Make a mistake on television or radio and you can correct it in the next breath. But in the print business, a mistake is there for all to see and usually you have to wait until the next edition to correct it.

Three times in my career, I’ve tried to fix a mistake after a paper was printed – with mixed results. I was reminded of this recently when we found out that our Atlanta Real Estate section was mailed with our Atlanta Buckhead and Atlanta Intown papers but had been left out of the portion of Intowns that we put in stores and restaurants.

Our distributors had just put out nearly 8,000 copies in more than 100 locations around town. A call to our printer confirmed our worst fears: The sections were still sitting on pallets in their warehouse. I quickly marshaled employees from our company and the printers’ and we visited each location and hand inserted the sections.

In high school our overzealous and undersupervised staff printed a front-page cartoon of questionable taste. After we had distributed them all over campus, the school’s president demanded we collect all the papers and reprint the paper without the offending cartoon. We did – after a lot of exhausting work – and the few surviving original copies quickly became collectors’ items.

I went to college at the University of Virginia, where there are several “secret” societies. Some more secret than others when its comes to the selection of new members. Some groups place ridiculous gowns on their newest inductees, make them drink lots of beer and parade them around parties in a crazy marching band replete with drums and a raucous song list. One group does not reveal its members until they die.

In my last year, the rising group of editors on my newspaper staff decided to play a practical joke on me by printing the names of new inductees in a secret group of which I was a member – a group that never revealed its members, even after their deaths. After the papers were distributed, my group moved into retaliatory action. A few of us gathered up thousands of papers from libraries, classrooms and stores. One even snuck in the window of a rival secret group member and took his paper when he went to the restroom.
Other members went to the newspaper office, replaced the offending page 2 item and drove an hour south to the printer, who reprinted the cover sheet.

The rest of us drove to a secluded wooded hilltop and began “skinning” the thousands of original papers. It was fun for a while, but by the time the others arrived at sunrise with new covers, our zeal was long gone. What seemed like a great idea at midnight suddenly began to look like a college prank gone terribly wrong.

Someone left for coffee and distributed a few of the “new” papers. Reports filtered in from the valley below: a rival group was debating whether we should be charged with “stealing” the papers, a grievous offense of the honor system; the rival daily newspaper’s editor launched an investigation; the dean of students wanted to see me.

It took my group until early afternoon to reassemble the papers. Some headed off for a nap, others went to class. I had to attend a round of meetings with my furious staff, an angry dean and a zealous rival reporter.
After that long day in college, I began to wonder if I should go into television journalism. A few weeks ago, as I sat inserting newspapers once again, I began to wonder if I made the right decision. I wonder how I’d look in a toupee?

For 12 years I was an itinerant newspaperman, traveling through four Southern towns before returning home to work for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. From Mississippi to North Carolina, almost everyone I would meet would have a story about Atlanta.

One of the more popular topics was people’s love and admiration for a syndicated columnist from the Constitution named Lewis Grizzard. People read his column in their local newspaper, listened to his tapes or bought his books, with titles such as “Elvis is Dead and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself.” He was passionate about the South, Atlanta, his Georgia Bulldogs and a few other subjects that made him controversial. He created a group of somewhat fictional characters that entertained his fans for years. When Lewis died in 1994, he left behind a depth of loyalty few other newspaper writers have matched this century.

On more than one occasion, I was asked to join the host committee to welcome Lewis to town when he was booked to speak before a local civic or social group. Lewis, when surrounded by people he didn’t know, could be a man of few words. So people thought they should get a local newspaper guy with an Atlanta connection to come “talk with Lewis.”

In Augusta, I sat next to him at a Junior League barbecue. In Charlotte, the local symphony asked for my help to fill a 2,500-seat auditorium with tickets that sold for $25. I placed a couple of ads in our newspaper and the tickets sold instantly. A year later, we picked a larger venue and filled 4,500 seats at $15 a pop.

I spent the day with Lewis and Tony, his manager. My mission was to entertain them with one of Lewis’ favorite pasttimes: a game of golf. They drifted into my office with Tony fussing at Lewis because he hadn’t finished his daily column yet. Lewis begrudgingly sat down at my conference table and scratched out a column on some notebook paper. Like most polished columnists, it didn’t take him long. He called and dictated it to his assistant at the AJC and we were off to the course.

It was a cold, blustery February day and Tony was not thrilled about spending it on a golf course. But Lewis was not to be deterred. We played six or seven holes, talking about subjects we had in common: Newspapers, Atlanta, mutual acquaintances. Lewis told a few jokes. I had recently heard one from my boss and while we were putting out on one hole, I told it. Lewis chuckled slightly and looked at Tony for a second.

“Hey, that’s a pretty good joke,” Lewis said. “You mind if I use that one tonight?”

“No, go ahead. Be my guest,” I said, flattered at my supplier-to-the-stars status.

It started to sleet. Lewis and I wanted to keep playing, but Tony started to grumble. On the next green, Lewis tried to make a 20-footer, but the mounds of ice that were starting to collect knocked his ball away from the hole. Finally, he relented and we retired to the clubhouse to drink Irish coffees.

