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Land of one thousand Waffle Houses. We stay at the Holiday Inn across the street from Centennial Olympic Park. Our second Holiday Inn with close proximity to a terrorist attack. Atlanta is all new, corporate, and alien. We can’t figure it out. We play at Smith’s Olde Bar. It’s a huge complex. Pool tables downstairs, several bars, a restaurant. Music is upstairs in a room with silver chairs and mirrors that make it seem like it was once a strip club. Pretty cool place but few folks are there. On the good side, the samll audience is wildly enthusiastic. We sell some CDs. Meet Jimbo who treats us to some local greenery. Back to the Holiday Inn where we unsuccessfully try to order pizza, then room service. We finally find a Chinese restaurant that delivers until six. We get Orange Chicken, Egg Foo Young, Egg Rolls. It’s seems to be delicious. That’s pretty much it for Atlanta. They say there’s six million people here. As far as I can tell, they’re all on the freeway. .

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