Autobiography of My Feet inspired me this morning to have some fun and make my own found self-portrait.
Want to make one too? Here are the instructions and my answers:
A. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
B. Using only the first page, pick an image.
C. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s mosaic maker.
1. What is your first name? Rebecca
2. What is your favorite food? Cheese
3. What high school did you go to? No match, so I used our mascot-- the Mustangs
4. What is your favorite color? Purple
5. Who is your celebrity crush? John Cusack, not just celebrity crush, but celebrity husband. Gar totally understands.
6. Favorite drink? Wine
7. Dream vacation? Bhutan-- and it may become a reality in October '09!
8. Favorite dessert? Soapapilla
9. What you want to be when you grow up? Loved
10. What do you love most in life? Love
11. One Word to describe you. Tall
12. Your flickr name. Nothing came up for Merfunkhead, so I used 'funk.'
June 06, 2008
My 'found on Flickr' self-portrait
June 05, 2008
A Black Veil
I think I'm ready to start blogging about it all and, in general, get back into the swing of things. I was overwhelmed on how to do it. And I think I'm a bit sad that it's all over. I wasn't expecting that at all...
The Bachelorette/Bachelor/Birthday Party!
Two weeks before the wedding Gar and I had our bachelor and bachelorette parties. It was a hell of a night. The plan was for the men to get tattoos in the afternoon and then have a nighttime bachelor party. The ladies were to meet at my house in the evening and then go out and hit the town. Later, we planned to converge back at my house at 2:00 am to celebrate Gar's 33rd birthday!
I think my evening is best told in pics. So enjoy-- and there are many, many more on my Flickr account.
I was so surprised by all the details my grrrls put into this party. They brought food, decorations, champagne, liquor, and everything-- I mean EVERYTHING-- that was ever made to resemble a penis. Oh, and one wind-up vagina.
"Seriously friends? You are gonna make me wear a cock necklace? Have you seen my hot outfit? Really? You are really gonna make me wear this in public?"
"REALLY? Two cock necklaces, a virgin VIP pass that you,*ahem*, altered, a sash and a black veil? I really have to wear this all? Fine...."
My friend April rented a catering van from work-- always in style-- and we drove to dinner. We went to a salsa club/ tapas restaurant called Loca Luna. Pulling up in the big white van and stepping out covered in cocks and fishnets was one of the funniest moments of the night. I think we scared the yuppies.
I am already 5 feet 11 inches tall. I wore three inch heels which made me about 6 feet and 2 inches. Add another 6 inches of a black veil and believe you me-- I did not blend into the crowd.
After dinner we came back to my neighborhood and went to Thinking Man Tavern-- where Gar and I had our first date. I'm friends with the bartender and knew we would get great treatment. He gave me $20 for the jukebox and several rounds of shots. I sang and danced for the rest of the night. And then it was time to check on the men...
Our dining room had been transformed into Las Vegas. The men were smoking cigars, playing poker-- and strangely-- many of them had just white tank shirts on and hand-drawn black mustaches. I have no idea where that came from.
I checked out Gar's new ink and it's fabulous. It's a replication of one his very favorite Erik Drooker prints.
His pink birthday cake read, "Happy Birthday Gar-Ho the Destroyer." A pink cake, complete with fondant skull, it was Ms. Woody's run-through, from scratch, strawberry groomsmen cake. And it was delicious.
Gar and I took about two days to recover from the debauchery. And then we got ready for the big day...
May 28, 2008
We done did it!
I'm a bit overwhelmed at the prospect of blogging about the past couple of weeks. That said, everything was more spectacular, magical, and loving than I could have thought possible.
I'm about to go play catch-up and read all my favorite blogs. Wedding and honeymoon pics, blogs and videos to come soon! And a brand new blog design and title.... cause Holy Shit! I'm not getting hitched, I am hitched!
April 28, 2008
April 22, 2008
Ballgowns to Building supplies
Is it me, or does every week that passes lose a day, or two, or three? It feels like yesterday was March...
Last Friday Garrett and I attended my annual work Gala. We call it our Buckhead Vacation. We travel to the ritzy part of Atlanta, stay in a swanky hotel for two nights, get all dressed up for a black-tie event (at which Gar can wear his wedding tux to next year!), and generally get paid to eat, drink and dance.