That night, before thousands of spellbound fans, Lewis kept the crowd giggling with his voice, his accent and the eventual punchline. Our stomachs were hurting from laughter.

Near the end, he worked in my joke. Only Lewis told it better and the audience laughed. Suddenly, I wondered whether I may have committed the cardinal sin of telling Lewis a joke that was his to begin with. I never did ask Lewis if I had stolen his joke or if I added just a little bit to his routine. And Lewis, a fine Southern gentleman, never let on.

Working downtown, I get approached by people asking me for money. They often call me “Sir,” and will say “Thank you” after I decline to give but instead wish them the best of luck.

I quit giving money after a couple of experiences of trying to help. One time a guy approached me in a parking lot with a story about not being able to get his wife and child back to Marietta on the bus. They were waiting for him at the MARTA station. Could I give him seven bucks? My gut said he was possibly telling the truth. I gave him a ride to MARTA and said if he could produce his wife and child, I would give them the seven bucks. He couldn’t. So I wished him the best of luck and drove on.

One night I was locked out of my car downtown. It was nice out, so I walked home. Along the Freedom Parkway, some guy said he needed money to stay at the shelter. I told him that if he would follow me he could sleep in my extra bedroom. He said he didn’t want to walk that far.

I don’t want to be callous and I know that as a struggling entrepreneur, I’m just a step or two away from joining these comrades on the street. But I don’t think giving them money is the answer.
The other night, I was standing outside our office building on Peachtree Street and saw a guy open up one of our Atlanta Downtown newspaper boxes and pick up about 50 of our papers.

“Hey,” I said. “Why are you taking so many of my papers?”

“They’re free, aren’t they?” he said.

“Well, yes, but each one of those costs me money.”

“Man, I homeless,” he said. “And these are my pillow.”

“But why my papers?” I asked, pointing to the other boxes of free newspapers lined up together.

“Okay,” he said. “This may get me in trouble, but I’m gonna level with you.” He had no smell of alcohol on his breath and he spoke intelligently. “I lost my job, I’m HIV-positive and my disability hasn’t kicked in yet. This is how I support myself. I walk up to cars or pedestrians, tell them that this is a free paper about downtown and hand them one. Now, this is where I become a fraud. I tell them that this paper is published by a nonprofit organization to benefit the homeless and I ask for a donation.”

I laughed out loud. “So far, I think you’re still telling the truth, about the nonprofit part. You’ve probably made more money this year than I have.”

“I distribute 50 or 60 of these a day,” he said.

“That’s great,” I said. “But I’d rather you pass out these other papers. Why do you always clean out my boxes?”

“I’ve tried using those other papers, but they don’t move as well. People pay more for yours.”
I laughed again. Here I’ve been struggling for three years trying to sell enough advertising to pay for nearly 100,000 free papers and I hear from this one-man-research-and-development-department that I could have been charging for them all along.

“Man,” he said. “You should hire me to distribute your papers. Why don’t you give me a job?”
“I think I already have,” I laughed. “You’re working now. I’ve got to go, but why don’t you call me tomorrow.”

We shook hands in the warm Atlanta evening and wished each other luck. I never heard from him again, but I’m glad I met him. Entrepreneurs get ideas from everywhere. You never know when one will make you money.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been interviewing a lot of folks for sales positions. Some managers take the interview process very seriously.

They will sit the candidates in the same chair, ask the same questions and stare them down with the same steely eye. There are legendary stories about interview nightmares, like the one about the U.S. president who took a cabinet candidate out for lunch. When the prospect salted his food before tasting it, the president nixed him for making a decision not based on facts.

Me – I’m about as far away from that as can be. Of the people I hired, one I interviewed over the phone long distance. Another walked into my office without an appointment (which is how I like to sell to my advertisers), one interviewed with another employee and never even gave me a résumé until a week after starting the job. Another I met at the bar at Atkins Park in Virginia-Highland. I asked her if she wanted a beer. She later confided to fellow employees that she wondered if it was a test. Would be better to drink a soft drink or to drink a beer as I did? On Fridays at 6 p.m., Atkins Park traditionally passes out complimentary shots of Jaegermeister. She was perplexed. What was the right thing to do?

I guess we learn from our role models. My first job interview was in New Orleans, where I drove in my junior year of college to meet Philip Carter, an editor of a French Quarter weekly and the Delta Democrat-Times in Greenville, Miss. I took all my college articles, a nice résumé and the clearest head I could muster for such an auspicious occasion. When Philip showed up for my interview, he had some friends in tow.

Philip’s wife, Lynn, suggested we all go to their house in the quarter and start the interview there. Upon arrival, as is the tradition in New Orleans, a party started. Somewhere between rounds, Philip suggested he take a look at my articles. We talked a little about journalism, his paper, the job, etc. Then as we shook hands on Bourbon Street, he said I could start my reporter’s job upon graduation the next May.

