A Case for Adoption

Some people adopt children. Some adopt cats. Some adopt dogs.

I aspire to adopt houses.

Just think of poor, abandoned mid-century modern beauties with their textured fireplaces, paneled ceilings, and windowed walls! I want to scoop these bedraggled homes up and grant them a second life.

I would be such a proud mother.

 

Abandoned Mid-Century Modern Homes on Lushpad.

An Epiphany for Democracy

Freedom is a peculiar thing. We claim to value it. We claim it as a virtue, one uniquely or particularly American. But those who are truly free, truly without encumbrances and truly committed to being and doing precisely as they are convinced they ought are pariahs in our society.

So we also believe in containment, fences, boundaries, demarcations, and after all, lines in the sand. We want to know for certain that you are or are not one of us. We want to hold you and our moral and ethical definitions up to the light in search of a match.

The phrase "Don't tread on me," and its kin, is not about freedom in any sort of real sense. Don't tread on me, but do tread on someone else, preferably the person whom I disrespect and devalue. Don't tell me what to do; I've got this. But him, he's doing it differently, wrong. So make him stop and help him see the (my) light.

And democracy? We only believe in it, it seems, if the vote goes our way. Otherwise, it's a sham, a fraud, a conspiracy. We believe that WE are educated and informed voters, but everyone else? They're dupes, deceived, evil, self-interested, greedy, and foolish. And if we're honest, we wish they would, or could, just never vote at all.


This past Tuesday, as I stood in line to cast my vote, I struggled with these fears and prejudices. At first, I looked around at my fellow citizens with suspicion and willed those who disagreed with me to grow impatient with the long line and go home. But then something strange happened. For the first time in the 12 years since I've been a voter, I looked around at people completing their information sheets, casting their ballots, and leaving with the "I'm a Georgia Voter" sticker boldly affixed to their lapels, and I was overwhelmed.

I stood among men and women who cared enough to take an hour out of their day to be a citizen. I was grateful that my one vote counted exactly as much as their one vote counted. After all of the gesturing and opining, the strong arming and chest puffing that marks election season, it comes down to this: you and I, doing our duty and doing our best to make the right decision for ourselves, our families, our communities, and our country. This past Tuesday, I finally saw how democracy not only protects equality but is also, in the end, a great equalizer. I was so proud.

So often in this country, we are defined by our lowest points and our most selfish drives. We're no more than our craving for prestige, power, and wealth. And so often, these definitions are fair. But on (or before) November 6, we were the greatest version of ourselves, no matter what guy we voted for. The polling place was by far the most prestigious and powerful place to be.

Terminal West aka The Bait Shop

My suspicion is that I'm dating myself when I make a "The O.C." reference.

I'm dating myself as much as when, say, I compared a client to Jimmy Stewart and my 18-year-old intern stared at me blankly before asking, "Who's that?"

But still, kids these days probably don't know the prime time melodrama that sought to define the much-coveted, over-privileged existence of Newport Beach teen-somethings. And this is why I felt particularly old when I first walked into Terminal West, a new-comer venue in the trendy King Plow Arts Center on the west side of Atlanta. The soaring ceiling with exposed beams, the recovered wood bars, and most of all, the small balcony gave me a rush of teen angst and confusion. I immediately began searching the room for the jealous make-out sessions and the alcoholic, drug-addicted rich girl.

In true O.C. fashion, Terminal West has become something of a hang out for us recently. We've seen three shows there in the past few weeks, and we've quickly made our home the front row of the balcony. For one recent concert, I sat on the floor during the headliner (I was there to see the opener, after all) and just made myself at home. It was a great time; if only Seth Cohen had made an impromptu appearance, the night would've been perfect.

Terminal West seems to be one of the few venues in Atlanta where the artists truly determine the crowd. No matter the show, more legendary spots like The Tabernacle and The Fox Theatre, which are overrun by corporate sponsors and branding, attract season-ticket holders or middle-aged and pre-teen suburbanites uncertain of how to be cool. The Masquerade holds court for the teenaged rebellious set, and The Earl, of course, is a haven for "hipsters," or as my husband likes to say, "those trendy people who can't be named."

But Terminal West, for the time being, is a blank slate for those who are truly fans of the artist playing. Take, for instance, the wonderful Damien Jurado set we caught the other evening. The crowd was so enraptured and quiet during his solo acoustic set that the bartender was vigorously shushed when he tried to make a shaken martini. Only a few nights later, at the always-entertaining Features show, the crowd was a bit less low-key, chatting, dancing, and singing along.

I'm excited about our new hang out with fancy train pictures and largest cans of Miller High Life I've ever seen. As long as it continues to get great artists, I'm excited to make Terminal West my Bait Shop. Here's hoping it's not my foray into a teen life only possible on a Newport Beach pier.