Byrdhouse

Today is Your Day Off

Hello Kev, it's June 15th, 2008. It's an otherwise normal Sunday aside from being your very first Father's Day. I'll admit that as I write this (reflecting as one does on such hallmark occasions), I'm astonished most by the fact that I've even made the time to write you. Other musings and pursuits have been on the front burner. I just want you to know a few things:

You now have a baby girl with Florrie, a fine woman who has held your hand for some six years now. She's walking in Candler Park today with your daughter Annabelle, Mom and Gigi. Though she was concerned with the burden of walking to the car with a stroller and a mammoth dog in tow, she didnt even quip when you intentionally did not volunteer to assist like you normally do in these instances. It's as if she's whispering, "be self-indulged today hon," by not saying anything at all.

And so you write and work on a summer CHIRP mix and think about how Annabelle is fast approaching three months. She's smiling, speaking mumblecore and getting fat thighs, and oh gawd do you love that.

There are several mini projects in various stages of development to mention.

You've started wrangling Flickr images tagged with "friedchicken" and/or "waffles." It's simply called Fried Chicken and Waffles. Your next step is to arrange this gallery into a limited edition hardback celebrating... well, you guessed it.

There's a 35mm E6 slide light casing you're working on too, inspired by Grayson's Slide Lamp. It's your first time experimenting with laser cut acrylic. 

The Monster Quest motion-sensing wilderness camera you got is still in test-mode. One day you hope to attach it to a fence and make a photography series on people picking up after their dogs. (Like I said, it's still in test-mode.)

Oh and that oil painting of Gigi for Annabelle's room; it's on its way. She is one stately explorer of the Alaskan tundra, just like you all dreamed. Do compare the image vs the painting:

You're working at Armchair, and you love it. 

OK the call just came. The ride is here to go to for brunch. 

Talk soon, 

Kevin

MA Guide Book

Design is Human - May 6-11

I'm proud to announce the MA08: Design Is Human event in Atlanta May 6-11, 2008.

MA is the result of the vision and efforts of Bernard McCoy and Elayne DeLeo to unify the greater Atlanta design community through modern home tours and events throughout the city. I have been fortunate to have been involved on the branding-concept-strategy-design side of things. It’s been a team affair of armchairs, pc students and design friends.

Join us, explore some of those homes you've had your eye on during the Modern Atlanta Home Tour. Other highlight events include the wine tasting at Poliform SWITCH, the Belgium Design & Fashion Event for Darfur, and the Launch Party at Mason Murer Gallery.

Ticket prices vary. Many events are free. More information is available at the MA web site.

We had a baby girl

Her name is Annabelle. She's grumpy when she's hungry.

Guest Editor at Coudal

I'm spending the month of February rummaging through the medicine cabinet, eating cereal that's not mine and claiming the comfier sofa. Call me a house guest. Im posting on Coudal under Fresh Signals. It's a link stream of art, design and culture.

Organic Honey Macadamia Grainfest

Welcome Trader Joe's to Atlanta. I have two suggestions for you:
1. Widen your isles. I was nearly speared by a french-bread wielding lady making a hard left. If I'm going down that way, believe me, I will be taking out the closest end-cap of stacked something with me. That's a promise.
2. Increase the amount of macadamia nuts in the Organic Honey Macadamia Grainfest cereal. (Yeah, believe it. That's a real name you read as the post title.) My gawd, it's not just a grainfest after all, sheesh. I mean, the packaging photography doesn't lie. The EXACT same count of nuts in the bowl image can be found in the entire box, so technically it is correct. But when I go in thinking every spoonful will have a morsel of macadamia, and it doesn't, well step on a frog, you're gonna have a good ol' blog rant on your hands.

Other than these two minor issues, I very much enjoyed the 2.99-everything shopping experience of Trader Joe's. It's like the IKEA of organic groceries. The cereal was actually quite good despite its short comings in the nut arena.

The Spectrum Diet*

We are talking about a seven-day eating regime like no other that has marched across America, passed from mother to daughter, and is currently being tested by a large group of mildly overweight people. We are talking about the spectrum diet.

