Dispatch: Accent In My Pocket

Sometimes the world is so flat it feels like you could slip free of Earth's gravity and slide off. Early February on the road. Photo by me, 2026.

 

The tail end of January and the beginning of February was two weeks on the road, sometimes dirt roads, of the south. It was the winter thaw for the mind collecting new sights, sounds, scents, tastes and discarding the mental plaque of the previous year. I wore my accent when needed, gave nods of indifference to strange politics of strangers and found myself shooting the shit in the middle of the road with locals. I wandered for hours through another history museum, watched water flow and listened to the birds in the trees. There was lots of bad coffee in gas station travel cups too. Some of the experience might end up in a book or maybe in a blog post. I thought a lot about the death of an old best friend between the mile markers and the hash marks on the speedometer. I wanted one more stupid teenage argument with him for the fun of it. This is how life and death go as the inseparable pair that they are.

Columbus, Georgia. Photo by me, February 2026.

I came home to bulbs waking up from winter and sat behind my desk. It was time to get back into the rhythm of writing my next novel.  

Golly gee. Tell me about them lyrics son. You are one pontificating rascal, that's what you are.

Somewhere I was in a bookstore and noticed in the prominent displays by the door a stack of poetry books with the bedraggled face of the hammy actor Matthew McConaughey. He is the actor/renaissance man who straight guys of my generation have crushes on and secretly wish they were. As you can tell by the sepia toned cover photo Matthew is a man with deep thoughts with his half open shirt and is surely in the running for a Pulitzer. Poems & Prayers is exactly the book that the world does not need, but it is what it gets. Traditional publishing is on a mission to destroy and humiliate itself in the most shameless ways. I hope he publishes a cook book next. Maybe something called Corn & Coca-Cola.

I read this Atlantic piece on Rod Dreher. It was interesting as the writer attempted to portray Dreher as some noble romantic fighting to save the soul of Western culture from Budapest, but instead he seemed miserable in a fantasy world of his own making. I have only read a few pieces by him over the years, though I have known about him for a long time, and Dreher is a peculiar one. The slipping in of the line by the brilliant and highly regarded atheist Richard Dawkins about him being a “cultural christian”, which I am familiar with, is intellectually dishonest with the usage of “declared” as if it were some major proclamation from on high (it wasn't) and it is very troubling for the use of “ally” (it is laughable to suggest he is, since Dreher is anti-science) and there is zero context given. I remember Dawkins saying that remark either in a debate or interview and it was not a grand gesture as it was a reference to how he was raised during his childhood without a choice on the matter. I respect and agree with Dawkins more than I ever could with Dreher. The tone of the article seemed to be a weird attempt to launder the ideas of Dreher and position him for future shadowy political influence in the United States.

Most of Carlton, Georgia. All five of these storefronts are occupied by this one antique store. Photo by me, February 2026.

One day well east of Athens in Madison County near the Elbert County line we stopped in the tiny community of Carlton clinging to life next to the train tracks. It is the kind of place you have to pull off the main road and intentionally seek out or you would never have a reason to pass through. Few people do as evidenced by the population change from 1900 to 2020 that was a loss of fourteen people in one hundred and twenty years down to two hundred and sixty-three. I find it charming that communities like this have managed to survive safe from Atlanta's sprawl. I remember when places like this were the norm in North Georgia outside of metro Atlanta in the 1980s.

Photo by me, February 2026.

This is the kind of place you have to dig, maybe get a little dusty and you will be rewarded. Two buildings down to the left next to the post office is a local branch of the Hell's Angels. I suppose they will not bother you if you do not bother them.

Photo by me, February 2026.

You do not know the smile and warm feeling I had when this jukebox played Don't Make My Brown Eyes Blue by Crystal Gayle. I skipped by like the small child I was in 1977 when my mother would play this record on our living room stereo which was near the same size as this jukebox. 

Photo by me, February 2026.

A cat strolled through on its rounds as I flipped through a copy of the photo book Warhol and Friends.

Photo by me, February 2026.

It was digging paradise where prices are rough ideas. 

Athens, Ga. Photo by me, February 2026.

 

Athens, Ga. Photo by me, February 2026.