I was much better behaved than I was last year. Gar and I only had one dance together. It was a slow song because we NEED to practice.
The whole evening was romantic. It was like we had just started dating again. Garrett couldn't keep his hands off me. All during the dinner, and the big presentation that happens simultaneously, he kept rubbing my shoulders, my neck, and grabbing my hand.
During the dinner program, the President of our organization got ready to introduce us staff. At that moment I leaned forward in my chair and got ready to stand up. Gar's hand had been around my neck gently rubbing me.
As I leaned up, the tie on my halter dress got stuck between his arm and the back of my chair and wouldn't ya know it?
He untied my dress.
I felt my eyes bug out in horror as I slowly leaned back to retrieve my dress ties before I was introduced. I attempted to inconspicuously re-tie my dress as I shot Garrett the evil-eye.
Luckily, a potential Janet Jackson faux pas was averted.
After Friday's festivities we spent some time recovering. I took the day off work yesterday to do more wedding work. Ours has truly turned into a DIY wedding. While I got a late start in the afternoon, I finished painting all 20 of the picture frames we're using to put pictures of our grandparents on the tables.
Then I began to prime all the 2 x 4s needed to build the set. After hauling those out onto the drop cloth, hauling all the lattice out, and crouching over it all with a mini-roller, I began to get tired. 
Garrett got home in the early evening and took over for a bit. I'm pleased to say that the 'set' has been built. We still need to paint it and I need to get the fabric and flowers for it. However, just as I knew it would, Garrett's design turned out lovely.
And the days continue to pass, the next more quickly than the last. Only 18 more!
April 16, 2008
Just stunned
I first moved to Atlanta in January of 2002. I had just graduated from college 9 months previously and was working in direct service as a social worker. After a few particularly difficult cases of judges denying justice to the domestic violence victims I worked with, I became interested in pursuing macro level work. Basically, I wanted to influence policy. I was pissed that good people, strong women, and victims of sexual and domestic violence were not only abused by their partners but then by the system as well. I wanted to make a change.
Oh, that feeling of hope, determination, idealism. It sure has taken me places.
I left snowy Chicago, my apartment I shared with my boyfriend at the time, my friends and proximity to my family for a job in Atlanta. I was to intern with a bad-ass lobbyist (who only worked for social justice clients) and learn about the legislative process for $250 a month-- and an extra $100 a week for extra administrative work. After session, I was to move back home to Chicago.
It was crazy. I packed one suitcase and a pillow. I was going to sleep on a cot loaned to me at her daughter's (and my friend's) tiny apartment for 3-4 months. I had never really been to Atlanta before, save the time I spent in the suburbs during the Olympics in '96. I had never even been in a state capitol building-- much less worked in one. I had never owned a business suit. I had never met a legislator before. I had no idea what the hell I was getting myself into.
My boss' daughter had just moved down here too. We were both newbies-- she to Atlanta and me to the South in general. I had so much to learn. I had no idea what a "package store" or a "pocketbook" was. I had never tried collard greens. I had never seen a confederate flag-- and there were crazy people waving them all over the place at the Capitol. I couldn't understand half the people I met as they spoke to me with their thick southern drawls. I couldn't navigate the damn city where 28 streets are named Peachtree. I was used to Chicago's well-thought-out grid system. Hell! I didn't even own a car at that time. I had to buy one to move to Atlanta because the city has shit for public transportation.
I was lost and lonely and scared.
My friend and I shared half of the tiniest little house I had ever been in. In order for me to move from the bedroom into the kitchen, I had to roll my cot out of the doorway. I still have scars from that damn cot. To top it off, the duplex had been a known prostitution house before. Needless to say, the neighborhood was sketchy.
After a couple of nights spent crammed in our tiny living room, we knew we had to get out of the house. We had to make some friends. We had to blow off steam. So we headed up the road to a dive bar/live blues club called The Northside Tavern.
The Northside Tavern is dark and dingy. The regulars are tough and gritty. It's a feast for the eyes in an incredibly appealing wasteland sort of way.
