Correspondence: July 24, 2007

… Myrtle Beach. My goodness! I haven’t been there since the ’80s. My grandparents came to Atlanta in the summer of ’82 and took me down to Savannah and up the coast, through Myrtle Beach and on up to the Outer Banks of N.C. (My great-great-something grandfather who was in the Revolutionary War was from that area, and we were on a genealogical mission.) Then I spent a weekend with a group of friends in Myrtle Beach in ’89. I can’t say I was impressed either time. Like Gatlinburg, too touristy for me. What kind of existence must it be to live there, living each day kitsch as kitsch can?

I agree with you on Mary Mac’s. It just isn’t the same as it was 25 years ago. It beats the Piccadilly, but I’m going to have to cast my vote for the Colonnade, as well. I’ve never partaken of their cocktails, though. I guess I’ve always been there for lunch during the work day, and I usually try not to indulge my gross appetite for alcohol while my supervisors are present. (Of course, there have been some notable exceptions to this policy.)

Now, maybe it’s because I’ve only been in the daytime, but I’ve never noticed a disproportionate number of gay diners at the Colonnade. Mostly just old folks. I’ll bet it does get hoppin’ at night when the patrons of the clubs on Cheshire Bridge get hungry and want to duck out for a little sump’n sump’n.

That reminds me of a time when I was young and naïve and driving down Cheshire Bridge with a friend of mine looking for a place to eat. We noticed The Happy Unicorn and decided to give it a try. Very friendly staff. Good food. It wasn’t until we left that we realized that there had been no female patrons and that we seem to have been the only straight people in the place. Oh ... “The Happy Unicorn.” I get it!

Correspondence: July 17, 2007

… So, twenty-two year old accountants make you feel old? That’s nothing! I just spent the afternoon at my mother’s with my two nieces (almost 18 and almost 15) and their boyfriends. My God, do I feel old! I’ve actually gotten to the point where I start a sentence with, “When I was your age ...”

I’m not sure I could explain “Experiential Communications” either. The Web site of the company I used to work for says: “We create multidimensional experiences that inspire people to take action and influence others. ... We’re the leading experiential marketing agency — integrating live events, branded environments and interactive media. ... We help clients build brands and relationships with consumers, employees and business influencers. ... Ultimately, we ensure brand experiences live up to brand promises. You could say we help brands behave as they say they will.” Make sense now?

(The Web site also says they have 600 employees. When I was there the company line was “over 1,200 employees in 31 locations.” And on the day that we all got downsized, the stock was down to $7.00/share. Fortunately, I sold all of mine six months earlier at about $35.00/share.)

You have no idea how much indignity is actually involved in some of the projects I’ve been a part of. I have been pooped on by a bald eagle, I was nearly killed by fireworks on New Years’ Eve 1999, I once had to keep hordes of construction workers at a McDonald’s from getting ice during lunch rush while we shot a video, and I know more trivia about herpes than you would even believe!

Correspondence: July 3, 2007

... It’s pretty cool out today, thank God. The Peachtree Road Race is tomorrow and maybe this weather will hold. I just came up Peachtree by Phipps and there are portable toilets everywhere in anticipation of the race. They really put the “head” in “Buckhead.”

I don’t suppose there will be much to-do about the Fourth where you are. Just as well, I guess. Some places around here have canceled fireworks displays because of the drought. Good thing. History has shown us that Atlanta can be very flammable. (Come to think of it, General Sherman was from Ohio, too. When you get back, we’ll talk reparations.)

I’m keeping up with your experiences in India through your blogs. I’m looking forward to your blog on sightseeing, which you might call “Sikh and Ye Shall Find.” Or your analysis of indigenous fashion. You might call it “Who’s Sari Now?” Indian fine dining: “Curry Up and Wait.” Indian religion: “Swami, How I Love You, How I Love You ...” or “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Buddha.” Oh, the possibilities are endless!