I was the envy of my college class. Most of the seniors spent the year agonizing over whether they could get a job interview, and here I was with a full-time job in my chosen profession lined up already. On graduation weekend, I decided to join some friends backpacking in Europe that summer, so I called Philip, as I had every few months, to see if I could delay my job start until August.

“August,” he said. “But it will be over then.”

“Over,” I said. “What will be over?”

“Your summer internship.”

I nearly dropped the phone. My whole life flashed before me. No job. No money. No trip to Europe. Here all my friends had spent all year fighting for jobs and I had not given it a thought. Now I would have to start all over again.

“Philip,” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You hired me for a full-time job.”

“I don’t have a full-time job open. How did we get this messed up? We’ve been talking all year since the interview.”

“Well, Philip,” I said. “You remember the interview. Your friends came over and … ”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, laughing. “Let me see what I can do.” He talked to his managing editor. Fortunately, a reporter had just announced she was pregnant and had given notice.

So my career as a newspaperman was safe. My skills as an interviewer, however, may have been permanently impaired.

When I was just a cub reporter on the Delta Democrat-Times in Greenville, Miss., I was assigned the police and courts beat. My favorite stop on my way to work every morning was the county jail, a popular place for legal hangers-on like me. Lawyers, probation officers, bail bondsmen, deputies and reporters would all stop off at the jail and say their howdy-dos to Sheriff Harvey Tackett.

Now, the sheriff, Harvey Tackett, was a fine man and all and we were always happy to see him, but if the truth be told, he wasn’t the main attraction. It was the kitchen, which was run by prisoners that had become trusties and happened to be great cooks.

Every morning, we’d stop in and pull a hot biscuit off the stove, stuff it full of ham or bacon or sausage, grab a hot cup of coffee and wander back to the sheriff’s office for a little talk. When the talk went a little dry, we’d wander back down the hall to the kitchen and grab some grits or maybe some cornbread. Sometimes, when the talk went on for a couple of hours, we’d check on how lunch was proceeding.

After a few months, everyone started talking about the sheriff’s Annual Chitlin Dinner, comparable in importance in Greenville to a state dinner at the White House.

“You coming to the Big Dinner?” a county commissioner asked me over biscuits one day.

“Sure, wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

“Ever eat a chitlin’, son?” he asked, looking at me skeptically.

“Why sure,” I said. “I am from the South, you know.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Georgia,” I say proudly.

“Georgia? Where in Georgia?”

“Atlanta.”

The commissioner put his coffee down and looked me in the eye. “Son, I thought you said you were from the South.”

Actually, I wasn’t quite positive I had ever eaten a chitlin. In fact, I was a little afraid to admit I didn’t even know what one was.

One day, I walked in the jail and things were all askew. First of all, it stunk to hog heaven. Secondly, there was a lot of noise coming from the second floor, where the inmates were kept in cells. I walked in the kitchen to get my biscuit and I saw Sheriff Tackett standing over several big pots boiling on the stove. He was stirring one pot and he didn’t look happy. Upstairs, I could hear cups being rattled against the prison bars. The prisoners were yelling. The cook, a trusty – or a prisoner who had earned the sheriff’s trust – was standing by the door behind the sheriff. Behind him was a woman who served as the sheriff’s records manager. She had red hair, was young and sassy.

“It’s bad,” Sheriff said. “It’s a bad batch of chitlins.”

“How do you know a bad batch from a good batch?” the woman kidded the sheriff. “All chitlins smell bad to me!”

“It’s a bad batch, I’m telling you,” the sheriff said. “We’ll have to put off the dinner until next week.” So the word went out throughout the county, the sheriff’s dinner was postponed.

A week later, the day of the big dinner arrived. I arrived late, on purpose. The room was full and loud. I loaded up my plate with french fries, cole slaw and chitlins, both boiled and fried. I sat down with the fire chief, a lawyer and two county commissioners. We all chatted as I finished off my fries and cole slaw. Then it got real quiet as they stopped talking to watch me take my first bite of chitlins.

Unfortunately, I tried a boiled one first. It was so tough I could barely chew it, and as I bit into it a strong pork flavor exploded in my mouth, emitting an odor reminiscent in its intensity and repulsiveness of foul odors from my past – my fraternity house the night after a big party or the showers at summer camp. Now I had eaten all parts of various animals, but that chitlin tasted like nothing I’d ever put in my mouth before or since. As I quickly downed a gallon of iced tea, the whole table laughed uproariously.

Others wandered over to goad me into eating more. Just as I was pouring ketchup all over the fried chitlins, which I hoped would prove to be more edible, a new reporter from the Memphis Commercial-Appeal walked in the door. Spotting a new victim, everybody at my table got up and wandered over to watch him try the chitlins for the first time.

I escaped out the back door. My pride was intact. My Southern heritage was defended. My stomach – well, let’s just say it was a week or two before I returned to get a biscuit from the sheriff’s kitchen, which smelled like chitlins for a long time after the big dinner.