaking of firmly, that's surely how some attendants felt during MJQ's vintage lingerie show the same night. Eventually Peaches and her drummer made an appearance, or so say pictures at www.mjqforums.com (frightening — they allow cameras).

Friday was a send-off for the Agave Cowgirl, who for the next three months spreads herself across Europe (take that as you will). Then Saturday my friend Susannah (den mother of the North Highland Pub) said auf wiedersehen to her 20s.

I was invited to Jermaine Dupri's Celebrity Weekend at Buckhead's InterContinental Hotel, but it was a "White Party," and even the ATL's midnight mayor can't force me to dress like a marshmallow. And Wild Bill's in Duluth celebrated three years of business in front and party in back. Unfortunately, I misplaced my magnanimous G 'N R belt buckle so opted out; still, my hat tips to mechanical bull Zeus and every "Wild child."

Instead, I visited Halo — Midtown's contemporary concrete lounge tucked into the basement of the Biltmore — which was celebrating five years. Halo is your neighborhood bar ... if your neighborhood had a 212 area code. This Manhattan-style speakeasy with its unmarked door attracts both the sleek and the would-be slick, and all were in abundance Sat., July 29.

With a line out the door, Halo proved a beacon to chichi cherubs and angels with dirty faces. Inside, the narrows radiated with top-shelf grins as patrons luxuriated in the long-torso Latin shimmy of Turntables on the Hudson's midnight-hour deep house. The bar bustled, others hustled and the adventures of an anime frog-boy projected on one wall. Among those seen partying along the boutique bunker's Winchester stairways was Lily, webmistress of Lunar Magazine.

Ducking home a little after 2 a.m., I made my way from a club full of foxes to clubbing foxes. As I desperately burned off caffeine, I caught a snippet of National Geographic's "Killer Canines," during which little critters hunted to drum 'n' bass. Delirious, perhaps, I giggled myself to sleep watching fluffy and fierce arctic foxes — certainly a more satisfying "white party" was unlikely to be found.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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  string(2764) "This week, we continue outing the old and butting in on the new.

First, on Thurs., July 27, I caught the most engaging band I've seen in a looooong time. Cali quartet Eagles of Death Metal -- opening for Peaches at the Variety Playhouse -- freewheeled through raunch 'n' roll led by Jesse Hughes, who, sporting a resplendent pornstache, yelped like a glam greaser-meets-vintage WWF manager. I can't endorse an act more firmly. Speaking of firmly, that's surely how some attendants felt during MJQ's vintage lingerie show the same night. Eventually Peaches and her drummer made an appearance, or so say pictures at [http://www.mjqforums.com/|www.mjqforums.com] (frightening -- they allow cameras).

Friday was a send-off for the Agave Cowgirl, who for the next three months spreads herself across Europe (take that as you will). Then Saturday my friend Susannah (den mother of the North Highland Pub) said auf wiedersehen to her 20s.

I was invited to Jermaine Dupri's Celebrity Weekend at Buckhead's InterContinental Hotel, but it was a "White Party," and even the ATL's midnight mayor can't force me to dress like a marshmallow. And Wild Bill's in Duluth celebrated three years of business in front and party in back. Unfortunately, I misplaced my magnanimous G 'N R belt buckle so opted out; still, my hat tips to mechanical bull Zeus and every "Wild child."

Instead, I visited Halo -- Midtown's contemporary concrete lounge tucked into the basement of the Biltmore -- which was celebrating five years. Halo is your neighborhood bar ... if your neighborhood had a 212 area code. This Manhattan-style speakeasy with its unmarked door attracts both the sleek and the would-be slick, and all were in abundance Sat., July 29.

With a line out the door, Halo proved a beacon to chichi cherubs and angels with dirty faces. Inside, the narrows radiated with top-shelf grins as patrons luxuriated in the long-torso Latin shimmy of Turntables on the Hudson's midnight-hour deep house. The bar bustled, others hustled and the adventures of an anime frog-boy projected on one wall. Among those seen partying along the boutique bunker's Winchester stairways was Lily, webmistress of Lunar Magazine.

