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“A
lot of my life was not my own," Ort admits, and he
has often set his own interests and pursuits aside
to help his close circle of family and friends. When
his grandmother passed away in 1979, Ort went to Florida soon
thereafter to manage the land grant she had worked and lived
on there. Ort remembers that he-"had to solve the estate"—not
just live on it—because "there was no one else to do it." Work
in record stores and other odd jobs had taken Ort to Nashville,
TN, but in 1986 he returned to Athens when his mother's •
health began to fail. He lived
with his mother until her death
in 2001, supporting himself on
the money from sometimes as
few as three Flagpole columns
a month. When he left his own
life in Nashville, Ort says; "I
turned my back on my house
and record collection... But I
don't give a damn about the
records I lost."
A quiet highlight of Ort's
life in Athens was his relation
ship with Melissa Williams.
"You'd have to ask her if she
was my girlfriend," Ort says
with a small smile, but her
appearance in several reverent
paragraphs and even whole
columns in Flagpole, as his
"Favorite Lady," seems to con
firm that fact. (Ort once wrote
"How could I resist includ
ing someone so worthy of
the space?") Williams died of
breast cancer in 1992, and Ort's column in memoriam remains
his self-proclaimed greatest achievement in his writing. The
column includes much of Ort's strange humor and wordplay—
he describes Williams as "fuller of life than a cageful of
monkeys"—but also surges of grief, joy, and love. "She made
me feel less lonely in a world that can be stark and cruel," Ort
wrote. "In her arms, I finally fit in someplace... I'll do my best
to concentrate not on bringing her back but on keeping her
light burning brightly within, carrying on for her while wear
ing my own clothes." When Ort talks about Williams today, he
remarks that "my time with her was the second time in my life
when I loved someone, and she loved me in return, and had her
die." It's a bit of Ort trivia, but it makes him go silent and still.
rt's eccentricity, and his knack for telling a’story unlike
anything you've ever heard, still endears him to Athens
culture, and today new groups are starting to claim him
as their own. Ort likes to post stories of his travels and road
food finds on a few online message boards, a clandestine oper
ation he runs from that large-text computer in the UGA library.
Ort spends a lot of his time these days at the UGA library, but he keeps up with his beer sampling, too.
He's gathered a bit of a cult following, which is always asking
for more details about its mysterious correspondent; when
one member of a RoadFood.com forum asked Ort who he was,
several others stepped in to give a cryptic comment—"I think
he is our Kramer. His full name is Ort. Carlton but we never
call him that. Just Ort."—or to offer praise—"ORT makes more
and better creative use of ADVERBS than anyone else in the
English-Speaking World!" New UGA students are also getting
to know Ort as they see him at the brewpubs and bars down
town (Copper Creek and the Blind Pig Tavern are his favorite
haunts). "Every time that I go to Copper Creek, he's there,"
says Christopher Reid, a senior English and Italian major from
Butler, GA. Reid, like many other students, recognizes Ort as
an idiosyncratic source of information and bar conversation;
recalling one of the more remarkable conversations he has
had with Ort, Reid says, "Once, Ort asked where I was from. I
merely told him, 'Butler, GA,' and he proceeded to tell me what
county I lived in, rtw many inhabitants there were, and that
there was only one—very recent—traffic light in my town.
He knows more about my small town than many of its lifelong
occupants!"
Despite all of these new descriptions and definitions, how
ever, Ort has always preferred to define himself. After all, his
Flagpole columns always began with the declaration "William
Orten Carlton = ORT," instead of any headline. Over 20 years
ago Ort addressed the audience of Athens, GA: Inside/Out to
declare his emancipation from all of the caricatures: "I don't
care what anyone thinks about me. They can think I'm an
aborigine. I am. I'm charting my own planet somewhere else."
Today, Ort cuts a pretty interesting figure. He spreads his time
between the downtown scene, his makeshift desk at the UGA
library, and sleeping (often from 3:30 a.m. until early after
noon the next day). On his late-night shift at his library desk,
where he works on his record collection, a book-length project
on the lives of the people who died in a 1938 Atlanta hotel
fire, his message boards, and plentiful games of solitaire, Ort
occasionally takes a circuit around the reference section of the
library to get his blood flowing and to entertain the librarians.
He stops by the reference desk with any creative, nonsensical
uttering that may have popped into his head, from made-up
folk band names to various metaphors he plans to use in his
stories, to titter-inducing phrases like "Holy fried chicken
epaulettes!" At times, he will lovingly recite census details
from memory, as though he's telling a Christmas story to a
wide-eyed grandchild.
When he speaks about himself, Ort has to have the last
word. At the end of an interview, Ort seizes and pores through
the reporter's notes. It takes his tired, computer-dazed eyes
awhile, and he remarks that the writer has very nice handwrit
ing for having written so quickly. The last question was about
his daily routine, about which activities get him out of bed
every day, and he sees a few noncommittal notes taken from
his noncommittal responses. Blinking a few times, Ort says,
"Just add, 'Anything it takes to keep my mind alive.'"
Lauren T. Elmore
Road Trip: Manuel’s, The Majestic and the Election-Ort’s Back!
Editor’s Note: Imagine our surprise when
the subject of Lauren Elmore's fine profile
marched into the Flagpole office with anoth
er of his famous road-trip columns after only
a three-year-writer's-block-induced hiatus.
