Oh The Douchebaggery

I just saw it and gotta' say I don't smell any Oscars anytime soon.

Cause' you are fixin' to see a catfight!

So I am unemployed, duh.

My sister asks if I want to baby-sit. I say sure, I needs to get paid! And I love my nieces, so it's a win-win.

We decide to meet up at the Rochembeau Library on Hope where she has her La Leche meeting.

I walk in, see a whole bunch of new mom boobies, and am ready to hotfoot it outta' there like an east-sider at a Wu-Tang show...Oh, yes! I did. Non-tipping hussies.

Nico, Lena, and I take our business to the children's room.

P.S. ! I have totally missed my calling.

Read a childrens' book lately?
They are short, completely lacking in plot development and characterization, and totally anti-climatic.

I swear to God, I have been noticing an epidemic of totally dumbass kids and all this time I have been blaming the mothers! Childrens' Lit. is a totally untapped resource!

Honestly, though. I kid a lot, but why the hell are we treating our young one's like they have the wherewithal of a basketball? I know it's cliche, but kids are indeed sponges.

My nieces are incredibly smart.

I mean, sure, they have superior DNA, but come on!
Why would you talk down to a precious young mind!

I am getting beside myself here, so let's get to the point.

I come back from Whole Foods with Nico and Lena in tow and see the parking slut-tendant.
She's shifty as usual in all her Costanza glory (loyal readers--all 3 of you---know the whorible bitch I am talking about) and pretending not to see me.

I'm thinking, ahh, she's about to get somebody good, wily buttaface!

But because I am dealing with two toddlers and a case of the "I gotta' get away from all this unsexy lactation" , I disregard my gut.

Sorry, gut, I wronged you.
You were right as usual.
Promise to never, ever, eat a guacamole, mayo, and cheese sandwich again.

I got a thirty dollar ticket for parking in a cross-walk.

I'd like to take this time to point out that nobody, and I mean NOBODY, in Rhode Island heeds the cross-walk.

You are putting your life in your own hands if you think that somebody's gonna' stop for you.

That aside, this dried up hag was obviously avoiding me as I parked.
She saw me, coulda' told me to move my car....NO!

Muahaha...
You have just messed with the wrong girl.

I have been looking for a reason to snap the smug satisfaction off your face!

The light is GREEN!

It is on.

I have been taking my dog on these epic walks since operation freedom started.

Today we strolled about the entire east-side and parts of Pawtucket.
It was a beautiful day and we had almost no humidity, so judging by the amount of perspiration coming off my body (albeit scented like lavender and dreams), it only goes to prove that the route I chose was, shall we say, lengthy.

I had to stop at a friend's to grab a water bottle with which I shared with my huffy pooch.
I mean I shared the water, not the bottle.
Eeeew, cooties!

So, I am walking around and just not at all cute. I'm dehydrated, sweaty, and probably more than a little red when you factor in the recent lobstering my skin got at the beach. So why the fuck are you dudes honking at me?

I got honked at three times today!

That shit is startling!

I mean, the main reason I go on walks or engage in intentional bouts of exercise and/or activity is because I am seeking peace of mind through endorphins.

I'm unemployed!

I can't afford your fancy crack cocaine!

So when I am pondering some pretty deep stuff, the last thing I need is for some knucklehead in a Suburban Assault Vehicle honking at me while I am in my Zen place.

What do you think this is going to accomplish?

Yeah, things are looking different.

Trust me, it was PURELY unintentional. I really know nothing about these crazy thinking machines and going to online template tutorials is like being surrounded by a bunch of D&D playing, Steven Hawking worshipping egg-heads just blasting your intelligence.

I thought I'd spice things up on here a bit because I woke up at 6 AGAIN and had nothing better to do. Plus, my blog wasn't pretty enough, and from the research I have done on blogs and pretty much all things in general, beauty beats content. I'm living proof! I couldn't be more shallow and everyone loves me! I jest of course! People hate me. Jealous bitches....

So anywho, I found a template I liked and copied the code. It was a free site but I donated 3 bucks 'cause I support the arts and three dollars is all I could rationalize donating considering the salad days are officially over.

I am about to preview the code, but it's nearing 6:30 in the a.m. and my synapses aren't firing properly yet, so I accidentally press save code instead.

Oh my god. The shit looked Terrible (with a capital T, see what I did there?).

