Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Welcome to the Wild Wild South.
Buckhead is kind of interesting. Go up Peachtree a bit and you pass God and Mammon. Go down Peachtree a bit and you run into gay, gentrified Ansley Park. Go west a bit and you're passing the Governor's Mansion.
Buckhead? A little bit of Sodom.
It used to be a place for wild drunken parties. The worst you had to worry about, really, was getting run down by a drunk driver as you meandered drunkenly across the street.
Nowadays you can sit outdoors at Brio on any Saturday or Sunday afternoon and watch the black Hell's Angels fartingly motor their gigantic Harleys up and down the street between Brio and The Roxy. Leather jackets and German coal-scuttle helmets (chromed pickelhaub in one extreme case) are de rigueur. Those white people deserve some exhaust fumes and noise with their pasta.
In the evening, the gagsta crowd arrives and the shootings commence. And let's face it: it's black-on-black violence, in a predominantly white neighborhood. So, in true American fashion, an issue of public order now has a race card added and everyone's being very careful about what they say and do. In the case of Shirley Franklin, it's say nothing and do less. Of course, when you're over your head in shit, it's probably better to keep your mouth shut.
OK, here's the deal: Buckhead has become popular with the thug element of black society. These lowlives come to Buckhead to strut and flounce, show off their obnoxiously loud cars and motorcycles, and occasionally kill each other. Increasingly, the only people in Buckhead after dark are these thugs, and the people who chose to live there because they thought they were moving to a fashionable part of town. Like Professional Widow Coretta Scott King.
Paul Howard, the incompetent DA, is no threat to these thugs. Having him prosecute you is really only a worry if you're a white skinhead caught in broad daylight beating up a black man while surrounded by fifty witnesses. If you're black, and especially if you're a black athlete, you've no real worries. He'll botch something and you'll be away after your next ho - when you've shot the brother with whom she was hanging.
Also, since the Buckhead population is mostly white, it's of no real interest to the Atlanta City Council or the Fulton County Commission. The attitude in both places is generally that those white bastards deserve a bit of payback for 400 years of oppression.
The situation in Buckhead will continue to worsen until a stray round goes past Professional Widow Coretta Scott King's head. Then, and only then, will there be any change.
Well, there may be another way to improve things: give one of Shirley Franklin's relatives a business in Buckhead and you'll never lack for cops on the beat.
Hey, it's working at the airport.
Buckhead is kind of interesting. Go up Peachtree a bit and you pass God and Mammon. Go down Peachtree a bit and you run into gay, gentrified Ansley Park. Go west a bit and you're passing the Governor's Mansion.
Buckhead? A little bit of Sodom.
It used to be a place for wild drunken parties. The worst you had to worry about, really, was getting run down by a drunk driver as you meandered drunkenly across the street.
Nowadays you can sit outdoors at Brio on any Saturday or Sunday afternoon and watch the black Hell's Angels fartingly motor their gigantic Harleys up and down the street between Brio and The Roxy. Leather jackets and German coal-scuttle helmets (chromed pickelhaub in one extreme case) are de rigueur. Those white people deserve some exhaust fumes and noise with their pasta.
In the evening, the gagsta crowd arrives and the shootings commence. And let's face it: it's black-on-black violence, in a predominantly white neighborhood. So, in true American fashion, an issue of public order now has a race card added and everyone's being very careful about what they say and do. In the case of Shirley Franklin, it's say nothing and do less. Of course, when you're over your head in shit, it's probably better to keep your mouth shut.
OK, here's the deal: Buckhead has become popular with the thug element of black society. These lowlives come to Buckhead to strut and flounce, show off their obnoxiously loud cars and motorcycles, and occasionally kill each other. Increasingly, the only people in Buckhead after dark are these thugs, and the people who chose to live there because they thought they were moving to a fashionable part of town. Like Professional Widow Coretta Scott King.
Paul Howard, the incompetent DA, is no threat to these thugs. Having him prosecute you is really only a worry if you're a white skinhead caught in broad daylight beating up a black man while surrounded by fifty witnesses. If you're black, and especially if you're a black athlete, you've no real worries. He'll botch something and you'll be away after your next ho - when you've shot the brother with whom she was hanging.
Also, since the Buckhead population is mostly white, it's of no real interest to the Atlanta City Council or the Fulton County Commission. The attitude in both places is generally that those white bastards deserve a bit of payback for 400 years of oppression.
The situation in Buckhead will continue to worsen until a stray round goes past Professional Widow Coretta Scott King's head. Then, and only then, will there be any change.
Well, there may be another way to improve things: give one of Shirley Franklin's relatives a business in Buckhead and you'll never lack for cops on the beat.
Hey, it's working at the airport.
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