Another day I attended a festival in downtown Athens and tried to shake loose a ghost. That old best friend of mine who recently died lived there in the early 1990s while he attended UGA. He went off to New York afterward to work in historic preservation. Athens of the '90s was a different place from the Athens of today, kind of like most of the state. It was one of the hot music scenes at the time like Seattle.

This is REM performing live in their hometown at the 40 Watt (pictured above) in 1992.

 

And so it goes... 

Me. February 2026.

on the road with an accent in my pocket chasing those sunny days.

2025 Review: Preppies In The Snow

Naughty and nice are not mutually exclusive. Photo by me, Greensboro, Georgia.

More people I have known died in 2025. Is that too blunt or too obvious? It is not a mystery that the older I become, the more it happens and that is the logical and detached way to approach it. The longer life lasts the more it resembles a classic BMW in need of repairs beyond the routine maintenance, but the backfire of death is no less of a surprise each time it is heard. Preppies in the snow put their hands up to cover their ears and wait.

Too many people have died too young. Dear Generation X, what are you doing ?

I read the obituaries and tried to reconcile the adult to the kid I knew. I am often surprised to read the twists and turns of what people became. People do change, or maybe I never knew some of them that well past the superficial observations in a red brick school in a country town. A boy pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, twirled his number two pencil and did multiplication on his fingers. A teenage girl leaned back in a rocking chair and laughed too hard on the wrong beat as she tried to grasp the conversation of adults. What did we learn?

Funerals are the wrinkles on the face of a life. Gray hairs in the mirror are the honest rebels stealing from the self-image that mistakenly thinks you could still pass for thirty. Forty? Not even. Whatever the kids are listening to and whatever slang they are inventing is whatever the kids are listening to and saying. Translators are not made for that duty. You still think 2006 was a week ago as you tune into 99X or River 97 and drum your fingers on the steering wheel to Everytime You Go Away by Paul Young. You squint at the red light that is poorly timed and notice that the restaurant that was there on the corner your entire life is now a vape shop and tattoo parlor serving burritos without a permit and when did they build that Dollar General? Only yesterday your child was six and you were late for soccer practice.

The end of a year always makes us consider time and where it went. The mind has difficulty with time's salamander slick and slippery nature.

 

Andrew McCarthy in 1987's Mannequin.

Damn the changes, damn the politics, damn the numbing disease of cheap nostalgia and damn it all to hell, but I am thankful that my waist size is still a thirty. Now the light is green, the radio plays Starship's Nothing's Gonna Stop Us and you want to believe it. You are convinced. Traffic flows like it did before millions moved here to ruin paradise and Andrew McCarthy sure was pretty in Mannequin. You strain your voice singing, “We can build this dream together.” You swear you did not once tell that minor piece of trivia in a Thomas Drive bar in Panama City that the lead singer, Mickey Thomas, was from Cairo, Georgia. That is Cairo pronounced like the syrup and not the city in Egypt.

My 2025 was like sitting down to eat at a favorite restaurant, eating my favorite foods and leaving full but not satisfied. I do not know what it was about this year, but it lacked novelty. There were new sights, sounds, places and aches in the joints. I was not bored; that seems to be a condition I never experience, but perhaps I became immune to the news, the messed-up weather, confused flowers and the next batch of woods toppled for luxury apartments over a Panda Express. Gas was cheaper and I spent an hour looking for the ear hair trimmer. The year was over before I knew it.

At fifty-two, I noticed my age like a phone notification that I could not swipe away. I felt a little slower, less nimble and it took me longer to recharge. It now took me two cups of coffee and a handful of Costco supplements before my brain began to percolate in my skull. Silence for the first hour of a day was a requirement or I became the grumpy old man who I never wanted to imitate.

Home Away From Home in Fort Lauderdale. Photo by me.

The secret “home away from home” in Fort Lauderdale was sold this year. It was a unique and special place for sixteen years. I will miss talking to the lizards on the patio, curious stray cats and morning coffee walks to Sebastian Street Beach. I doubt we will find another place like it.

Novel 4 (it really does have a title) came along nicely from January to December. It is something new, something current and has nothing to do with me. There are always so many miles in my year, on foot and by car and do not think that has not been an influence on me. Novel 4 is the first book I did not begin writing in Fort Lauderdale. I had a notebook of ripe ideas and then sentences formed in my head on a cold day on the square in Gainesville in January with a stomach full of barbecue. The characters Adam, Hastings and Evan were born without the need for painkillers.