So I am frantic and trying to find my old template for hours to no avail. I was crying like a nerd on prom night (okay I just thought of my prom night and there were no tears... just a bunch of Carrie style plotting---one day, bitches---one day you will pay!).

So finally I settle on a template that is passable (i.e. doesn't feature puppies in a basket on the bottom, a scene from the Hobbit, or a banner at the top dedicated to Hogwart Academy...seriously these tech. people are nerdtastic).
I can't figure out how to make the thing look like I want it to and my computer keeps refusing my attempts to get the damnable code in there. I keep getting messages saying vague shit like; cannot be parsed, attempt failed because XrC^ doesn't align with PCP. Please reconfigure all gobbledygook and realign your lameness with your inferior posterior. The Sith is underrated....blah, blah, blah..computer jargon.

I am pulling out my hair and cursing the jerks responsible for these codes. I mean, come on!
I imagine that the aforementioned techies are sitting around in their moms' basements just having a big ol' laugh at my expense.

Typical imagined conversation:

Nerd One:Oh my gosh. This one is as stupid as the tape splicer behind Rise of the Machines. Remember 36.8 minutes in when you could clearly see the...(don't know where I'm going here, imagine somewhere very dorky)

Nerd Two: It's true! This one reminds me of that trombonist at band camp who didn't know her pitch classes from her spit valve.

Giggles abound over the usage of the term "spit valve"

Nerd Three: She's practically Kelly Bundy

Blank stares

Nerd Three: It was a Trivial Pursuit question. I fell on the pink spot.

Heads nod in communal acknowledgment of the dreaded arts and entertainment portion of Trivial Pursuit.

Followed by some laughs over "landing on the pink spot"

If there is anything American Pie has taught me---and it has taught me alot, my friends, is that nerds are dirty birds. (P.S. I'm a spelling bee champ and one time first chair of the Florida Youth Symphony...oh, the sweet flat, pre-pubescent tail I got!)

I digress.

Point is that, despite my idiocy and the 4 hours it took me, I got some semblance of my old site back.

p.s. i have no earthly clue as to how those two conversation bubbles ended up at the top of my page--the one's marked "posts" and "all comments", but you are my new hero if you can tell me how to get them off here.

Is now on day two and I gotta' admit, I'm beginning to panic a little.

Don't get me wrong, I know I made the right decision, however hasty it might have been.
I had to leave before the last remnants of my will to live were hoovered out by the man.

But what the fuck do I do next?

I was thinking of maybe doing some editing but have decided that I can't have a job where all I do is sit. I have too much energy for that. I'm equal parts water, oxygen, vim, and vigor. I gots to move, people!

I was thinking I could be a mail-carrier.

The outfit's stupid but there is a lot of walking around involved and it's about to become supremely beautiful outdoors.

But I don't think you can get a Federal job if you have been convicted of a crime.

Silly, Silly, public indecency charges. People pay good money to see that kind of stuff!

So, folks, I am open to suggestions.

On a positive note I did get quite a bit done today.
For some ungodly reason I woke up at six today.
I wish I could sleep in...ahh, slumber. I remember that fair mistress.

I have friends that sleep all day on their days off.

Although, technically, that could be described as a symptom of depression.

And, as much as I bitch, I really do love life (when I'm not chained to a witless nine-to-five, that is).

But, yeah!

I caught up on some Jerry Springer and I gotta' say, social relevance be damned! I can't believe the guy's not bigger than Oprah. Or Jesus, for that matter.

My apartment and car are cleaner than they have been in a long time and my dog has been walked to exhaustion. Sorry, Sheen.

But I can't get paid for leisuring!

To make that happen I'd have to join the cast of The Hills.

So, seriously. Hook me up with a job tip...please.

I'll love you long time.

I am soooo out.

The day has finally come.
I quit my job.

I didn't actually use the words so much as throw my vile baseball hat on the floor, declare my independence, and say fuck this, stomp out of the office and slam the door, but I think they got the picture.

Hallelujah! Praise Jesus! Holla at Allah!

I know I should be freaking out right now but fuck it. I feel
at peace.

Let me just say, god as my witness, I will NEVER work in the food service industry again. I have had enough of the denigration, thank you sir, NO MORE!

The entire time my boss was chiding me today about my "customer service skills" all I was thinking was, I do not give one shit about these idiotic pampered blowhards and their ridiculous needs.

I have a stellar constitution, always have. But there is only so much I can stomach.