Ducking home a little after 2 a.m., I made my way from a club full of foxes to clubbing foxes. As I desperately burned off caffeine, I caught a snippet of National Geographic's "Killer Canines," during which little critters hunted to drum 'n' bass. Delirious, perhaps, I giggled myself to sleep watching fluffy and fierce arctic foxes -- certainly a more satisfying "white party" was unlikely to be found.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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  string(3065) "    Eagles of Death Metal, Peaches and the Agave Cowgirl — all wearing a Halo?   2006-08-02T04:04:00+00:00 Redeye - Extra super cutie night-night party August 02 2006   Tony Ware 1223520 2006-08-02T04:04:00+00:00  This week, we continue outing the old and butting in on the new.

First, on Thurs., July 27, I caught the most engaging band I've seen in a looooong time. Cali quartet Eagles of Death Metal — opening for Peaches at the Variety Playhouse — freewheeled through raunch 'n' roll led by Jesse Hughes, who, sporting a resplendent pornstache, yelped like a glam greaser-meets-vintage WWF manager. I can't endorse an act more firmly. Speaking of firmly, that's surely how some attendants felt during MJQ's vintage lingerie show the same night. Eventually Peaches and her drummer made an appearance, or so say pictures at www.mjqforums.com (frightening — they allow cameras).

Friday was a send-off for the Agave Cowgirl, who for the next three months spreads herself across Europe (take that as you will). Then Saturday my friend Susannah (den mother of the North Highland Pub) said auf wiedersehen to her 20s.

I was invited to Jermaine Dupri's Celebrity Weekend at Buckhead's InterContinental Hotel, but it was a "White Party," and even the ATL's midnight mayor can't force me to dress like a marshmallow. And Wild Bill's in Duluth celebrated three years of business in front and party in back. Unfortunately, I misplaced my magnanimous G 'N R belt buckle so opted out; still, my hat tips to mechanical bull Zeus and every "Wild child."

Instead, I visited Halo — Midtown's contemporary concrete lounge tucked into the basement of the Biltmore — which was celebrating five years. Halo is your neighborhood bar ... if your neighborhood had a 212 area code. This Manhattan-style speakeasy with its unmarked door attracts both the sleek and the would-be slick, and all were in abundance Sat., July 29.

With a line out the door, Halo proved a beacon to chichi cherubs and angels with dirty faces. Inside, the narrows radiated with top-shelf grins as patrons luxuriated in the long-torso Latin shimmy of Turntables on the Hudson's midnight-hour deep house. The bar bustled, others hustled and the adventures of an anime frog-boy projected on one wall. Among those seen partying along the boutique bunker's Winchester stairways was Lily, webmistress of Lunar Magazine.

Ducking home a little after 2 a.m., I made my way from a club full of foxes to clubbing foxes. As I desperately burned off caffeine, I caught a snippet of National Geographic's "Killer Canines," during which little critters hunted to drum 'n' bass. Delirious, perhaps, I giggled myself to sleep watching fluffy and fierce arctic foxes — certainly a more satisfying "white party" was unlikely to be found.

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13021673 1261041                          Redeye - Extra super cutie night-night party August 02 2006 "
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Local Music Features

Wednesday August 2, 2006 12:04 am EDT
Eagles of Death Metal, Peaches and the Agave Cowgirl &mdash; all wearing a Halo? | more...
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  string(2776) "What hasn't happened recently? Old-skool clubbers wept at the Nike Pavilion's passing, but then shed tears of joy as Halo turned 5. Other birthdays have been celebrated by local (self)promoter MJ (I jest lovingly), the "Drunken Unicorn, himself" Armando, and socialite shutterbug Ben Rose. Karma celebrated a reunion, and Butch Walker commemorated a CD release with members of Second Shift, Y-O-U, the Whigs, etc. (the Smith's Olde Bar Brigade, we call 'em). I've shared a Rush! 'N Russian vodka cocktail with the energy drink-fueled Rock Bus crew (yet another notch in the locally based Sixthman "musically driven lifestyle events" success story), and watched Washington, D.C., hipsters do cutesy calisthenics to a Brazilian beat that put Southeastern pogo punks to shame!