Weirdest moment:

Standing on the shady side of a street in Warner Robins outside a restaurant. That middle Georgia heat and humidity had stolen the birdsong and my patience. A car creeped up to me and with the sun reflected on the windows and I could not see inside. A scratchy voice called, “Hey white boy.” I looked without looking and gripped my phone a little tighter. The voice called out again, “Hey white boy,” and again I ignored it. My eyes moved behind my sunglasses and I widened my stance. I was not a boy except for maybe in the way some southerners mean it. Three more times the voice called with the same words. Trouble and I was no fool. The car went into reverse and backed away with the possible intention of hiding the tag.

Favorite moment:

Watching the fog in Normaltown in February. Yes, it is more than just a lyric in the B52's Deadbeat Club. 2025 was still goo, shapeless, untethered and iridescent. I could have been in any moment in my life when winter was spooling off into a gray pile of yarn. Maybe I was drifting in the early 90s with a hole in the sleeve of my sweater and wearing a barn jacket and boots. There was a whiff of Polo from the green bottle in the air. A water tower was the appearing and disappearing UFO down the street. I was happy.

Worst moment:
Sitting in a Johns Creek Hospital room and waiting with my grip on the arms of a plastic chair. Helplessness bred in hospitals is the worst.

Best Festival:

Flannery O'Connor's grave. Photo by me, October 2025. 

I went to too many. It was a tie between Athfest and that one down in Milledgeville where I hunted down the grave of Flannery O'Connor. Death was on my mind at every turn this year or so it seemed.

My favorite movie:

Eddington. It satirized the times better than any other movie that tried. It was smart and the only movie that made me laugh out loud.

My favorite new to me music:

The White Birch album by Codeine. It may have come out in 1994, but I had not listened to it until this year. I found it by way of Slint and Shipping News.

 

Cheap nostalgia at $20. My actual Bon Jovi ticket from 1989.

There is no singular defining moment to a year, the same as there is no precise moment that defines a life. To follow a path in the woods, return a smile, accept an invitation, or jump from a window and roll to the ground, life equalizes the regrets and the joys. News readers, nervous funeral orators, biographers, politicians, historians, TikTok influencers and novelists will lie to you. Maybe, if I am going to lie, then it was the Bon Jovi concert at Lakewood in 1989 when I held a flickering lighter in the air like a torch held in my sixteen-year-old hand to I'll Be There For You, but I am drowsy from the decades of remembering those tight jeans and how he was not. A previous lesson learned and only reinforced. All of life goes into the dryer the same as all of it went into the washer. Moments are agitated, churned and rinsed in the same spins until it is a soup of consciousness. They lived, they died and some of it was good, better than it should have been and what more can anyone want besides more time?

What do you do with a used-up and expired year? Nothing really. You go to bed, wake up and open the next year. The Christmas tree comes down slower than it went up and goes back into the attic. The mind and the hand learn to write a different number. In a year, the preppies in the snow will come inside and gather around the fireplace again cradling whatever is the trendy drink.

 

Monticello, Georgia. Photo by me, September 2025.

2025 is the sunset on the hood of a car speeding faster than it used to; you cannot have it again. 2026 is a missed call from an unknown number.

Jump scare. Yours truly. I keep Rabbit Tobacco Field dim to avoid scaring myself. Mood lighting is your friend. December 2025.

Merry Christmas, happy holidays and have the best 2026 that you can.

And finally it is Preppies In The Snow. Ralph Lauren and Vidal Sassoon would be proud. Last Christmas by WHAM!

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Addendum 

All dressed in black, he won't be coming back
Save your tears, you've got years and years
The pains of seventeen's
Unreal they're only dreams...

As I was putting this post to bed and proofreading I learned Chris Rea had died. He was not a household name, but there are not many of them in the days of niche entertainment and the absence of a shared cultural reality. If you are a Gen X kid/fortunate 70s child you would have heard Fool If You Think It's Over in the summer of 1978 on Top 40 Radio. I first heard it on Atlanta's Z-93 in my mother's Camaro and sliding around on the cold leather backseat of my father's Cadillac through the eighties on B98.5. We had a copy of it in our music collection. I filed the song away as a meaningful one of my childhood. I loved the song then and still do.