Irony of ironies, this week just happens to mark my one year anniversary. I would have gotten a raise. Talk about comic timing!

Oh and just to keep this fun, I really hate one of my co-workers. Every single thing about this person bothers me. I am always nice to said person but I really would prefer if they got run over by a truck.
Guess who you are, biotch!

I will miss seeing you Alli, Mitchell, Kaitelyn, Christina, Will, Aimee---get ye the hell out soon, you are too good for this misery.

The rest of you can bite me.

Ah man.
I have no money. It totally blows.

And I am on the most ridiculous diet ever (sort of...yeah! Gluten---I cheated on your sorry ass---and it feels so good).

Point is, gluten is in practically everything. So I am walking around like a totally misanthropic turd all day complaining about my diet while my stomach is emitting some seriously loud hunger pangs.

And the only establishment that caters to my diet is Whole Foods.

Are you kidding me? They should call it Whole lotta' money you're gonna' be spending on over-priced hippie Foods.

I have dropped some serious coin there since I cut the gluten. And now that I am going about renaming things, let's just call it what it is. It's not so much a diet as it is a vision quest. Seriously. I am so deprived that I am experiencing psychic episodes. I swear the other day I levitated!

So I went today to pick up my single serving of gluten-free pizza ($5) and my Kombucha ($4)---that's a mushroom based soda, folks...oh yeah I am so crunchy my nickname should be Cap'n !--- and proceed to the checkout when I realize I have forgotten to bring one of my reusable shopping bags.

Jesus.

I could get away with this if I was at Stop and Shop. Stop and Shop doesn't give a shit.

But Whole Foods is high and mighty and all about the environment.

Don't get me wrong. I care about the environment.
I breathe air all day long.
I love the shit.

But, god forbid you ask for a bag at Whole Foods.

The few times I have been reduced to it I ended up slinking out of there holding my purchase like it was a bald eagle I just shot down and ground into a nice tetrazzini meat.

The shame!

So, not only am I spending enough money on one meal to feed a Cambodian child for a year, I am also forced to buy yet another fucking grocery bag.

All this going green is robbing me of all my greenbacks.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/crime/2008/08/24/stone.fl.pot.at.the.mall.wfor

1) Florida just became a whole lot cooler!

2)Finally a reason to go to the mall!

My favorite reaction is from the third guy. "It's just awesome". I couldn't have said it any better myself. Can you imagine the Cheech and Chongery up in that biz if the wiring blew and they did have a fire? Holy contact high!

All of a sudden that Auntie Anne's preztel peddler is looking mighty fine!

I always thought our little burg was a wasteland.

Turns out there is proof!

http://www.cnn.com/2008/HEALTH/08/22/toxic.schools/index.html?iref=newssearch

My apologies to every idiot I flipped off and called, ahem, "a science experiment gone awry" in the five years since I moved here.

Please don't vaporize me with your angry stares.

So you may have noticed that my blog entries have been sparse this week.

Yeah. That title has nothing to do with the actual acne remedy.*

Wait for the words. I swear I will make a connection.

Recently I had a moment.

I complain a lot. It's therapeutic.

But I have been bitching quite a bit more than usual lately and even I am tired of hearing it.
So I racked my brain (and my friends and family) for some guidance as to a solution and decided to go back to school for my M.F.A. (a.k.a. Motherfuckin' fine ass!---also referred to in polite society as a master's of fine arts....pishah! polite society---with all your strictures and Dockers and Celine Dion balladry).

Horror!
Ever have that dream where you're still in high school but EXACTLY the same age? Holy psychic trauma!

But shit has gotten to the point where I need a change. This much strife is just uncouth. I'm about to freak out Amy Winehouse style and nobody wants to witness that.

So, I am applying to Columbia as my first choice.

Raising the bar high, I know. But it's about time I did something besides belly up to it.

I have a second choice, New School. They already accepted me once for my under-grad and I must say, I like the idea that when somebody asks me which
University I attend, I can reply, "Oh, I'm kickin' it New School".

Fingers crossed that I get into one of the above because my third choice is Iowa.
Pro:Great writing school.
Con:In fucking IOWA

*
Though I hear it works!
Seriously, I once lived in the same apartment building as this beautiful creature who had a subscription to Elle and a Kate Moss endorsed wardrobe.

I used to sneak a peak in her mailbox everyday like it was magic fairy happy land.

Ahh, living vicariously since 1977 should be my new motto.

