I’m on a Delta flight from New York to Atlanta, awaiting takeoff. I have the aisle seat. In the middle, a baby-faced guy who I’m pretty sure is a Mormon, or at least he dresses like one.

At the window, a fiftyish businessman type, brandishing a copy of an Ann Coulter book called “Mugged.” Ugh. I just cannot stand Ann Coulter. That woman is not a conservative, she’s a provocateur. Ann Coulter is like one of those performance artists who work with body fluids — there’s no meaning behind the action, they just want everyone to notice their poop on a wall.

So already, I’m not a fan of Window Seat, as I watch him tapping out very important texts on his Blackberry.

Tricia Branigan’s husband builds those luxury townhome communities that pop up in unexpected locations where land is cheap, instantly gentrifying a single block of Buford Highway, and then promptly walling it off so its residents never have to interact with the neighbors. 

The resulting effect is startling — you’ll drive past a neglected Texaco Station, then a hair weave place, and then there’s this big terrarium for white people, and then like a prepaid cell phone store and a Checkers.

I met the Branigans through work, when I had a job which required me to call wealthy people and ask them for money. For whatever reason, Tricia Branigan had no interest in writing a check to the organization. But she would gleefully spend thousands of dollars hosting a fundraising party in her home, a gesture as thoughtful as it was consistently ineffective.