When I was writing Dweller On The Boundary it was one of the primary songs I used to manipulate myself into the emotional headspace needed to go there. My books always have a soundtrack. I listened to it on repeat along with Never Gonna Let You Go by Sergio Mendes (for the worst memories), Bread's If, Boz Scaggs' We're All Alone (probably one of the songs for my funeral - just sayin'), The Greatest Love of All by George Benson (the best version and it will make you cry), Sailing by Christopher Cross, King of Pain and Wrapped Around Your Finger from The Police, Steal Away by Robbie Dupree, Supertramp's The Logical Song, Gordon Lightfoot's If You Could Read My Mind and others before writing and during breaks. I abused the hell out of myself to write that book.

Thank you for the music and memories. Chris Rea was 74.

May The Spell Be Broken

 

Udo Kier in Madonna's Erotica music video in 1992.

It is worth mentioning the death of actor Udo Kier this past Sunday. He was a pleasure to watch in anything from Andy Warhol's Dracula to My Own Private Idaho to Madonna's Erotica music video. His performances and roles were outlandish, unexpected, subversive and original. His face and eyes made anything he appeared in so much more delightful and campy. There are not enough actors and roles today for people like him. The world just became a little less interesting.

One of Kier's scenes with River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves in My Own Private Idaho. 

 

******** 

 

After the Hunt

 

Last night, I finally watched After the Hunt. I liked it with a few reservations and Julia Roberts' acting exceeded my low expectations of her. If I were rating the film on a scale of one to ten, then I would give it a six and a half. Luca Guadagnino's film is not a background movie or even a good time and sometimes that is what is needed. With time I suspect opinions may shift more favorably toward it.

I am in the minority in liking this film as critics and audiences have disliked everything about it. Some probably dislike it without having seen it just for the premise alone. For those who did watch it and hated it, perhaps it made them realize how ridiculous and juvenile the moralistic and self-serving lip service that drives the current culture and its attempts to redefine, not just re-frame, the past is. Audiences do not like to have their cognitive dissonance and hypocrisy mirrored back at them using their own rhetoric. It still stuns me how intellectually dishonest and fearful much of the cultural discourse has been for the last several years and the stranglehold it has over so many. Such is the case in public, but in private I have found there is much more sanity and this is also one of the points made in After the Hunt.

The reservations I had were that the film needed crisper editing, better casting in the role of the student and a less ambiguous perspective. The ending scene in the diner was unnecessary as it reveals nothing of importance in a film that runs two hours and eighteen minutes. Also, the role of Maggie, the student accuser, was a miscast. It was utterly implausible that the accused professor would have been attracted to someone as psychotic and completely unattractive as the student character. In terms of perspective, nuance is fine but stronger clarity was needed in the plot.

The film has strong supporting performances by Michael Stuhlbarg and Chloe Sevigny. In one of the more humorous scenes, the character played by Stuhlbarg gets up from dinner without a word during a conversation with student Maggie, closes the door and begins to play loud music in another room. He had had enough of her gibberish nonsense and decided for the sake of his own sanity it was best to no longer engage and encourage her. 

I rather liked the soundtrack that many have complained about. The Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross compositions reminded me of the avant-garde work of Morton Feldman, though Feldman was on another level. 

 

If the 2022 film Tar with Cate Blanchett appealed to you, as it did me, then you might like this. Between the two, Tar is the better, sharper and deeper film. I am glad that art, at least in film, is challenging people to reconsider what certain segments of western society are shaming others into believing is the truth without examination. May the spell be broken.

Standard Time

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Radiohead's Daydreaming from A Moon Shaped Pool played as we headed west out of Dawsonville, Georgia en-route to Ellijay. We were on a mission to buy apples and cider doughnuts, look at the mountain foliage and maybe, if the weather held, enjoy a hike. I craved the trails and the smell of fall. It was not looking good for the weather, light rain was on the radar to the west and clouds were banking up against the Appalachians. The weather models had said not to worry that the weather would hold until evening, but reality was not looking so favorable. The trees were putting on their best show, much better than last weekend when we were up here and the leaves were weak with color that looked like dried pea soup.

