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March 25, 2002
Over an omelette at Gladys and Ron's Chicken and Waffles, with some quiet storm soul in my ear canals, some potatoes waiting at the other end of my ovular platter and melanin-rich essence in the air (That's Gladys as in Gladys Knight; gold records, gold cassettes and gold CDs decorate the walls. Would a gold record play if you slapped it on the turntable and dropped the needle? Probably not well. Anyway, it's one of Atlanta's finest reasonably priced eateries, and comes recommended), I had a thought: Johns must be far bigger suckers for degradation than whores, whatever the racket.