Imagine sitting in the back seat of the world's largest Escalade, and that everyone in the car with you is auditioning to be an extra in a rap video. Most of the people in the car with you can be put into one of three categories -- rapper, model, or someone trying very hard to look like a rapper or a model.
In a nutshell, that was what it felt like to attend the Ecko Unlimited fashion show on Sunday night in the Penthouse Fashion Theatre of the Atlanta Apparel Mart. I didn't go so much to see the fashion show as I did to see rapper Killer Mike (who appeared on the invitation as "Killa Mike," presumably because Ecko's public relations people couldn't imagine a rapper with a name that didn't incorporate some sort of kool Ms. Spellin').
Killer Mike's hit is a track called "A.D.I.D.A.S." The chorus repeats, "All day I dream about sex." It's not a great song, but I feel a sentimental affection for it because when I was in elementary school, we used to joke that that's what Adidas stands for. Killer Mike and another equally large rapper performed while the models marched the runway. It's strange -- the fashion show used two overweight rappers during the show and in the background used two massive portraits of another massive rapper, Fat Joe. Nevertheless, the models were all thin. I guess in the fashion world it's OK to be fat if you can rap.
Ecko's fashions clearly weren't comfortable on the two big rappers, who wore them while performing. It seemed like every few seconds they had to grab their crotches to adjust themselves. How embarrassing to have to do that in front of so many people.
(Strange side note: If you look up "Killa Mike" on Amazon.com, instead of "Killer Mike," you get "Leading With the Heart," a self-help book by Duke University basketball coach Mike Krzyzewski.)
Today!: Here's a great rule of thumb for filmmakers -- If you want to guarantee media coverage for your film, put a journalist in it. I don't think that local filmmaker David Sarich had that in mind when he interviewed me for Feel Neil, his documentary about Neil Diamond super-fans and cover bands, or when he invited me to his party last Friday celebrating the film's completion and its acceptance into the Hot Docs Canadian International Documentary Film Festival. But who cares what his intentions were? I obviously love mentioning that I'm in a movie. I also wanna mention that a brief segment featuring the real Neil Diamond failed to make the final cut. That means I made it in, but Neil Diamond didn't. Ha!
The party was held at Lab 601 on North Avenue near City Hall East. Film or no film, the party would've been mention-worthy for its amazing food alone. Bang, Ami and Front Page News provided what was described to me by a couple of people as "the best cocktail party hors d'oeuvres ever." I washed the food down with Sarich-invented "Diamond Martinis." A Diamond Martini is a vodka martini with Goldschlager. The first sip is brutal, but by the fourth sip it makes perfect sense.
The party was also notable for its entertainment amenities, chiefly a fireman's pole that connects the first and second floors. Lab 601 describes it to their insurance company as a "28-foot vertical stainless steel sculpture." Two employees of the company insisted that fire poles are safer than stairs, an assertion undermined by the intoxicated woman who sprained her ankle using it.
Dear Dairy: If while making your way around town this summer you notice life-size fiberglass cows with strange and colorful designs, do not telephone your therapist. It's only CowParade, a citywide public art show that lasts through September.
Last Thursday at the art gallery in Sun Trust Plaza, art patrons and matrons got to watch artist Eric Waugh paint his contribution to CowParade. Waugh calls himself a "performance artist." That doesn't mean he stands naked with one foot behind his head reading Proust aloud while midgets in tuxedos pour pudding on him. Rather, he "performs" by painting in front of audiences. His promo folder -- which was handed to me by his pushy agents -- says that he's "the most collected original artist" not only "of his time" but also "of his kind." Whatever.
How About That: Other than mom, apple pie and preventive military strikes, there's nothing more American than Major League Baseball. That's why I'm so happy that baseball season has started. Apparently, I'm one of the few. I only counted 21,253 at Sunday afternoon's game against the Expos.
I'm particularly surprised because not only was the weather nice, but it was also Kosher Day at the ballpark. To mark the occasion, one of the vendors sold kosher hot dogs. There was also a medley of songs from Fiddler on the Roof during the 7th-inning stretch. (Note: The previous sentence is a lie.)
I didn't try the kosher hot dogs. I did, however, try Dippin' Dots, the self- proclaimed "Ice Cream of the Future" for the first time. Now that I've tasted the future, I can report that the future has a vaguely chemical aftertaste. Much better was the good, old-fashioned 20th-century beer. $7 is steep, but worth it to cleanse my palette of Dippin' Dots.
My girlfriend would like me to mention that Javy "Right Hand" Lopez is the "best thing about the team," "adorable" -- and that this ass looks nice in the Braves uniform. Thanks.
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