I was digging my head out of reading David Foster Wallace essays. People have made so many moral judgments about him since his suicide in 2008 and one-sided details of his personal life were revealed that his writing has fallen out of favor. People put others on pedestals and realize that they should not have done so and topple them. Or could it be they learned that people are complicated and imperfect? The time had changed or fallen back one hour. Standard time arrived and it is my preferred time with early sunsets and longer nights when daylight no longer needs to be saved. Standard time should be permanent time.

Decks Dark played.

Radiohead has been one of my favorite bands since the magical period of music in the early 1990s. I first saw Thom Yorke on MTV in Creep with his short, bleached hair and looking oddly sexy. He smoldered. My desire for him was like Cobain in that I could never tell if I only found him attractive from certain angles or if my attraction was fooled by the hairstyle. Yorke's physical beauty has not aged well since and “sexy” would not be a word I would apply to him in his late fifties. He is five years older than me, but I never had sexiness to lose and I was also never a rockstar.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

The countryside unfurled on the twisty Georgia Highway 52 that is married to the southern border of the Chattahoochee National Forest. The first raindrops smacked the windshield as we passed the sunflower farm that we visited five years ago when COVID-19 was still the threat du jour and people were masked outdoors. It felt silly even then to be outdoors in a mask, but I was pragmatic, responsible as adults should be and fearful. I would not even eat inside a restaurant until the summer of 2022. It feels so much longer than only three years ago.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

Clouds rolled over the mountains. We passed the turn to Mt. Oglethorpe. I was still hopeful about the weather. Three years ago in a mask felt more distant than the clouds atop the mountain and the early 90s. Getting older and standard time is the past disordered, out of sync, scattered memories mixed up on the floor and leaves on the ground. Life is a straight line, but the human mind is nonlinear.

Ful Stop played.

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

We stopped at the first apple place we saw. It was comically painted red, white and blue. It was photogenic in the drizzle and temperatures in the upper forties. Gray weather and gray times. In the gravel lot in my Columbia fleece, Mexican made Levi's jeans and American made Brooks running shoes I tried to connect apples to the American flag theme. No signal in my head and I shrugged it off. The rain kept the crowds low or back closer to Atlanta in the exposed bulb lit food halls selling craft beer and noodles. We went inside for apples. This was not our regular place that we visit every fall, but new things were needed. Piles of apples looked at us and the disappointment was simultaneous between us. We were of one mind and turned and left without apples. We would buy them down the road. 

 

Photo by me, November 2025.

The sky sagged. It was loaded with rain. A model failure and the rain unleashed on us. Knobs were adjusted to warm the car. Rain streaked windows and the hope for a hike drained. The cold and dim world closed in around our capsule of warmth. At least the leaves were pretty and we had apples. The Cartecay River appeared out of the trees next to the car. Someone told me once it had the cleanest water in the state, but I do not know if that is true. What is the truth from a stranger's mouth and what is false? It is okay to not know everything and it is okay not to believe everything too.

The Numbers played.

When will the next Radiohead album be released? A Moon Shaped Pool came out in 2016. It is not that fans will forget the band or that I imagine the band being worried that they need to release an album to stay relevant, but I would like to hear some new music from them. They challenge my ears, stimulate me, sometimes depress me and they never have bored me.

They are the only rock band that I do not mind maintaining an active, albeit slower, career into their older years. I do not see them as an embarrassment to still be on stage on a tour around the world. The band is not a cashing in, nostalgia act like the Rolling Stones or those other bands from the sixties, seventies and eighties. Radiohead's music always seems to stay new and maybe that is because the music has been ahead of everyone else their entire career and we still have not caught up.

Photo by me, November 2025.

Present Tense played.

Internet rumors are out there that a new album is coming, sometime, possibly in 2026. The band is beginning a limited European tour this month going into December. The shows are sold out. I am ready for new music from the band who is possibly the only band who would excite me to hear a new album. Nine years in my mixed-up memories have passed since the band's last album. I was younger, still not sexy, was spending a lot of time in Grant Park, hiking, swimming, dancing and buying apples in the mountains.

