I have a simple question for you:
When was the last time you were in a Mexican restaurant/bar in Athens, Georgia, shooting pool and chewing the fat with your friends, surrounded by a mix of college students and hipsters and working-class folks and feeling, as a Yankee, maybe just a little bit out of place, talking about kudzu and the red dirt that seemed to be everywhere, and wondering where you might park your van for the night in a strange city, and when the hell are we all going to the 40 Watt Club, and speculating about where to go next on your aimless road trip across America, when out of the blue the bartender -- a nice guy named Vern -- mentioned matter-of-factly that there was a Ku Klux Klan rally just a few miles outside of town?
Part of me wishes that, when that opportunity arose for me in March 1988, I had driven out to see those robed degenerates spouting their hateful bullshit. Sure, I would've been scared to get close, but also fascinated. Read about that incident in my new memoir, Great/Dismal: My Four-Month Tour of Duty on the Battleship Patchouli.
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