What I would show George Clooney

Even if you have never listened to my radio show (frankly, I'm an NPR girl, myself) you will know from local news coverage and breathless, middle-aged, housewives that George Clooney is in town. Well, not actually "in" town, but devastatingly close: Boiling Springs. Yep, a school teacher just emailed me, with photos as proof, that George was filming a scene at a middle school there.

Who would have ever thought? I mean, really. One of the biggest stars, ever, is right in our backyard. I've sent out countless appeals, over the air, to bring him to 'The Unabomber Shack" from where I broadcast. I'll even devote the whole show to Darfur. I know where he is staying! Sigh... I should know better: Having lived in Hollywood for fifteen years, earning a living on a sit-com, there ain't no way anyone can get to you with the layers of publicists, agents and security that surround you with the tenacity of a plastic wrapper on a brand new CD.

There's been no response from the radio invitations or threats. This either means he is simply not interested or that my listening audience totals about the same number of Cooper Gap residents who are boldly pro-zoning. At any rate, George, you don't know what you're missing. I have a whole day planned for you:

First, breakfast at The Junction. Rib-sticking food and entertainment for out-of-towners. Most people have never witnessed folks actually free-basing grits and sausage. Yes, I realize it's "all you can eat" but, really, pulling a chair up to a buffet is simply rude, don't you agree?

Next, a tool around Hunting Country with the windows open (as we have just left The Junction) followed by a forced march up to Pearson's Falls. Yes, it is beautiful and, no, my dog isn't supposed to be there, but shut up about it, OK?

Third, a little spin around Lake Lanier. George, there's the old Lake Lanier Tea House. You've got big bucks. If you buy it and restore it, I promise that Paul and I will run it as an authentic German restaurant, complete with Beer Garden. You don't even have to pay me. I just want to be able to sit outdoors on a brilliant spring afternoon and look at the view through the slightly opaque liquid wheat in my favorite pilsner.

Lunch will take us to The Lake Bowen Fish Camp. Yes, I understand your breakfast hasn't yet digested, but the "Slick 50" that catfish is fried in will leave skid marks through your colon. C'mon: where else can you eat fourteen hundred hushpuppies and still not be full? The service is wonderful, everyone's friendly, and, afterwards, outside, as the afternoon mellows, we can throw bread to the rats that live under the rocks. They're huge! I'm going to have my nephew, dressed in his favorite cowboy outfit, photographed riding one.

As the day winds down, a walk through Campobello to see if any cars have been sold yet, then a perusal downstairs at "Two Birds" in Landrum to see if that "Leonard Nimoy Sings!" album is still there. Yep, thought so. Finally, let's step into 10 Trade Street just to show you that we boast a sign of the Apocalypse: a restaurant that offers non-battered or fried food indeed existing in the deep South. Oh, by the way, that's Morris. Yes, it's a giant horse. No, I don't know why he's wearing a hat.

So you see, George, you might just blow it. Yeah, yeah, you've got your mansion in the Italian Lake District. Yes, the home in Bel Air is also spectacular. You're right around the corner from Wolfgang Puck's and Rodeo Drive. But you've never seen Hogback Mountain early in the morning, with the breeze lifting the veil of mist from its crest, or the "V" of geese that fly over my farm each evening, against crimson streaks of setting sun and you sure as hell have never had "The Heartstopper" at Side Street Pizza.

You just don't know what you're missing.