Ellijay, cradled by the ridges, sat in the pouring rain. We circled downtown. Tourists dashed for doors and warm tables. We debated whether to eat or leave in the early mountain darkness. I said something about the 80s and coming through here when it was nothing. I noticed that I am saying stuff like that too often the older I get. “When it was nothing” or “when it was cheaper” or “when it was different” and sometimes “when it was better.” My mother smiled in my mind around 1990 and took a bite of an apple behind her big sunglasses. I held the camera into 1991. Tom Cochrane's Life is a Highway was fun with the windows down.  My mother was funny, easy to be around and I missed her. The present or the past, the carousel of memories was the same on standard time. We retraced our miles home down the highway in the falling leaves.

 

True Love Waits played. 

Me in the fall of 1990 around Ellijay. I am glad I gave up on the mustache.

Face The Change

 

My old neighborhood looking west down Ponce de Leon Avenue toward Midtown. Photo by me, September 2025.

Turn and face the strange. - David Bowie's Changes 

 

A couple of weeks ago I was in my old 1990s neighborhood in Atlanta. The only reason for me to go there is I have some need to go to Ponce City Market and that was true again as I walked into Madewell. I visit Ponce City Market or to me, City Hall East/the old Sears building, about twice a year since I am rarely down in the city anymore. My infrequent visits to Atlanta are marked by the changes to the landscape. I play the game of what is the same and what is gone. The changes used to happen around me in more of a gradual sense like the frog in a pot of boiling water, but since I have not lived in the city for four years this month, the changes are more noticeable.

 

The Clermont became a boutique hotel with a rooftop bar, the Masquerade was gutted, Zesto and Paris on Ponce are gone and The Eagle and MJQ moved out of the neighborhood. Ponce has changed as part of the evolution of the city at large. It would be stereotypical to feel that the change was bad, but I am indifferent, as I am emotionally checked out on Atlanta and that feeling has been building for the last fifteen years.

Where I lived in the Ford Factory and Ponce City Market next door. Photo by me, September 2025.

Walking through Ponce City Market, I noticed there was some turnover in the retail and more vacancies since my last visit. There was some odd place that felt very downmarket with vendors selling products that were obviously made at the kitchen table and it had two live DJs playing over each other. Was it a club or a store? Most of the other people there were talking to each other and not buying anything. My ears hurt, I straightened my collar and realized that whatever that place was, it was not for me. A couple of other places were odd fits too. Ponce City Market is a nice piece of architecture, but the shine is wearing off and it felt less chic.

 

I am not as plugged in as times past as to what happens in the city and unbeknownst to me, it was the first day of the Shaky Knees Festival, which has moved to Piedmont Park and replaced Music Midtown. I remember when Music Midtown began off Tenth Street in what were then empty lots west of Peachtree behind what was Weekends before the Federal Reserve moved from Downtown to Midtown. I remember trying to get to work at Turner through the Music Midtown scene and the detours. I would say Atlanta was more interesting and alternative then, but I would guess the people who attended Shaky Knees this year would say the same about modern Atlanta. In your youth and mistake making period, all of the world can seem to be an interesting playground. 

James Laid.

The first Music Midtown lineup in 1994 varied from James Brown to The Knack to James. I am a sucker for bands from Manchester and I loved James. They had hits with Say Something, Born of Frustration and in 1993 their big hit was Laid, a song about messing around with gender roles. If that song could be a mainstream hit in the U.S. in the early 90s and it likely would not be in the climate of 2025, then what has changed and is society going backwards or forwards? Why are we more uptight about some topics and lowering our standards everywhere else from public behavior, education, the arts, government, architecture, fashion and so on?

The Bank of America building from North Avenue. Photo by me, September 2025.

 

Peachtree Street looking north from North Avenue. September 2025.

If the city was not more interesting and alternative in the 90s, it certainly was more loose, rundown, smaller and society and culture were entirely different. Was the 90s the last great decade and the peak of personal freedom? I was in my teens and twenties then, so with youth clouded memories, I am biased. There is no easy answer, but I would be dishonest if part of me did not want to say it was. When comparing today to the 90s and if given a choice of being young today or being young in the 1990s, even with the ever-present risk of AIDS and the gay rights struggles of that time, I would choose the 90s again without hesitation. Young people today are growing up in an entirely different world that is in some ways better and in some ways worse and I do not envy them. The person I am, the young person I was and the experiences I had are not suited for Atlanta in 2025. I do not belong there and I am comfortable with that, nostalgia is not leading me by the hand to a rose colored past. 