But the biggest news is the sudden and impending Aug. 5 closing of Vision, the palatial Midtown estate dedicated to sensory indulgence and churning out mass quantities of crunkitude. It was reported in Nov. 2005 that the two-acre 1010 Peachtree lot was to become a mixed-use development. Though sidelining as an anarchitect I have no exact schematic; but I do know Daniel Corp. and Selig Enterprises (also responsible for Plaza Midtown at 950 W. Peachtree) plan a 443-unit condo high-rise and 38,000 square feet of street-level retail. And I'm informed that the final party will be Jezebel's Bachelor & Bachelorette Party. Tear the roof off tha mothafucka one more time before, well, they literally do.

So who will collect the patrons normally overflowing the Crescent Avenue curbs? Safe bets include neighboring 112, then Compound, and perhaps Fever. Just watch those fake tits bob upstream. But I think bodies to spare will benefit the entire Peachtree corridor. Already poised to accept hip-hop's tired, poor and huddled masses — well, poor after $10 cocktails — is Verve Lounge, the lively three-story South Beach-styled setting next door to Django, the Shakespeare Tavern and Inserection. A gypsy, an Elizabethan drunkard, a dildo and a velvet rope — just an average night around the RedEye house.

With neon red and blue staining the white interior, the ground floor of Verve would be perfect for a Crockett and Tubbs investigation. Cocaine cowboy pastel and designer stubble is a hot second from being fashion-forward again, so there's no better time to enjoy Verve's breezy rooftop patio with its tiki torch skyline.

The upstairs bottleneck is a little uncomfortable at times, and parking is almost as much of a clusterfuck. And there are far too many "Good Samaritans" casing the block. But what's a real city without a little verve, anyway?

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred."
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But the biggest news is the sudden and impending Aug. 5 closing of Vision, the palatial Midtown estate dedicated to sensory indulgence and churning out mass quantities of crunkitude. It was reported in Nov. 2005 that the two-acre 1010 Peachtree lot was to become a mixed-use development. Though sidelining as an anarchitect I have no exact schematic; but I do know Daniel Corp. and Selig Enterprises (also responsible for Plaza Midtown at 950 W. Peachtree) plan a 443-unit condo high-rise and 38,000 square feet of street-level retail. And I'm informed that the final party will be Jezebel's Bachelor & Bachelorette Party. Tear the roof off tha mothafucka one more time before, well, they literally do.

So who will collect the patrons normally overflowing the Crescent Avenue curbs? Safe bets include neighboring 112, then Compound, and perhaps Fever. Just watch those fake tits bob upstream. But I think bodies to spare will benefit the entire Peachtree corridor. Already poised to accept hip-hop's tired, poor and huddled masses -- well, poor after $10 cocktails -- is Verve Lounge, the lively three-story South Beach-styled setting next door to Django, the Shakespeare Tavern and Inserection. A gypsy, an Elizabethan drunkard, a dildo and a velvet rope -- just an average night around the RedEye house.

With neon red and blue staining the white interior, the ground floor of Verve would be perfect for a Crockett and Tubbs investigation. Cocaine cowboy pastel and designer stubble is a hot second from being fashion-forward again, so there's no better time to enjoy Verve's breezy rooftop patio with its tiki torch skyline.

The upstairs bottleneck is a little uncomfortable at times, and parking is almost as much of a clusterfuck. And there are far too many "Good Samaritans" casing the block. But what's a real city without a little verve, anyway?

''RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to [mailto:redeye@creativeloafing.com|redeye@creativeloafing.com], but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.''"
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  string(2991) "       2006-07-26T04:04:00+00:00 Redeye - News you can ooze July 26 2006   Tony Ware 1223520 2006-07-26T04:04:00+00:00  What hasn't happened recently? Old-skool clubbers wept at the Nike Pavilion's passing, but then shed tears of joy as Halo turned 5. Other birthdays have been celebrated by local (self)promoter MJ (I jest lovingly), the "Drunken Unicorn, himself" Armando, and socialite shutterbug Ben Rose. Karma celebrated a reunion, and Butch Walker commemorated a CD release with members of Second Shift, Y-O-U, the Whigs, etc. (the Smith's Olde Bar Brigade, we call 'em). I've shared a Rush! 'N Russian vodka cocktail with the energy drink-fueled Rock Bus crew (yet another notch in the locally based Sixthman "musically driven lifestyle events" success story), and watched Washington, D.C., hipsters do cutesy calisthenics to a Brazilian beat that put Southeastern pogo punks to shame!

But the biggest news is the sudden and impending Aug. 5 closing of Vision, the palatial Midtown estate dedicated to sensory indulgence and churning out mass quantities of crunkitude. It was reported in Nov. 2005 that the two-acre 1010 Peachtree lot was to become a mixed-use development. Though sidelining as an anarchitect I have no exact schematic; but I do know Daniel Corp. and Selig Enterprises (also responsible for Plaza Midtown at 950 W. Peachtree) plan a 443-unit condo high-rise and 38,000 square feet of street-level retail. And I'm informed that the final party will be Jezebel's Bachelor & Bachelorette Party. Tear the roof off tha mothafucka one more time before, well, they literally do.

So who will collect the patrons normally overflowing the Crescent Avenue curbs? Safe bets include neighboring 112, then Compound, and perhaps Fever. Just watch those fake tits bob upstream. But I think bodies to spare will benefit the entire Peachtree corridor. Already poised to accept hip-hop's tired, poor and huddled masses — well, poor after $10 cocktails — is Verve Lounge, the lively three-story South Beach-styled setting next door to Django, the Shakespeare Tavern and Inserection. A gypsy, an Elizabethan drunkard, a dildo and a velvet rope — just an average night around the RedEye house.

With neon red and blue staining the white interior, the ground floor of Verve would be perfect for a Crockett and Tubbs investigation. Cocaine cowboy pastel and designer stubble is a hot second from being fashion-forward again, so there's no better time to enjoy Verve's breezy rooftop patio with its tiki torch skyline.

The upstairs bottleneck is a little uncomfortable at times, and parking is almost as much of a clusterfuck. And there are far too many "Good Samaritans" casing the block. But what's a real city without a little verve, anyway?

RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.             13021570 1260845                          Redeye - News you can ooze July 26 2006 "
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Wednesday July 26, 2006 12:04 am EDT
What hasn't happened recently? Old-skool clubbers wept at the Nike Pavilion's passing, but then shed tears of joy as Halo turned 5. Other birthdays have been celebrated by local (self)promoter MJ (I jest lovingly), the "Drunken Unicorn, himself" Armando, and socialite shutterbug Ben Rose. Karma celebrated a reunion, and Butch Walker commemorated a CD release with members of Second Shift, Y-O-U,... | more...
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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.











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I was dropping the pink jams like manties at Azul when these douche bags make dancefloor gridlock so they can watch the fucking Braves on TV. At like 1 a.m. At an indie rawk dance party! WTF? But to crown it off, one dunce in this cluster, who has been standing by my DJ table for like an hour, is so overcome by a bunt or something inane that he just nonchalantly rests his arm on a MOVING RECORD! Man, I would have horsewhipped that dude if I had a horse.</
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RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to redeye@creativeloafing.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.











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Local Music Features

Wednesday July 19, 2006 12:04 am EDT
DJing at Azul, Lenny's, the Earl | more...