You’ve heard of Ort; you’ve seen Ort; now you
can read Ort.
our obedient-but-of-late-absent cor
respondent has finally scored a coup
for Flagpole! I drove down to Atlanta
to take in the election returns at Manuel's
Tavern, the traditional Democratic strong
hold of Atlanta since its 1956 opening.
I left Athens-Clarke after working on
research until 2 a.m. in the University of
Georgia library and snagging a bite to eat
afterward. The trip in on Georgia 316 was
effortless, although I noted that I was over
driving my headlights without wanting to,
because my vision has deteriorated since
I last attempted such a late-night depar
ture. I held my speed to 55 to remain safe,
letting everyone pass me... hey, people—
that's what multi-lane highways are for!
While heading toward Atlanta, I cursed the
shortsightedness not of myself but of the
designers of the highway—"Why wasn't this
thing BUILT as a limited-access road ini
tially?" I fumed. "Correcting that debacle is
gonna cost more money than if it had been
done right in the first place. Hmph. Talk
about trying to save taxpayers' money—all
this will do is make us spend more just to
bring this blasted road up to the interstate
highway standard it should have been built
under initially." (This is one of my biggest
pet peeves.)
I arrived at my favorite motel, Inn of
Buford on Shallowford Road in Chamblee, at
4:07 a.m. and let the all-night manager know
I was there. I took a nice in-van cat-nap ^
until 5:30, when I awoke and checked in. The
room was mine until 11:00 Wednesday morn
ing as a result. (They're glad to do this for
me because I leave my room ship-shape.) *
After a decent sleep, I awoke at 1:30
p.m. refreshed, took a nice shower, changed
clothes, and headed off to my favorite eatery
in the area, The Galaxy Diner. This place is
at the end of Henderson Mill Road, right
where it empties into Chamblee-Tucker Road,
over in Embry Hills. The lunch special of a
chicken Cordon Bleu sandwich caught my
eye, and—even nicer—it came with a cup of
navy bean soup. This eatery's strongest suit
is its from-scratch homemade soups, and
this cupful was no disappointment.
After eating, I drove down Henderson
Mill Road, connected to Briarcliff Road, and
arrived in Little Five Points before 4 p.m.
A secure parking space for my Dodge van
availed itself, so Van Ella Fitzgerald (as I
have dubbed her) was right at home.
I walked up Mansfield Avenue to
Seminole Avenue and thence to North
Highland Avenue, crossed Freedom Parkway,
and arrived at Manuel's. There were no park
ing spaces to be had there; stalwarts had
begun arriving as early as 11 a.m. in prepa
ration for the long watch of the returns. I
walked in and managed to grab a space near
the end of the bar, ordered up a draught of
Leinenkugel's Creamy Dark Beer, and leaned
against the wall to await the fun.
Along about 8:00, the first returns began.,
to trickle in. "Some states close their polls
at 6 p.m.," my companion Chris explained.
"I'm from Chicago, and I've been watching
election returns since I was old enough to
stand up. It's really exciting." She proved to
be excellent company and a kindred spirit.
"I've recently moved to Atlanta and build
furniture for the Alliance Theatre," she
explained. I was in awe. "That's really cool,"
I allowed. "I need to get to know her a little
better," I thought.
Then came the jubilation. There were
disappointments, to be sure, but as state
after state began reporting in and the elec
toral votes edged closer to the mark needed
to elect Obama, glorious shouts filled the
rooms of the fine old tavern. An old friend
of mine stopped by to say hello and ended
up hanging around a while. It was good to
see Roy Green, not to mention all of the
several other reunions I enjoyed through the
evening... but I'm getting ahead of myself.
When California's results came in and
those electoral votes were awarded to
Obama, it became obvious that he would
be elected. The place was getting more
and more frantic and tighter and tighter
crammed-in. To order food and be forced to
eat it standing up and getting constantly
jostled in the process did not appeal to me,
so Chris and I walked out and strolled down
to The Majestic Food Shop on Ponce de Leon
Avenue. She took leave of .me to head home
(she had an early day coming), so I enjoyed
my gyro omelette (sub spinach for tomato)
with garlic bread and cole slaw subbed for
grits. It came with homemade tzatziki sauce,
which was utterly deliriously good. It had
been too long since I had eaten at The
Majestic, and I was glad to be back there.
Then I returned to Manuel's and ordered a
bottle of Yuengling Premium Beer. This fine
brew has only recently reached our state,
and I savored every drop.
Not long after my return, the place broke
out in pandemonium as everyone realized
that Obama had won. I stayed for McCain's
congratulatory speech, which struck me as
about the best such exit I had ever seen.
"The man's a real statesman and not just
another politician," I remarked to several
people.
By now the crowd was thinning, so I
walked back by my van and on to my old
standby, The Euclid Avenue Yacht Club,
where I enjoyed a celebratory pint of
Terrapin India Brown Ale. It had been a
hectic-but-fun night,"and after my one beer
and some boiled peanuts, I drove back out
Briarcliff to my motel.
More trip reports will forthcome as soon
as I manage to get out of town again. It's
good to be back in Flagpole. (30.)
William Orten Carlton
William Orten Carlton = ORT, Special Correspondent
for Flagpole
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NOVEMBER 19, 2008 • FLAGPOLE.COM 11
