By him, he was once informed by one of his most generous admirers, "You are only here because you are pretty"; unfortunately, he did not take the remark as the admonition, the warning, that it was. Some years ago, there was a notorious dank, smoke-filled basement bar, the Gallus, at Atlanta; it was said of the place that it was the "elephant's graveyard" for the once "bold and beautiful" rentboys of the world, lads who, by reason of maturation and "wear and tear" were reduced to hustling drinks, dinner and "tricks". I, myself, visited it only once, in the company of a friend who touted it as an experience not to be missed in one's lifetime. The place lived up to its reputation. All of the boys, by then men, I encountered there had a story of having lived the "good life" as decorative accessories amongst and at the expense of the "rich and famous"; stories which they knew would make for a best-selling book or made for television flick if they could only find the right publisher or producer; indeed, it was the common thread of the tapestry of their existence. Unfortunately, none of them had prepared for the day when, with fading physical beauty, they became less of an amusement and more of an aggravation and they found their "place at the table" taken by another, a once desirable but now dated adornment consigned to the thrift store.