People

Despite a busy schedule, former Atlanta mayor and United Nations ambassador Andrew Young says he didn’t hesitate for a moment about participating in the Colbert Report finale. “Being there last night was part of what I call the Colbert phenomenon,” Young said Friday morning as he flew back from New York.

Let’s face it, everyone likes Harry Connick Jr. Soccer moms sound like schoolgirls when they talk about his wavy brown hair and mile-wide smile. Most Americans over forty can still hum the chorus from...

I am in the passenger's seat of a Chevy Silverado winding through the foothills of northeast Georgia, trying to learn the story of Carlos Lovell. But fifteen minutes into the drive, the man has barely uttered ten words from behind the wheel, and frankly, his deep, jowl-draped frown has silenced me in fear that the wrong question might land me in the ditch.

The last memory Hannah Price has of her father before he vanished is waking up to him praying over her. That itself was not unusual; Aubrey Lee Price had always been a demonstrative Christian.

If there is such a thing as an intentional life, Wes Gordon—the most interesting fashion designer Atlanta has ever produced—is living it. By preschool, he was selecting his mother’s daily outfits for her job at an advertising agency. For his fourth birthday, all he wanted was a suit and a ticket to Phantom of the Opera, and a year later he refused to go to kindergarten without his red suspenders and blue suede bucks.

For Aaron, this is a season of big, round numbers: eighty years on earth, forty years since breaking Babe Ruth’s career home run record. Big, round numbers tend to send reporters and fans scurrying to revisit legends and milestones to remind themselves that a figure of such Rushmorean proportions in American sports is still a flesh-and-blood man among us, and to beg a moment of his time. I was one such beggar.

"What's happenin', my friend?" Vernon Keenan is saying hello to a large, shy-looking man named John Gibson in the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s main elevator, as the doors open and Keenan steps in. The top of his balding head reaches just past Gibson’s shoulders.

Pat Conroy has been writing about his family for forty years, but always with a wispy protective veil of literary license. Devoted fans who have relished every fictional breadcrumb while speculating about the depth of the real-life Conroys’ dysfunction have been waiting a long time for his latest book, The Death of Santini.

He first appeared to me last November at a bar where I’d gone to watch the Falcons–Saints game. As usual, there were spirited drinkers with heavy beards milling around and grown-ups playing Golden Tee.

"It sounds preposterous," the New York Times declared. “A businessman from Atlanta blows into New York and walks off with the colonnaded high temple of American capitalism. No more will New York be the master of the New York Stock Exchange.”