I wish they’d hurry up and cure cancer.
Great fried chicken, it rivals Nip’s in Dublin, Georgia, and the sides (black eyed peas and collard greens) are good. They don’t serve backs (a prized piece which the standard chicken disassembly model has attached mostly to what we know as the thighs) but no one else does either so don’t hold it against them.
I used to detest the Atlanta airport (ATL if clarification must be made for you Charlie Brown, PDK people) for its traffic, parking, uber-zealous security (even before 9/11) and the all around disquieting experience. It seemed like everything about a trip from the Atlanta airport was carefully designed to irritate. Two things occur to me now, first that sensation was partly cognitive dissonance. As someone who lived for decades within 100 miles of that airport and took some very pleasant trips from there in the mid-1970s, the awfulness of the modern ATL experience was difficult to reconcile with the geographically adjacent world in which I lived. The hustle and rudeness of the experience of flying out of ATL was the driven by the fact it really isn’t of the place it is located in, it is actually the presence of the global commons in a little blister in the piney-woods south side of Atlanta. Busy people in a hurry to get somewhere, not the default setting of the North and Middle Georgians I lived among, my people, the tribe I was of. The second thing, the joy of jet travel in 1975 is dead, and not likely to return for most of us, the 1% excluded. Between deregulation and the coarsening of society, there won’t be airplanes full of well dressed, polite people who can hold their liquor ever again. So I can explain my feelings to myself, and appreciate the speed, convenience, and efficiency of the connecting flight through ATL, (and the Paschal’s chicken) but I still don’t want to start or end a flight in Atlanta.
Attention all musicians. Please stop recording covers of “Wild Horses.” Written by Richards and Jagger, the definitive version was recorded in Muscle Shoals, Alabama by the Rolling Stones.
Moved away from Our Nation’s Capital to Montgomery. Life is good.
If you find yourself on the Interstate, in the left lane, driving the posted speed limit or under and impeding the flow of traffic, exit now and don’t use the Interstate again, it just isn’t your thing.
I commute on a motorcycle on every day there isn’t ice. In sixteen plus months in this city, of five near misses from obliviots merging into a lane I’m already occupying, four have been Prius drivers.
Among motorcycle commuters there are two schools of thought. The first, and decidedly more charitable: Due to the way the High Occupancy Vehicle lane laws are written, drivers of vehicles with three or more occupants, motorcycles and Low Emissions Vehicles are allowed to use the HOV lanes. So, the Prius drivers are alone with their thoughts and just aren’t paying attention.
The other hypothesis, and the one I tend to back: Dolts who drive Priuses are so high on their own sense of grandness (they are saving the planet) that it is incumbent on the lesser creatures to stay out of their way. Too bad the creation of a Prius damages the environment through all the shipping of raw materials and components (batteries in particular).