Why On The Curb?

Welcome to the much anticipated Behind On The Curb where we’ll throw prepositions around like it’s 1999.

What the hell is she talking about?  Is she still thinking about wreke’s voice? Why, yes, I am.

No, I’m about to give you the 4-1-1 on the title of my own little spot on the internet, On The Curb. (and, if you click on that link, you can read this post in surround sound)

Picking a blog name is tricky business.  You want something catchy, not too long, with personal meaning and flair.  At least, that was my criteria.

I wanted this blog to be my personal (well, as personal as you get when broadcasting to the entire world, but you know what i’m driving at here) oasis of escape.  A place where I could write and forget about whatever chaos may be in my midst.

And, that sentiment made the blog naming process a piece of cake.

When someone tells you, “Go to your happy place,” most people mentally pack their bags for a sandy beach with a gentle breeze or some secluded spot hidden deep in the mountains rich with the scent of pine trees and again with the gentle breeze.  (gentle breezes are the sh!t in happy places)

I take my seat on the curb.

Travel back in time with me if you will.  The year is…I’m not really sure.  2001 or 2002.  I know; when the time machine is up and running, you’ll pass on time travel with me because exact dates are not my forte.  Are we going to walk among the dinosaurs or haul huge a$$ bricks to pyramid headquarters?  Yeh, I’m not really sure.

It was Memphis in May in 2000something.  And, I was attending the music festival portion with Mr. President.  No, not President Obama.  My Mr. President, a dear friend who has popped up a few times here and there On The Curb.

As is par for crowds of a gazillion+ and vendors hocking turkey legs the size of baseball bats and beer, beer! and more BEER, you had to shuffle through mounds of trash to get from point A to point B…forget going to point C…somebody tossed their falafel between B and C.

Now, Mr. President.  (oh, my apologies to anyone googling your way here so close on the heels of the election…again, this is a totally different president)  Mr. President was (still is, i imagine) a very neat person.  Sure, he’s neat in that he can answer any music-related question you’ll ever have (former record store employee…they know everything) and has a unique sarcastic wit about him.

But, no, I mean neeeeaaaat. As in tidy, orderly, well-organized, spotless.  This guy kept the sodas and waters in his fridge in neat, tidy, perfectly organized rows.  He always wore these white sneakers that were pristinely spotless, not a smudge detectable even by microscope.  His very being epitomized the exact opposite of the beer-soaked chaos through which we were wading.

So, there we are, bopping around from stage to stage, tripping our way through the cemetery of meat-stripped desiccated turkey femurs (but, the shoes, mind you, remain white throughout this adventure…i’ve decided he has magic shoes), eventually working up our own hankering for some sustenance.

Off to the food vendors (circumventing the B to C falafel carnage) where the detritus to barren space quotient increased 1000-fold.  We were literally knee deep in trash.  But hungry and ready to add our own rubbly contribution to the collection.

Mr. President excavated his way to purchase some foodstuffs and then, there we stood with our food filled hands.  What the hell do we do now?

Forget finding a free bench or seat or spot on the grassy knoll…all occupied by other diners, passed out concert goers, shifty folks who appeared to be making some deals, and lovebirds who refused to get a room already!

Buried in the sea of trash was the curb.  And, surprise! The entire length of trash-covered curb was available for our dining pleasure.  We only had to unearth the dang thing.

So, more excavating on our part.  We kicked away enough trash to accommodate our two a$$es and there we sat.  On the curb.  Amidst the empty beer cups, half-eaten gyros, barbeque-smeared napkins, turkey femurs, you name it.  It was at our fingertips.

We both laughed and commented on how awesome it would be to have a panoramic photo of us in that moment.

While there was chaos all around us, the moment was pure.  We had created our own oasis there on the curb.

And that, my friends, is my happy place.  And, my blog.  On the curb.

What?  Were you expecting a tale of pissing my pants on the curb?  Okay, there was that one time.

“Come Pick Me Up”  Ryan Adams