Atlanta Is My Lady

You wanna know how to tell if a city is your home? When terrible things happen to you there, and it never occurs to you to leave. You don’t abandon your home. You stay and tough it out.

There was a night during my stay in Fulton County Jail where all of us were herded into the rec area, so that the guards could search the ward for contraband. Apparently some inmates had been smoking weed in their cell. Since that cell was mine, and one of the inmates was me, I spent my time in the rec room deep in contemplation. As time wore on no quicker than molasses, we all started to chat to break the tension.

The cement room was sweltering. The walls were nine feet high, rimmed with cyclone fencing. If I jumped vertically, I could catch a glimpse of the glimmering Atlanta skyline I missed so terribly. This was soothing. Some of the inmates I’d befriended took notice, and I eagerly explained myself. It was the first view of the city I’d had in a month.

In jail, opinions on our fair city varied, though rancor towards its police was a constant. Some guys professed a desire to head elsewhere upon release. Others said they only remained because of their children or relatives. I stated firmly that I had no plans to move, and without a trace of irony and in my best Dave Foley voice, I said:

“Atlanta is my lady.”

I have always believed that it behooves an entertainer to bond with a metropolis. Tony Bennett left his heart in San Francisco. Frank Sinatra immortalized his love for both New York and Chicago in song. Frank Zappa became such a Californian archetype that everyone forgot he came from Baldymore, a town whose poet laureate would surely be John Waters. I grew up in Jersey, but being a cartoonist in New Jersey is like being a flea on a gorilla: there’s just enough to be annoying, not enough to make a difference, and any attention you might get has nothing to do with you personally.

I migrated to Georgia in 1990 ostensibly to go to school, but primarily to get laid. I had seen countless TV programs wherein the female who spoke with a Southern accent was always a beauteous sexpot. Meanwhile, the women of my native state spoke with the tone of ice water splashed onto privates. Yearly vacations to Florida in my youth had afforded me a ringside seat for its descent into Hell, and I knew to avoid it or be damned. Alabama and parts west were off limits for a honking fresh Yankee. So for me, Georgia become the “porridge that Goldilocks chose” of the South.

I started visiting Atlanta in the 1990s, and I was struck by the gut feeling that I was supposed to be there. When the Olympics arrived in 1996, I commuted to work with a puppetry group (Atlanta is a bastion of puppetry arts), and in my recollection of the event, the buildings are fringed with gold, and the air is choked with money. In the late ’90s, coming to Atlanta for DragonCon was a fun-filled experience, so much so that I started guesting there when possible. I met Bob Burden, and he confirmed that I was right about the secret identity of Flaming Carrot! I saw Evan Dorkin literally “LOL” at a dumb kid with one of those stupid Dr. Seuss hats that were fucking everywhere! At a real SubGenius Devival, I got every single question that Rev. Suzie the Floozie asked, correct! A city “too busy to hate”, as in, the artists are busy kicking ass, so you damn sure better keep up!

So it was that Atlanta became my own private NYC- if I could make it there, I could make it anywhere. And only with the help of several friends did I make it here; if anyone tells you that they up and moved to a big city all by their lonesome, they’re either lying, or their daddy’s rich. Even now I only exist in Little 5 Points, where I feel more like I belong than I ever have, thanks to the help of some friends. Unfortunately here’s where the story gets sad, because some of those friends aren’t around to be thanked.

Existing in a city among millions of people comes with a price, and it’s a steep one. I mentioned in an earlier article that my household is occupied by (other than myself) good people who give second chances. Well, in March of this year the household was reduced by half. My two best friends were shot dead behind the Vortex restaurant, by wannabe gangsta scum from another part of the city. Shot in the back. Dead. Gone. I was on the news, over security camera footage of their last exit from a local bar that night. Smiling and shaking hands, they walked out of our lives forever. All this so close to where I slept, I can’t believe the shots didn’t wake me.

My roommate and best friend, the first victim, is the one who took me into his house, where I still reside, when I was homeless. He introduced me to every local business owner- he seemed to know everybody- like I was a celebrity. When I went to jail for battering an interloper with a bat, he took care of my hamster for the 48 days I was gone. He was raised Hare Krishna, and was wise far beyond his age and youthful habits. If you ever wondered what force could counterbalance my endless mania and vitriol, he was it.

And some jizzbag killed him.

Not just him, but our other friend and housemate, a relentless ladies’ man and bon vivant with eyes like Robert Mitchum. A guy who would routinely pause his reveling to inform me that I was a brilliantly talented dude, and that I shouldn’t be so sad all the time. A guy who’d spontaneously make an incredible pot roast, and share it with the meat-eaters of the house. A grown man with the rare gift of making Halloween actually fun, always with an outrageous costume of his own conjuring. A painter whose skills I envied, and despite this he never showed off. A necessary part of a crew.

Gone.

Only now am I emerging from the fog of funerals and grieving, and I don’t really feel like talking about it. It’s been a long climb, emotionally, and I still have a ways to go, judging from the rare “episodes” I continue to have. I’ve always been a Rubik’s cube of mental divergences, and PTSD hasn’t made things any simpler. Luckily America’s attitude towards marijuana seems to be changing, because no other medicine works for my depression and trauma. I make jokes about it to obscure the fact that no one respects someone who smokes pot and draws cartoons all day. Look: I am a cartoonist. I don’t feel “complete” without a pen in one hand and a pipe in the other, like the scribblers of old. And I’ll be goddamned if I touch tobacca.

This is how the city reciprocated for me yet again, as it provided the friends that have helped me through this experience. The number of people here who have reached out to me boggles my mind- it’s too many for me to properly keep up with. In this way the city didn’t diminish my view of humanity, it bettered it. I can’t help but get emotional (like I’m not constantly emotional) when I realize that the love I’ve given to Atlanta has come back to me, threefold. This city and its people have fed me, clothed me, healed me, and put a roof over my head, time and again. It is only proper that I give back not just to ATL, but the world. I am Your Cartoonist; Atlanta is My Lady. I will not run when she hurts me. I will stay and love her in return, because I know she loves me too.

I mean, unless I move somewhere else. The airport here is a nightmare.

(As a coda, here is a song that I consider to be “quintessentially ATL”.)