A new skyline. Photo by me, September 2025.

The only building visible in the photo above from 17^th Street from the foreground to the background that existed in the 1990s is the one marked. That is 999 Peachtree Street or what was known as First Union Plaza completed in 1987. First Union bank was purchased by Wachovia, now Wells Fargo, in 2001. In the 90s, the foreground was the Atlantic Steel mill.

The original goths, the punks, the alterna kids of the past are all grown and gone like the hippies of the Tight Squeeze before them. Gone too are the hangouts from 688, Midtown Music Hall to The Metroplex. Atlanta once had a thriving rock and alternative scene, not that most not from here would know since the media only fixates on rap and hip hop and ignores anything else. The city of today is a different playground for a different generation that lacks an original cultural identity. Are they Generation Recycle? I suppose I should be happy that Little Five Points still exists.

Nirvana playing at the old Masquerade on North Avenue in 1990 before they took over the globe. They would play here again in the fall of '91 in support of Nevermind and then on subsequent visits, they played the big venues.

From Green To Brown

 

Summer's death duly noted in Athens, Ga. Photo by me, August 2025.

Summer died on the backs of my knees in a cool, dry breeze this past Sunday in Athens. It was a recognition the same as the flocks of birds beginning the migration south as they speckled the sky of smeared clouds. It was a relief as if I had accomplished something more than play witness to the passing of another season. I was running errands and the surname of the protagonist of my current novel had come to me. I had been stressing over this not-so-minor detail for months. The last name had to sound right or sing when spoken aloud with the first name and I had paired numerous names in my head without success. Then in a parking lot among the first tinges of fall color in the sugar maples it came. The name was simple, solid and was a fine tonic to the more complex first name. The character was fully born.

 

Fiona Apple's album When the Pawn...

I have been listening to lots of Fiona Apple the past couple of weeks and this happens to me most every fall. I am the eternal fan. Her music reminds me of Louisville in the 1990s and a particular autumn when I thought everything in life was as perfect as life could get. I was in my twenties and foolish; what else can I say? Life is never perfect except in small increments and the good news is that it happens even long after the twenties are nostalgic memories. Perfect in a parking lot in the breeze in Athens, Georgia kind of way or perfect in the sense of appreciating happiness in victories over creative blocks.

With perfection comes the imperfection and Saturday we attended an arts festival on the square over in faraway Marietta. I can do without ever attending another arts festival for the rest of my life. I am so tired of seeing booths of the same makeshift art projects made in garages and basements with glue guns, glitter and limited inspiration.

 

The book cover of Pieces of the Frame by John McPhee.

Labor Day was about getting in the miles on the legs through the woods, reflections on a lake and feeling fresh in the crisp air. Fall is a rejuvenator not sold in a bottle at the cosmetics counter or in the energy drink aisle at the grocery store. Deer foraged in the shadows and my mind thumbed thoughts on the book I have been reading, Pieces of the Frame (1975) by John McPhee. There was a story in the essay, Travels in Georgia, about McPhee, Sam Candler (an heir to the Coca-Cola fortune) and Carol Ruckdeschel (a conservationist) canoeing down the Chattahoochee River with then-Georgia Governor Jimmy Carter with Georgia State Patrol troopers as bodyguards. Carter, a country boy, a former Navy officer and an avid outdoorsman, fit perfectly into the canoe trip, which was meant to serve as a way to convince him to protect the land along the Chattahoochee, which he did as President of the United States. After the trip, the group ate grilled cheese sandwiches at a twenty-foot table under a crystal chandelier and then played basketball in the driveway of the governor's mansion on West Paces in Buckhead, a thirty-room Greek Revival home I toured as a kid in the 1980s, either during the George Busbee or the first Joe Frank Harris administration. I thought, “Well that kind of politician no longer exists,” but politicians sure like to play up and pander to the average common person when trying to get elected. Carter, disparaged by people who have never done a decent day's work in their life, unlike the phonies, was genuine. Since 1980, if you are as old as I am, you have to wonder what people value and expect from their presidents.

