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His boss, a “pecan expert” at the University of Georgia, was sympathetic but puzzled. “I thought I’d lose my job.” Thus far, the reaction has been mixed.
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He did-and the newspaper printed the letter-with Randall’s full name below it. Nobody wants to see it.”) Newspaper policy required that he submit his full name, even on an “unsigned” letter. Randall, a gentle, sad-eyed man who describes himself as “living in Tifton, with a redneck accent, redneck ideas,” says he recently mustered enough courage to write an unsigned letter to the editor of the Tifton Gazette, asking for understanding for AIDS victims. Three of them-a sunburned, pickup truck–driving horticulturist named Randall, a 31-year-old unemployed Black man named Kenneth Ray Lee, and a bearded logger named David-are in various stages of AIDS infection that will likely kill them in the next few years. On a bright summer’s evening in Albany, Ga., eight people are gathered at a plank table outside Picnic Pizza Numero Uno on Slappey Boulevard, bent over their lasagna and chicken parmigiana. The story’s intro observes: “Red Dog tactics make civil libertarians queasy, but thus far, no complaints of brutality or mistreatment have been sustained.” More than two decades later, following the 2009 illegal raid at gay bar the Atlanta Eagle, the Red Dogs would be disbanded.
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For this story, the writer spent three shifts riding with the APD’s then two-year-old (and already notorious) tactical unit. As we head back to the police car, a little boy who has been watching the encounter runs up cradling a toy Uzi machine gun. The Red Dogs release the man with a warning to stay out of the housing project.
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Allen, kneeling, holds the man in a wristlock while he pats him down for weapons.
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Moments later, he is sprawled face down in a patch of weeds. As Allen and Little check garbage dumpsters, a favorite hiding place for drug dealers, a man in black jeans and a Miller High Life jacket darts out and races behind one of the apartment buildings. Their first stop is Hilltop Circle, a street winding around the Vine City housing project. Joe Little and Ken Allen are dressed for battle-some futuristic urban cataclysm out of The Terminator or Blade Runner. and other accessories dangle from the webbing. Ammunition pouches, flashlights, a radio transmitter, steel and plastic handcuffs. Red Dogs wear black fatigues, heavy black nylon boots and black military-style web gear that runs over their shoulders like suspenders. You’re proactive or you perish in the ’90s Atlanta. But that doesn’t mean you can’t make a living doing what you’re good at. Let go of the idea that you’re going to move to Atlanta and ease into some big fat job. I overheard someone say the other day, “Generation X makes me glad we’re nearing the end of the alphabet.” Walk a mile in my shoes, pal. I wasn’t VP of anything except the “Will I make rent this month?” club.Īh, to be in your 20s in the ’90s. Atlanta had a job for me alright, but I was wearing a uniform. Ten years ago, I had a list of what I wanted to be when I grew up: VP of Some Great Company, owner of a summer home, award-winning, brilliant copywriter, and maybe even married woman with husband in tow.Ī year ago, I found myself saying, “Would you like a lime with that?” and I wasn’t throwing a dinner party. “The X-Files: Generation Xers aren’t so much breaking the old rules as making their own” Here’s what we found:Ī dig through our archives unearthed a cinematic rendering of Georgia just before the turn of the millennium We discovered groundbreaking work, inspiring stories, and, yes, some errors in judgement. February 1995 This Gen X–heavy “Jobs” issue describes an early iteration of the gig economy.įor our January 2021 issue, in honor of our 60th anniversary year, we dug through our archives to present a snapshot of the magazine during each of our six decades.