So I go to this Party That Must Not Be Named tonight, although the (not yet branded) name is blazed all over the place in lights overlooking, uh, a certain park in Atlanta associated with the Olympics, but I've been told beforehand not to blog about it by a certain Power That Really Wantstobee, and all I can say is... Thank you Jesus for sending us Tom Houck, who also showed up at Party That Must Not Be Named. That Tom Houck will remind anyone outside of a coma of just what being old school is all about, and why anyone with just a wee bit of genuine flare and flavor about 'em has enormous cultural value still.
Chiefly, Tom's just plain-ass bawdy fun and loads of excellent gossip, an Atlanta civic treasure if you ask me (or dare attempt to censor me). If it wasn't for him, Party That Must Not Be Named would have been one completely packaged poseur yawner. Basil tea martinis are pretty to hold in your hand, but when it gets down to it, nothing substitutes for plain rowdy-fun behavior, a way with the ladies, and excellent southern partisan political bullshit.
All these cute new southern musicians and artists and utterly flavorless young writers are all just too precious on paper, and what person under 30 doesn't want to buy something glossy in which to read about 'em in (as long as they can read about it on their cell phones that is)?
Honestly, all I really have a hankerin' to really read about lately, from that good 'ole southern POV, would be a day in the, current, life of, say... Bill Campbell! And who would know best to tell that tale than the South's finest, our best longterm man-about-town... Mr. Bi-Partisan Houck.
Sometimes, even I wonder if southern culture altogether shouldn't, finally, just be put in a museum... alongside the flag. Catch it if you can I suppose, no matter how processed the packaging could turn out to be.