How an Underground Cabal Monetizes Your Futile Hopes. Do you own more than one hoe? An anvil pruner? A dibble? Do you begin each season with visions of a verdant lawn? Beds and containers overflowing with flowers? Borders of regimented greenery? When it all grows leggy from too much sun or rots from too much water, do you swear to yourself, “Next season…”? Have you ever driven to a store and bought a bag of dirt? Stop and think about that for one second. You bought a bag of d

(A little more setup needed) That's right. In 1976, I was a car salesman for about four months. I was newly-graduated, newly-married and jobs for wet-behind-the-ears copywriters were not plentiful in the South, where I wanted to live. I worked at Starr Lincoln-Mercury in Birmingham. I got the job by responding to a want ad in the newspaper. I sold Town Cars, Mark Vs and one of the crappiest, most absurd cars ever created, the Lincoln Versailles, which, in case you dont know,

2324 Farley Terrace, Hoover, Alabama. The house where I grew up