 

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Monday wound down as I re-watched Sunday Bloody Sunday from 1971 starring Glenda Jackson, Peter Finch and Murray Head. The movie, nominated for four Academy Awards, is about a love triangle between a straight woman, a gay male Jewish doctor and a bisexual artist. It was the right cozy movie to start fall with the drab London weather and scenery and what I like most about that movie is the abundance of brown fashion. 

All the world is beautifully exquisite seventies brown.

Every character lives in shades of the color brown from scarves, jackets, pants, coats, vests, sweaters, ties, turtlenecks and so on. The costume design was by the late Jocelyn Rickards who also designed for Blow-Up, From Russia With Love and many other films. She was a painter too and published her autobiography in 1987. It is very 1970s, as I remember that decade. Brown is a color not worn enough anymore. It is a sophisticated color that works well in any season and people should wear it. It is also the better choice between it and another popular seventies color, ghastly orange which is best suited for pumpkins. Perhaps the reason people do not is because it is a modest choice and does not garner enough attention in our narcissistic decadent times.

Other than Fiona Apple it seemed to be an all-out seventies entertainment weekend as the season turns from green to brown.

Athfest 2025

 

Athens, Georgia. Photo by me, June 2025.

We dropped into Athfest for another year this past weekend. It was Sunday afternoon at the arts and music festival that many townies see as the highlight of townie summer in Athens after the UGA students leave. We parked on the north end of campus and walked over to the scene. I am not keen on arts festivals; I have been to too many and seen the homemade crafts made with glue guns and chainsaws enough times, but I like Athfest as it has more live music than art. Though you can find plenty of crafts with tongue-wagging bulldogs stuck on them if you are inclined.

A rainbow crosswalk at College Avenue and E. Clayton Street out front of Wuxtry Records. Photo by me, June 2025.

A sparse bunch at the main stage outside the 40 Watt Club. Photo by me, June 2025.

The weather was hot and perhaps that was the reason the crowd was thin at the main stage outside the 40 Watt when we showed.

A band performs on another stage on N. Hull. Photo by me, June 2025.

The crowds. Photo by me, 2025.

Over on N. Hull Street by The World Famous, we found the crowd by another stage. Maybe they sought the shade? The mood of the people was that of not wanting to let it wind down, to keep the party going until it was a last call, beer-goggle-eyed evening that ended in a long walk of shame to Normaltown or Five Points. We did not stick around long enough to witness that.

I had heard that James Franco was in town working on a project with William H. Macy and that he had been seen in the downtown restaurants. If he was going to be in Athens on Sunday, then he might as well have been at Athfest incognito. Franco does have an Athens connection, as he directed videos for R.EM.'s That Someone Is You and Blue from the album Collapse Into Now.

The arts? Photo by me, June 2025.

So many movies and television shows are filmed in Georgia that you regularly run into them. A television show for ABC was filming recently in a park that I often walk in for exercise and I recently passed another show featuring Sylvester Stallone that was shooting in Monroe. At my last place in Atlanta, before I moved, some scenes from Hillbilly Elegy were filmed within walking distance around the corner and Stranger Things was partly shot nearby too. I am not impressed by the lights or stars, as I find the productions are often a hindrance to public spaces and roads closed to the public.

Walking through Athfest I passed a man on W. Washington Street who looked exactly like Franco and we made eye contact. He was with two other rather attractive guys who were more fashionably dressed than most. They gave off the air of not being townies even though Athens has plenty of local wannabe hipsters. I was inches from the guy for a few seconds and in that brief moment I thought it was Franco.

Later, I spotted the trio again playing hacky sack on a closed street. I wanted to snag a photo, but the guy was looking my direction as I walked by. I wanted to be more subtle about it and the opportunity passed. Was it James Franco? Maybe or maybe not.

I am pretty terrible about recognizing famous people in person. I have been a huge fan of R.E.M since the 1980s and I could walk by Michael Stipe on E. Broad Street and never realize it. Well, I did see Stipe once in Atlanta in the 1990s, but that was work related. Franco is only five years younger than I am and the more I consider it, the guy I saw looked like he was in his twenties rather than his forties, but some people do age incredibly well.

I look forward to another Athfest next year to see whom I do not meet on the street.