Ladies and gents, I could count the number of pimples I have had in my lifetime on one hand.
Those eruptions are Vesuvius style occurrences.But I spent the $30 dollars anywho. Whatever.

Apparently I wear depression well.

It's week two of my post-vacation reality check. Said check has been written with the subject line grim despair. Oh, snap. I really loathe my life. But hey! It's great to be passionate about something. Even if it's bitter, bitter, hate-itude, right?

And yet for some reason, when all I wanted to do today was find a nice comfy hole to crawl inside of and die, all I got was, "Wow, you look great"!

Meanwhile, the entire time I was on vacation and loving life I had a chin that looked like beef carpaccio (long story).

The whole day I was like what the hell? I need to get melancholy more often. (Dear God, I know I haven't written you since my first day of camp when I realized that Ginny Hornoffer had bigger boobs than me at a time when boobs were MY thing !----ahh she's probably a hooker now with a serious meth addiction. I mean you DID hear my prayer, right? But seriously, I was jesting about that whole "making my life more melancholy thing"...not so much about ruining Ginny "boobs McGee" Hornoffer's future).

So I get home from my daily torture session (p.s. thanks for the offer of boat drinks, Annie. I know you read this thing---and God help you 'cause you have no idea what you're getting yourself into--but I will so be taking you up on that offer soon) and read an article which offers some hope.

Scientists are actually on the verge of perfecting a cloak of invisibility. (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/7553061.stm)

Worldly possessions, prepare to be sold!

If this thing actually pans out, I will be the first in line to buy.
Hell. I already spend fifty percent of my day trying to be invisible and now there is an actual possibility of making it a reality! Sweet, sweet, dream come true.

I think these things are actually in circulation already.

I mean every time I see a jackass in a Nickelback tee, it's like he's not there at all.

And because I feel like being generous and am not feeling very high-spirited myself...Allow me to light up your life with the Engrish of the day.

In honor of the ass-raping that is the Beijing Olympics...
http://www.engrish.com/

Roses are Red
Violets are blue
You suck

What can I say? I have a gift for words.

So, it's Saturday night and I am just chilling at home.
Around six I start hearing some truly terrible NuRock ala Limp Bizkit/Evenescence, you get the picture...It was like Spencer's gifts up in my backyard.
So I take my dog Sheena (shout outs to Sheen LaQuifah---world's best schnauzer) outside to investigate.
There are two tools hanging out in the garage that abuts my driveway just pumping the cacophony.
I figure, hey, it's six p.m., let 'em have their jollies. Even if it's totally offending my ears.

10 p.m. rolls around and the music just keeps getting louder. And these shitheads have now introduced strobe lights into the mix.

Now I am all for a party. If I had it my way, partying would be a profession and I'd have a 168 hour work week.

But the driveway is shared property. Did I get a phone call regarding potential festivities? Um, no.

And this wasn't some civilized wine and cheese mixer where guests strolled about in cardigans and khakis musing about lawn care and the Nasdaq. This was a straight-up Animal House style rager!

Here's where I get ageist, but I am assuming these assholes are all young idiots who still believe the world is their oyster. Guess what? I share that fucking oyster with you and I hate your crappy music and your crappy friends. DIE!

So of course this is all going down precisely the same night my sister decides to spend the night at my casa with her three year old twins and four month old infant. I just love your humanitarianism, fuckwads! Seriously, your new nickname is Mother Theresa.

What was that? Did your doorbell just ring?

Special Delivery!

One flaming bag of Schnauzer shit to show my appreciation!

Have you heard the news about Banksy being unmasked?
Some asshole in need of some notoriety and/or duckets supposedly caught a glimpse (i.e. stalked the guy until he got an opportunity to seriously fuck up a legend) and posted a picture of him on the internet.
Granted, the photo is vague and almost impossible to make out...so I guess that, in effect, renders the picture's existence questionable in terms of actually identifying the artist.
Who the fuck cares though.
Whoever posted the picture claims that he is a huge fan.
Excuse me, Banksy has built his fan base on anonymity.
My main concern is that if this picture is conclusive enough to actually make a valid i.d., that Banksy will be charged with a fairly astronomical number of violations.
Sure, he's probably feasting on caviar and Cristal with all the bank he's gotten from the Pitt-Jolie's (UGGH on two counts---1>celebrity's with money enough to afford "guerilla" art only after it succeeds at becoming profitable and, 2>hyphenated last names...grow a sac, Brad...remember Fight Club?).
Thumbs down to you, Mr. oppurtunistic vagina.
I see the future you have enabled.
Bland, pedestrian streets devoid of individulality and expression, covered in stupid fucking advertisements which only serve to dumb-down an already ridiculously dumb society.

