The Mc and I were on our way back from a day trip to NC when the bad weather thing happened in The ATL, so we missed all the excitement. Amen and hallelujah.

My girl Kim, however; was working as a boom operator at the game and got to see it all. Still haven’t had a chance to talk (not text) to her, but all is well. She was the bigger worry.

Today I took some time to walk around the city and snap a few shots, which are viewable here.

Thanks to everyone who called, emailed, texted or IM’ed - I appreciate you!

I saw Mark today.

It was at the intersection of North Highland and North Avenue - the apex of VideoDrome and Buddy’s and Manuel’s and the cute conversion condos with the amazing windows that no one ever comes out of.

Sitting at the light in the unusually warm November dusk and teetering on the verge of being late for an appointment, I grumbled at the car in front of me for missing the light, took a deep breath, released, reset, and looked out the spot where my side window would have been if it wasn’t rolled down to enjoy the air and the bright blue sky.

Mark was making his way across the intersection from Buddy’s. It was a bad day for Mark, if you knew him, you could tell by his stride and the angle his head was hanging. He had on blue sweat pants and most of one leg was missing. He had a tube sock tied around the dark skin on his exposed thigh for a reason I couldn’t imagine and though he had shoes on today, they didn’t match. He was moving slowly and staring at faces in the cars he passed, desperate to make a connection and be offered relief somehow, some way, from his condition.

I’ve known Mark for about a year, but I’m certain he couldn’t tell you my name.

We met when I was picking up a couple of nights a week at a local coffee shop and wine bar. He’d come by the shop to bum cigarettes from the patrons on the patio, and I’d break the rules by swapping him paper dollars for the change he’d collected over the course of the day or the last few hours. It gave him dignity to hand over cash at the shelter to pay for his bed every night.

Eventually it became a dance with Mark. If he didn’t see me in the window of the shop, he’d keep walking. Sometimes when I’d see him first and I didn’t have the energy to decipher what he needed and get him in an out with the least disruption to the customers, I’d step in the back. I still feel horribly about it, but I know that every life needs balance and those were the nights I couldn’t afford to give any more of myself.

There are several versions of Mark’s history, one is that he’d worked at a local restaurant for several years and developed a crack habit. I don’t know what a crack head looks like except for what I’d seen on the news during the 90’s, but those people didn’t look like Mark.

He has kind, sad and confused eyes. Sometimes he’s animated and you can’t keep up with his words and other times he’s pitiful and shy and ashamed and you can’t keep up with his words. I suspect his is a chemical issue created by his body, not from an outside force.

Tonight when I saw him we locked eyes, and though it’s been six months since I gave him a cut of my tips to cover the cost of a pillow, he recognized my face and asked me to pull over at the gas station. I told him I couldn’t, that I was late for an appointment - which was four minutes and a six minute drive from being true.

He asked another dozen times before the light turned again and knowing that he was a spiritual man, the only comfort I could offer was a glance at the sky and promise that he’d be okay.

The light turned green and I watched him watch me go.

Last week I asked if Atlanta Metblogs readers would be at the parade, and by the looks of it, they were.

Gravy! I didn’t expect (especially given the lack of snarled traffic) to find people lined up 5 and 10 deep along Peachtree in every imaginable outfit from civilian to Tiny Spidy to fairies. That’s what I get for not having expectations.

The parade begin with the obligatory banner and a few costumes, but got my attention when none other than Ponch rolled by on two wheels in all his denim glory, my reaction to which was a source of great amusement to my parade companion. It got better from there. If you still have eardrums that work, it’s because you weren’t next to me when Uhura (who I have dubbed the Grandmother of Bluetooth) or the Cardboard Storm Troopers went by.

What I found so surprisingly romantic about this event was the willingness of not only the participants but the spectators to let themselves go a little. To relax, and to laugh, and to let it all hang out and to embrace their inner children and to cheer wildly for those doing the same. To not give a shit for an hour or for a weekend what anyone thought of them, or their outfits, or what they do in their free time. There was an energy that hung around in the air after the parade that I can’t explain other than to say it smelled/tasted/felt a lot like childhood…and I wish I could have bottled a bit of it for sale/retirement.

You won’t get that vibe at a 4th of July parade, where everyone is overly concerned about having the best seat for the fireworks and stressing out about parking and weather and blah blah blah. This crowd just was and for the duration of the event, I just was, too.

My full collection of weak point and shoot captures from the parade can be found here.

(this blob of text is also posted under a different title at Atlanta Metblogs)

As seen on this poor, innocent vehicle in ViHi, spring in Atlanta means a nice coating of pollen on anything that sits outside for more than ten minutes. It reminds me of the volcano back home and the layer of ash it laid on Anchorage…except more offensive and not really a solid excuse to not do stuff. Like drive. Or breathe outdoors without a mask.

Fellow Metroblogger Will did it justice:

Standing on the porch, she looks back at the footprints left behind in the green silt. Cat’s paws, men’s boots, women’s dress shoes. It’s all decorated with the little wormy things that have been coming off the trees like rats off a sinking ship.

“Ugh,” she says.

“What?”

“It’s so gross. It’s like the trees are basically having sex all over us.”

“No it’s not,” I say. “Please don’t say that.”

Blech.

He was standing a few cars down when I came out of the government building, wearing a standard issue yellow slicker and not-so-complementary orange hat. I could see the envelope on my windshield from fifty paces and looked around for a sign I’d violated. I saw no sign, no meter, no paint on the curb. Pulling the card out from under my wiper I debated about if I wanted to pay the $25, or if I wanted to invest the energy to contest it. My camera in my bag, a few minutes to spare and fully prepared to document the conditions, the good witch in me spoke up and told the rest of me to ask first.

“Excuse me” I started to inquire about the love note but before I could get any further his weathered voice shot back “I’m just waiting on the tow truck for your car.” My heart rate shot up, and I felt my face turn to lava. What is this? I’m a good kid! A tow truck?

“For…?” , because if corporate America has taught me anything it’s to say very little in a bad situation.

He pointed at a sign across the street which I acknowledged, and another at the end of the block which I acknowledged, then pointed to one above his head.

I don’t know if it was the grey that got him or the hair pulled back into a nub or the frumpy outfit or the goo in my eye that may have made it appear as though I was about to cry or my pointing out that the sign wasn’t clearly visible from the turn lane I was in or the street itself, but he finally mumbled “okay, forget about it”, tore the evidence out of his book and handed it to me.

I stood dumfounded until he said “have a nice day” which I took to mean “get the hell out of here before I change my mind”, scurried to Jack and fled the scene.

Ironically, I didn’t finish what I needed to and have to go back. I probably won’t park on that street again though. Probably.

What troubles me more than anything though, is that I may have just pissed away some perfectly good karma that I should have saved for a ranier day.

Spent the first six hours of the day doing unto others…

Happy holidays!