Mark,
Me and a couple of my GCA cabal were rolling through Augusta on the way to Succession and Chechessee Creek. No offense on the "piece of shit" crack since an army of grifters and drifters have turned (what was once) the most beautiful city on Earth into a sewer of schizophrenics defecating on the street - and the highest number of car burglaries x2 in America.
However, let's be honest, even if Mr. Clean was the Augusta mascot, the place would still be marginal at best. Walking down the street, getting the cold stare stink-eye from the locals was a bit unsettling. I live in a place where nobody gives a shit what color your are - but when we finally found a decent hotel, in came a parade of hustlers and their brown sugars du jour, renting rooms on-the-side by the hour, without management knowing.
Don't hate me, but the only place we found to eat that did not scream "focus group driven national chain," was a big-ass sports bar with cornbread and ribs so greasy, they kept a pair of heart paddles at every table and a cardiologist on staff, who also doubled as a fry cook.
One of the guys got taken home by your basic Farrah-do, married and divorced twice by age 26, three kids by two different guys (although the paternity test was inconclusive about the one with kinky hair), halter top and chipped fingernail polish. Evidently, she was a former prom queen who flunked out of hair salon school, but apparently she was quite a romp.
Having no interest in bringing home syphilitic madness to our lovely wives, we hunkered down at the Savannah River Brewing joint and tried to separate the Walmart shoppers from the Bass Pro Shop hicks. After a while, it became a blur of pink hot pants and cutoff vests, so we fled back to our room and passed out to the sound of gunshots and sirens.
I never did see Butler Cabin, maybe we were on the wrong side of town . . . .