On Monday, we eat in red. Tomatoes, apples, tuna tartar, red peppers, pepperoni and raspberries. Tuesday is orange like cantaloupe and salmon. And well, oranges. Wednesday is yellow. Thursday, green. Friday is nothing but blueberries! Eggplant, plums and grapes are for Saturday. Sunday you fast. But maybe you do pink. (Florrie interjected and said to put in pink.) The real spectrum diet purest fasts though. I mean, come on, pink grapefruit and shrimp? Sheez.

*Working title, results may vary.

Smittens

Now here's something particularly cute for those upcoming winter months: Smittens, mittens built for two. It's a brilliantly cute idea, the Smitten. One mitten keeps two holding hands warm.

I remember back when we lads didn't even have gloves during cold winter days outside. All we had were socks; striped tube-socks on our frigid little hands. Very difficult to even hold hands back then. Now, Smittens!

A Pork Pickin'

A pork pit, constructed from concrete block and re-bar, is a thing of beauty. And its bounty, even more lovely still. This past Saturday we attended a favorite southern tradition, the backyard barbecue. A 140 pounds of pig takes the better part of a day to cook. The horseshoe clanks, keg pumps, and backyard chatter all ceased at the pig's spectacular unveiling, replaced with low primal pork chants. Slow-cooked, and coupled with baked beans and potato salad, barbecue taps solid grins all around. (Well, except for the vegans.) What a night. Well done Scott and Dave.

BBQ in Atlanta

Barbecue. It's just part of our southern make-up down here in Atlanta, which also includes an ad-hoc concoction of cornbread, fried chicken and collard greens. Rinse with sweeter-than-sweet sweet tea, and you too will be channeling Paula Dean.

(Kevin now changes his speech so it is a bona-fide southern drawl.)

Here's a round-up of BBQ joints in Atlanta.

DADDY D"S
Cinder-blocked and sticky, and just a spit away from the Braves Stadium, this down-home shack has been smoking BBQ for OH SO many years here in Atlanta. It's not unusual at lunchtime to see city lawmakers, EMT workers and business men all hunched over styrofoam plates. The smokey ribs are dry rubbed and the sauce is sweet tomato-based goodness. I myself generally opt for the pulled pork plate with sides of baked beans and fried zucchini. Locals know this part of Memorial Drive as a tough spot, even downright scary at times. My suggestion: Unless you're familiar with the area, try another place first. And don't take a date here unless she can stand the occasional fly buzzing about.

FATT MATT'S RIB SHACK
Fatt Matt's has been around for several years and has a good line-up of live music acts. The wall's are practically a shrine to the blues. The quarter bird is heavenly, but I say give way to the ribs; they are gently blessed with a deliciously tangy sauce. Rum-baked beans, potato salad and coleslaw are a must. The pulled pork sandwich is good alt for those that can't handle sticky fingers. Ignore the lines leading out; it moves fast, and is well worth the wait.

ONE STAR RANCH
One Star has its share of pork dishes, but it's the beef barbecue that makes this a Buckhead destination. Think Flintstones-sized ribs on small plates with plenty of fixn's. And order a bucket of beer, perfect. The atmosphere is a little more refined than a shack, but still manages a home-town appeal. There are about a thousand dollar bills on the walls.

ROLLING BONES
In a renovated gas station on Edgewood is the Meier-white Rolling Bones, with drive-in. There's a special technique involved in the smoking evidently, generations old. I've been here many times, and my opinion is that the sauce just tastes too much like sweet & sour.

SMOKEY BONES
Ah, the suburbs. There's good barbecue here for sure. Rather than being dedicated to a geographic region or roots, Smokey Bones instead offers you a sampling of them all. The post-modern approach to producing barbecue may not be for purists, but it is a fun experience all the same. The central focus is clearly the televisions. Where Johnny Rockets has a jukebox at every table, Smokey Bones has a sound remote that flips through every channel that's on. Look a different direction, change the sound. It's uncanny. Bottomline: Good for a silent date in Roswell, and go for the St. Louis style ribs.

Are you a BBQ aficionado?