The Northside Tavern is all about the Blues-- live Blues-- 7 days a week. Decades of history, musicians, legends and Blues. It's place where black, white, young, old, hippie, rockabilly, rich, poor-- anything-- come to see the real thing. No pretense. No fancy stage. No servers besides those behind the bar. No stalls for all the toilets. No food except 5 year-old bags of Fritos. No bullshit. Just Blues.
And I loved it.
As a Blues lover in Chicago, I felt comfortable here. My meager paycheck could take me through several pitchers. Before we knew it, we were there every Friday and Saturday night and at least every other weekday.
In February, I ended my 4-year relationship waiting for me in our apartment in Chicago. Of course we went to the Northside to drown my sorrows. We were becoming regulars. The bartenders knew our names. We walked in and were greeted by a pitcher of PBR-- and often shots, on the House.
The Northside became my second home. We flirted with musicians and patrons. We laughed at pick-up lines. We befriended neighbors and got asked to parties. We drank beer, smoked cigarettes, and clapped after every song. We hooted for the musicians.
We really got to know, and love, The Blues.
By March, my money was really running out and my bar tabs got smaller. The bartender asked me if I would work as the doorgirl for some extra cash on the weekends. I couldn't think of a better gig. I started that weekend. My job consisted of sitting outside the door from 9:00 pm - 1:00 am with a raunchy Atlanta cop, asking for IDs, taking the $5 cover, and drinking for free. The door stayed open all night, so I never missed a set. My cut was $60 a night in cash.
Hell yeah.
As a worker, I got to know the musicians better. At first they were sweet to me because I collected their money, handled the guest lists and kept them company on set-break. Later, we became friends.
As I counted out my cut one Saturday night, the bartender came over and informed me about my next two shifts. He said that the cover would be $8 -- and that my cut would be $80. He said it would be a crazy night-- busier than I had ever seen. "Sean Costello is back in town," he said. "Get ready for a great show."
I had heard the other musicians speak of this guy. "Awwww man, that guy is good," they would say. "That kid is the next Buddy Guy." Accolades upon accolades were thrown at this Sean Costello guy. I couldn't wait to check him out.
The next Friday I got there early to start my shift. The joint was already filling up to see Sean. I took my regular bar stool outside and set up my doorgirl shop. A young, handsome, well-dressed guy came up to me.
"Eight bucks," I said.
He held out his hand for me to shake, "Sean Costello," he said.
"Oh, shit, sorry." I said feeling like a complete asshole. "I just moved here and I haven't seen you yet."
He smiled and asked me where I was from. We talked about Chicago Blues for a bit. Then he went back in to set up. I couldn't believe that this young, hot, white kid with kinda rockabilly hair was Sean Costello.
Then I heard him play.
Damn.
The kid (22 at the time) could sing. The kid could play. I understood what everyone was talking about. I got it. I was catching a glimpse of greatness. The kind that will have generations after us alluding to Sean Costello in the same sentence as BB King, Buddy Guy and Muddy Waters.
And I remember how I felt.
I was young (22) livin' in a new city, in a new region, in a new culture, with new friends, a new job, sitting out front of a legendary Blues club, drinking free beer and listening-- experiencing-- greatness.
I had never felt so free. It was the life I had dreamed of living-- and I was doing it.
I equate realizing, for the first time, that my home is wherever I choose it to be, with Sean Costello. I equate feeling free and independent and young and invincible with Sean Costello. I equate that pivotal and exceptional time in my life where I didn't worry about money, rent, relationships-- anything but good beer and better Blues-- with Sean Costello. He was my first Atlanta crush.
I should have thanked him for that.
That's why I'm so stunned.
I went online to read the paper today and the first headline I saw was, "Atlanta Blues Guitarist Sean Costello Found Dead."
Shit.
I'm just stunned.
I called my ex-boyfriend who played Blues piano with Sean. I broke the news-- and not too gently. All I could say was, "Jeff, Sean Costello died today." I feel bad about that. I was just stunned.
Tomorrow would have been Sean's 29th birthday. Tonight everyone will be at the Northside Tavern. And right now, I continue to be stunned.
This is Sean at the Northside Tavern.
