This here is The Attorney In The Seersucker Suit, on his way to lunch at the Town Point Club. Walked right past me as I was sketching the doomed Ikon building. How do I know he was an attorney? Well, let's see, I supposed he could have been a Hip Record-Store Owner or a Texaco-Station Mechanic or maybe a Pregnant Dominican Substitute Teacher, but I decided to go out on a limb. You northern types might have thought this guy lives only in bad John Grisham novels (oxymoron alert), but down here they're like ticks on a hound dog's butt. I'm not going to stoop to saying that all attorneys are like ticks on a hound dog's butt, regardless of how many of them there are, because that would be a low blow and unfair to the many fine attorneys there are in our fair land, and I'm nothing if not fair. It would be a gross exaggeration to blame society's ills on the law profession, actionable even, somebody could get their pants sued off by saying something like that! You can't blame attorneys for nobody being willing to tell the truth in public anymore, to apologize for anything and accept responsibility for one's actions. If you're smart, you'll blame illegal aliens.