Reminder for Thursday

Hey remember last week at that pub. How I told you we had an art thing coming up. It was one of your classic blank stares you gave. A most considering pause, caped by one serious, "I really need a haircut." Well it's Thursday May 5th at the RIALTO downtown Atlanta. We'd love to see you there.

As fate would have it, we're also going to be at Sage in Decatur that afternoon unveiling the Decatur Arts Festival design.

Living With a Food Writer

It was a half past nine on a Saturday when you first realized that your patience for restaurant service was slyly burning away. You do remember feeling antsy with inattentive service months before, but it had not occurred to you then that your tolerance for it could be slipping. Or that you would stand from your corner table and send "FOOD FIGHT!" across the room with the pumpkin seed-encrusted snapper you had barely touched.  When the fish finally lands on a server’s shoulder after a cinematic flight over six tables, the gravity of the announcement is sure to instantly register with every diner in the room.

Honestly, maybe you should just sit there and imagine staging a food fight instead. You would likely need to plant a minimum of three accomplices at other tables to really make it work anyhow. On your own, you’d just look crazed and require a quick exit to save face.

That damn server is writing the names of the cooking staff on styrofoam cups with a sharpie marker after ignoring you for fifteen minutes. Now she's taking the dishwashers' names. Now she's walking ALL THE WAY across the dining room to retrieve drinks for them. "Hello, we are done over here?" She passes the table without even glancing your way.

You're staring at that now cold snapper in front of you and the unexplainable decoy for culinary innovation that is your wife's dish. You are perfectly still, though angry. If only it were good. Across the way you see a man slouched in his chair, reviewing your irritation over an after-dinner drink. Almost to say, "Hey, relax Mr. Food Fight Guy. Notch it down a bit on the ol' drama stick, will ya?"

Things like this inattentive server didn't bother you in the not-so-distant past, but now it somehow slips under the skin. You are transforming into one grumpy, demanding diner.

Know it's not your fault. This is out of your control. You are being conditioned and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. The same goes with that extra twenty pounds.

A Red Velvet Valentine

Before you begin, please be sure to walk your adorably cute puppy. Walk a helluva way, so she is sure to be tired and napping snoring when your kitchen duties call. Presenting... Red Velvet in Five:

1. Begin by talking about the color.

2. Taste it.

3. Plop it in pans.

4. Cool it.

5. Serve it.

* For brevity's sake I have skipped a few steps that may or may not be essential to reproducing this delectable dessert in your own kitchen. When in doubt, please refer to the original recipe.

Le Garage

Our friend Mary Stanley is hosting an artist by the name of  Kenson Thompson at the Garage Projects beginning January 27th. Garage Projects is located in the Castleberry Hill District next door to Slice and has been home  to some exciting exhibits in the past. The reception is this Friday, along with citywide ATLart[05] openings.  Get the info/directions and come celebrate with us.

Castleberry Hill is like the next Chelsea, or so they've been saying.

Free Lunch

I'm not one for fast food, but I do understand that there are moments in life when it is the only option. Today, when I missed lunch and was staring at a 3 o'clock meeting across town, it became one of those moments.

Burger King is now accepting credit cards in the drive-thru. Or so the sign read. It's the only reason why I chose to stop, actually.

"Hol dawn, the credit card machine is stuck," the cashier was pissy. I was hungry. "Stuck?" To my left I see multiple employees getting involved. I munch down a fry, then two, then three all at one time.
"What are you waiting on?" the manager asks. "My card," I manage between a full bite of burger, still sitting there. He gives me an apathetic look, then smiles as he disappears and the cashier returns.
"Sorry, it ain't working."
"Huh?" I suck down some Fanta and take my card back. "I don't have any cash."
And then off she stomps. Minutes pass.
"The manager sez I gotta take the food back."
"Take it back?"
"That's what he sez."

I hand the half-eaten burger to her along with the empty fry container and bag. Then I return the napkins and peel off.

I make it to my 3 o'clock on time.

