The McRaezy Huck O' the Irish

As I snapped this smug shot of Sean in what is now his front yard yesterday, I couldn’t help but think about my own first piece of Atlanta real estate. Hold up. I’m 25, work for a not-for-profit and irresponsibly invest more in designer denim than I do in the Dow Jones. That said, my first piece of real estate was a far cry from the eco-friendly, 3/2 on a corner lot that is Sean’s new abode: 'twas the 4x2 cubicle that comprised my workday home at McRae, my first job. I loved every square inch of that cube—all 18 of them. It was there on the 32nd floor of the Equitable Building, pulling all nighters at the copier, forcing elevator conservations to last 32 floors and crafting office pools for looming engagements, that my 9-to-5 neighbors became my Atlanta family.

The agency life that was McRae fit me like a pair of Kelly bootcut Citizens of Humanity jeans. Sure, the place had its quirks. I got stuck in the elevator. Twice. A walk from the creative lounge to account service saw a 15-degree dip in temperature. And I never did figure out what one particular colleague, armed with a briefcase full of cosmetics and hand towels, did in the bathroom from 12:30 p.m. to 1 p.m. every day. But, it also had its charm.

Aesthetically, the office had a killer view of Atlanta, and the look and feel of a carousel. It was also home to the 3 p.m. disrumption (nope, no typo there), when the jam of the day—be it Flo-Rida, Michael Jackson or Stevie Wonder—prompted the account service team to bust out with a three-minute afternoon intermission. And, more often than not, there was vino in the fridge.

In early March, I sought the guidance of one of my favorite creative mentors for this year's St. Patrick’s Day card. Without skipping a beat, he was onboard, and the below masterpiece hit the Flynnbox the next day. That's McRaezy. More accurately, that's you, Bill.

Without further ado, in honor of St. Patty's—

the very day that answers The Killers' query "Are We Human, or Are We Dancer?"

—let the day of the 24-hour, jig-ified disrumption begin with this, my parting e-gift from McRae.