Atlanta Tv Show Quotes

There once lived, at a series of temporary addresses across the United States of America, a travelling man of Indian origin, advancing years and retreating mental powers, who, on account of his love for mindless television, had spent far too much of his life in the yellow light of tawdry motel rooms watching an excess of it, and had suffered a peculiar form of brain damage as a result. He devoured morning shows, daytime shows, late-night talk shows, soaps, situation comedies, Lifetime Movies, hospital dramas, police series, vampire and zombie serials, the dramas of housewives from Atlanta, New Jersey, Beverly Hills and New York, the romances and quarrels of hotel-fortune princesses and self-styled shahs, the cavortings of individuals made famous by happy nudities, the fifteen minutes of fame accorded to young persons with large social media followings on account of their plastic-surgery acquisition of a third breast or their post-rib-removal figures that mimicked the impossible shape of the Mattel company’s Barbie doll, or even, more simply, their ability to catch giant carp in picturesque settings while wearing only the tiniest of string bikinis; as well as singing competitions, cooking competitions, competitions for business propositions, competitions for business apprenticeships, competitions between remote-controlled monster vehicles, fashion competitions, competitions for the affections of both bachelors and bachelorettes, baseball games, basketball games, football games, wrestling bouts, kickboxing bouts, extreme sports programming and, of course, beauty contests.

Turnbull flipped the channels on the Vizio monitor. Star Trek: Victory was the latest US version of the old TV series, the copyright issues having been rendered largely moot by the Split and the subsequent cold war between the United States and the People’s Republic. The new Star Trek shows in the new United States, produced in the heart of the red movie business, Atlanta, reflected the attitudes of their country. Conversely, the characters in the version produced inside the blue in Hollywood spent a lot of time confronting intergalactic human privilege and the systemic racism of the Federation.

Furi narrowed his eyes again and stepped into Syn’s space. “Are you gay, Detective?” There it was. The million-dollar question. Was he gay? He’d never asked himself that. He’d only slept with women before, but had never felt anything more for them than an easy friends-with-benefits involvement. Rhodes was the only person that he’d ever felt a connection with. A man. Syn felt his mouth move, but no sound was coming out. Fuck. Furi looked at him skeptically. “Uh huh. Just like I thought. Who are you working for? Him. He send you? Did he hire you to find me? Are you a private detective?” That accusation cut through Syn's speechlessness. “Whoa. I work for the city of Atlanta. What are you talking about? Who is him? Is someone after you?” Syn didn’t realize he’d grabbed Furi’s shoulders, forcing him to look into his eyes until Furi threw his arms up and dislodged Syn’s grip. “Take your goddamn hands off of me! I’m sick of people thinking they can put their fucking hands on me! Stay the fuck away from me, Detective.” Furi shoved past him and reached for the door. Syn jumped in front of it before Furi could get it open. He yelled right back at Furi, “My name is Syn! I’m not here as a Detective! I don’t know who him is, nor do I work for him.” Syn put up air quotes for the word him. “I just wanted to talk to you!” “About what?” Furi yelled. They were in each other’s faces, chest bumping each other. “I don’t fucking know! About you. About me. About the damn Falcons' game last week. About the weather. About why there’s so many goddamn reality TV shows. About what-the-hell-ever! That’s what people do when they want to get to know someone!” Syn stepped back and gripped his hair blowing out a long frustrated breath. He felt so ridiculous, was so annoyed that he was seconds away from just walking away. “Fuck! I didn’t think dating was this damn hard.

On our trip from Atlanta to San Diego we had a stopover in Dallas at Love Field. There’s a huge statue of a Texas Ranger in the terminal and it’s inscribed: “One Riot, One Ranger.” It reminded me of an incident when I was playing baseball in Amarillo. There were about five or six players having a drink at a table in the middle of this large, well-lit bar, all of us over twenty-one. Suddenly, through the swinging doors—Old West fashion—come these four big Texans, ten-gallon hats, boots, spurs, six-shooters holstered at their sides, the works. They stopped and looked around and all of a sudden everybody in the place stopped talking. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of them said, “All right, draw!” They spotted us ballplayers and sauntered over, all four of them, spurs jangling, boots creaking, all eyes on them. “Let me see your IDs, boys,” one of them says. I don’t know what got into me, but I had to say—I had to after that entrance—to these obvious Texas Rangers, “First I’d like to see your identification.” I said it loud. He rolled his eyes up into his head in exasperation and very slowly and reluctantly he reached for his wallet, opened it and showed me his badge and identification card. I gave them a good going over. I mean a 20-second check, looking at the photo and then up at him. Then I said, “He’s okay, men.” Then, of course, we all whipped out our IDs, which showed we were all over twenty-one, and the Texas Rangers turned around and walked out, creaking and jangling. We laughed about that for weeks. I find it curious that of all the things Dallas could have chosen to glorify in the airport, it chose law enforcement. The only thing I know about Dallas law enforcement is that its police department allowed a lynching to occur on national television. Maybe the statue should have been of a group of policemen at headquarters, with an inscription that read: “One Police Department, One Lynching.

Journalist Tony Horwitz describes its laser show as an unfortunate mix of Coca-Cola, the Beatles, the Atlanta Braves, and Elvis sining "Dixie," followed by the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." Television ads end with the inclusive slogan, "Stone Mountain: A Different Day for Everyone." Eventually the desire for everyone's dollar may accomplish what the physical elements cannot: eradicating Stone Mountain as a Confederate-KKK Shrine.

If I tell our son to go to bed, he says, ‘Let him finish his TV show.’ If I tell our daughter to brush her hair, he says, ‘She looks fine.’ The only time I get my way is if I tell them to do the opposite of what I want.” —Karen, Atlanta, GA