We Need Toothpicks

[Click image for Movie Clip]

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The Oz

[Oz Pizza, Decatur]

Frosty Clementine

This season's beverage is a simple concoction.  It is sure to warm your spirits as you get cozy by the crackling yule log fire (fig 1.).  Pour one shot (one and a half if it's a holiday) of Grand Marnier over a glass filled with crushed ice. Top with soda or sparkling water (we prefer Hildon). Stir. Garnish with a twist of orange. Now marinate beside the roaring fire, it's gonna be a Frosty Clementine* evening.

• 1 glass filled with crushed ice
• 1 shot Grand Marnier
• soda or sparkling water
• twist of orange

*The phrase "Frosty Clementine" is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

Running On Empty

Dreary-eyed Kevin: One tall latte please.

Lady behind the counter: We're cleaning out our espresso machine, it'll be about fifteen minutes.

Kevin: Okay just give me regular coffee instead.

Lady: Sorry, we ran out of coffee this morning.

Kevin: But you're Starbucks.

The Time We Beat Nestle

This is a story about winners. In 1989 Nestle Crunch ran a sweepstakes challenging its consumers to spell C-R-U-N-C-H with candy bar wrappers. Each wrapper had a single random letter on its interior, although you soon realized spelling "Crunch" was as impossible as finding the Boardwalk game piece on a McDonald's fries. It was much easier to win a free Crunch bar, as a few offered a coupon rather than a letter.

Somehow it came to my attention that Nestle had printed a series of numbers on the exterior of the wrapper that revealed the game piece found on the inside. It wasn't long before I discovered the one ending in 6 had a free candy bar coupon.

It was our turn to provide snacks for our baseball team following the day's game. My father and I thought this was an opportunity to apply our newfound knowledge. Every Nestle Crunch at the local Walmart with the free coupon number on it found its way into our shopping basket. It was a frantic shopping spree. I'm sure the employees saw the Crunch bars we had for eyes.

The process then went like this: I purchased the first one, unwrapped it, and handed the cashier the coupon. My dad then handed her the next candy bar from the basket, which we got for free. Unwrap. Repeat. This played out until fifty candy bars were bagged for only the cost of the initital purchase.

The only consequence was the wierd looks we got after the game when we handed out the Crunch bars wrapped only in foil. But hey, we won two games in a single day. That's something to be proud of.

Little. Different.

The kitchen countertop is lined with a stunning collection of cupcakes from some of Atlanta's most well regarded bakeries. The tastes range. Black Bottom. Red Velvet. Devil's Foodcake. Tres Leches. Coca-Cola. My stomach groans a Homer Simpson battle cry. We are in cupcake heaven. One-by-one each gracious goodness is devoured in a four step process. Follow along with us: Remove half the wrapper. Bite. Remember the eighties. Repeat... One baker's dozen later, doze off. This is one of the many wonderful benefits of having a wife who is a food writer.

Happy Birthday

I am 28 today. We will eat and then dance the night away.

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Kitchen

How about that for a clever title?

A Single Slice

[ Fellini's Pizza- Candler Park]

Out of the Car, Longhair

The new year is here, and amongst the brisk wintry air, change is upon us. Time for a new hairstyle, Kevin. Scouring style magazines and dog-earing the latest trends can only get you so far. You gotta take them for a test drive, my friend.

Clockwise from the top: the Howie, the Justin, the Johnny and the Elijah.

Voting will commence shortly. Place your bets, people.

(There's nothing, and I mean nothing, better than shoddy photo editing.)

Gang of Green

"So I have a new concept for a band," Bill says to me as we round the corner for a bite to eat, "They're called Gang of Green."

Gang of Green is a heavy metal band. They dress in fatigues. They cover Village People hits.

At lunch we give the idea roundness in a quasi-brainstorm session. The results:

Gang of Green will have five lead performers, each from various arms of the military. Three are special forces, like the seal, the ranger, and the delta force solider. One is a fighter pilot. The other, I don't know, maybe he's into demolitions. Their back-up (we can't have them actually learning instruments) is a four-piece, decked out in various camo patterns. All are hunky, beefy men with aviator sunglasses.

