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Marla Lawson’s artwork ranks among the most realistic and recognizable in the country, but no sane collector wants to hang her masterpieces above the mantel. Blame her unwitting models, who have varied in size, coloring, tattoos, and scars but generally share the same gleam in the eye—that look of desperate, crazy malice, with pupils unnaturally dilated or constricted, depending on the drugs.
Jim Hodgson, founder and editor in chief of the Atlanta Banana, wanted to give Atlanta its own Onion, a comedy newspaperesque website to send up the city’s foibles. “I’m just a really silly person with the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old,” he admits. Launched in December 2011, it’s become the warped mirror that you can’t help but peruse when ATL drama turns from precious to precarious. Whether the site is lambasting overly aggressive parking enforcement (“PARKAtlanta Introduces PrePark Thought Crime Division”) or mocking local neighborhoods (“Virginia-Highland Area Torn by Brutal Coffee Shop Feud”), it can speak more truth than the Creative Loafing and AJC headlines that inspire its posts.
Of the 760 American Olympic athletes who had made their teams by mid-June—when we went to press—twenty-one called Georgia home. That total ranked eleventh in the nation and third in the South, behind Florida (forty-four) and Texas (sixty-three). Georgia has the ninth-largest state population, approaching 10 million, so we’re slightly underperforming (proportionately). Of course, medals are what counts. We’re counting on this Georgia gang to make us proud in London.
In 2007, not long after getting divorced, Pat Morrin received his first deer mount. It was a gift from a neighbor. Five years later, it sits above the fireplace in the living room of his three-bedroom home in a Duluth subdivision, surrounded by some 300 other mounts, skulls, and hides arranged in alarmingly convincing poses.
Unlike the American happy hour—the main purpose of which, it seems to me, is to wait out traffic and perhaps fill up on nasty food—the l’heure de l’apéritif is a sort of gentle musing, accompanied by a glass of something modestly alcoholic such as a vermouth (a fortified wine, flavored with herbs and spices) or a pastis (an anise-flavored liqueur) diluted with water.