The front men spend much of their time flexing on stage. Other performance activities include high-stepping through tires, vaulting climbing-walls, and dog piles. And did I mention flexing? Gang of Green will be a hit on the gay bar circuit.

We have plans for Gang of Green action figures. There will be a fan club. Autographed photos will resemble survellience images. Other merchandising will include dog tags and MRE's (Coqauvin, Foie Gras, and Salmon Croquettes).

If they expand out past the VP covers to produce their own material, "Officer and a Gentleman" and "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" will surely be winners.

Scotch and Soda

Scotch and Soda are our cats. Each year I do my best to give them something special for Christmas. Some years are of course better than others. Like the year Santa brought them the Vortex 3000 RC All-Terrain Vehicle. The high pitched squeal sent their terrified little selves running for the high ground on christmas morning. NOT a huge success. It was very effective at keeping them contained in the back bedroom when non cat-friendly friends were over though. Just the mere sight of the beast had them frozen with fear.

I liked the idea of being able to engage them by remote control, but the ratio of cat to vehicle mass was all wrong. Entered Shen Qi Wei Mini Racer. It was the perfect mix of control and size. And they loved it. They would chase it, bat it, gnaw on it. Perfect. Only the battery charge wouldn't last long and when I was tired of playing, they weren't. So this year I've opted for the Weazel Ball. is it ALIVE? IS IT ALIVE? (text from the box, my own crescendo.) Automated, fuzzy and cheap. Hopefully it will be a hit.

Next season,I'm thinking theShow Bug DVD collection. This is what you do when you don't have real kids.

Who's on First

Ghostrunner on First (yes, that ghostrunner) premieres this Thursday, November 13th at Vinyl (that's next to Earthlink Live). Screening starts at 9:30. In addition to the film, Prophetix will perform following the showing of their latest music video for Gotcha. You so should go.

Something from the Fridge

Friday we went to the opening night for FifthClass's 2003 Refrigerator Door Show, open now until Friday November 21st in Atlanta's Castleberry Hill district. The concept: a pin-up show reminiscent of when your mom used to magnet your artwork to the family's fridge. Brilliant. FifthClass found dozens of refrigerator doors. And magnets. Local artists supplied the visuals. J-Stroke, the beats. Stop by if you're in the area, there's some great work. And, if you decide to throw down a few clams, part of the proceeds goes to fund future exhibitions.

November 7-21
Opening Reception Friday November 7, 7-11pm
Closing Event Friday November 21
261 Peters Street in downtown Atlanta
Get Directions here.

Forget Turbo Tax, Get Yourself A Steve

Steve is my CPA. Today we met up to do some tax planning, run the numbers and well, photograph his cars. (Note how that works. CPA's know the value of trading services.) Steve collects and restores "classics." What I love about Steve is, well, exactly what's not to love? A rattlesnake guards his breakfast table. There's a framed Luger on his wall. Steve is quite a compelling character. AND he's stunningly sharp when it comes to taxes. On this encounter he's got me behind the wheel of a 1969 Cadillac DeVille. He's up ahead of me in the Eldoraldo, ZZ Top drowns out even the stately rumble of the engine. When I awoke this morning, I would have never thought this would be part of my day's experience. But this is the Steve experience, well-equipped with tax breaks and cool cars. One day you'll be at a light and a pink smear will be all you catch, "Whoa, is that a 1969 DeVille I just saw?" As Steve would say...

Bulthaup Flash Mob

Last evening a group of designers descended upon the Atlanta Bulthaup store, a German producer of "kitchen architecture". Many heard of the gathering by email and websites, most by the invitation Dwell sent out last week to its subscribers. As planned, Andrew Wagner, Dwell's senior editor, read something about architecture at exactly 6 pm. The mass gathering then dispersed just as quickly as it assembled. I overheard one participant note on its success, "More flash mobs should consider passed hors d'oeuvres."

Mickey Kills Again

What is happening to America? We're falling apart, people. Disneyland is no longer safe for our children. A death at Big Thunder Mountain is a sign of terrible things to come, don't you see. Already I can't get iceberg lettuce in restaurants anymore.