A friend and I went out last night with no real plan in mind.
We are tired of the west side and all the kids who get dressed in the dark and refuse to shower on what principle, I dunno'.
And of course the east side is just totally bleak unless you are super fond of Chili's. Or god forbid Tortilla Flats. Worst. Food. Ever.
So we settle on down town (or down city, whatever that whole charade is).
We start at Tazza.
Them's were good times! If by "good times" you mean lame o'clock.
You would have been able to hear the crickets chirping if it weren't for the brain thumping electronica beats in the back ground. I like electronica, I'm a fan. But the poor d.j. was playing to an empty room. It was kind of heartbreaking.
So my friend and I went out on the streets to smoke and people watch.
First victim of our comedic play-by-play was, shall we say, a wee bit inebriated.
He was walking, no, sashaying down the sidewalk... just keepin' it real, kickin' it Colt 45 style.
We see him approaching one of those green electrical boxes. I don't really know what they are there for but they are marked high-voltage so I always try to avoid loitering on or around them.
My friend and I are making bets on whether or not he's going to run into it. What, ooh, watch out guy!
Dude grabs the thing like it's a Nam buddy and holds on for dear life.

The funny thing is that I saw this guy out last week while I was having lunch with my mom at Cuban Revolution.
My mom's kind of the shit. She has been everywhere and done everything...including serving as a U.S. delegate in Cuba. Impressive, sure...but she also happens to have a diabolical sense of humor.
So because of our setting, the talk turned to Communism, how theoretically it's a beautiful thing, blah, blah, blah...
I'm making some point that was I'm sure if I had been allowed to finish would have been so earth-shatteringly relevant that it's effects would have been akin to curing cancer or saving baby seals...But my mom interrupts by grabbing my shoulder and gesturing out the window with a look on her face that says, "oops, I crapped my pants".
I see the dude.
He's drunk and being escorted by two cops down the sidewalk.
It was not even noon yet.
It would have been tragic---in fact maybe it was, but I have a gift for making light of tragedy. Your misfortune is my funny party joke!
But what really made the whole scene gut-wrenchingly ludicrous, was the guy's outfit.
I would describe his garb in three words; cloak of awesomeness.
He was being strong-armed by the law down the streets of Providence in the early afternoon wearing what can only be described as a dressing gown.
And what a pretty gown it was!
It was blue and silky and it billowed in the wind with every misstep he took.
Here's to you, fancy drunk guy! You started our night out right!

And because I just realized that the sheer lunacy of last night was so immense that this post has the definite possibility of turning into a small novel, I am going to break it up.

Ooh, my first installment piece.

I'm like a journalist.

But not. At all!

So, we leave Tazza to see what other fun times are on the horizon when we notice a whole weird grab bag of people leaving Lupo's.
All the chicks were dressed up for prom and all the dudes looked like extras from a Jay-Z video. Note to self---find out who the fuck was playing at Lupo's last night.
My guess was Enrique Iglesias, because for some reason the ladies seriously hootch it up for that dude.
My hypothesis is that his giant mole has some crazy gravitational pull that effects only suburban white girls. And their long suffering boyfriends had to "man up" with as much bling, backward baseball caps, and cologne as possible in order to deflect any questioning of dudery.
Come on guy, you know you bobbed your head to Hero. Feel the Latin flame...it's all good.
So there are a bunch of cops out front keeping the peace.
And one poor traffic horse just looking ultra-confused.
The "man" literally rides this bitch's ass all day long and what does she get? A fucking diaper.
The horse is a beautiful and majestic animal.
The unfortunate filly who's job it is to carry a fat cop around all day has really drawn the short straw.
Speaking of straw, can you imagine if that was all you ate?
So bland. So monochromatic.
Therefore it wasn't that surprising when the horse started to munch on a traffic cone.
I imagine it was thinking, "Mmmm. Bright and orange, just like a yummy carrot! Hmm, it doesn't really taste like a carrot but it doesn't taste like hay either! I wish humans would stop perpetuating the myth that hay is for horses....we hate that shit. God this cop smells like bourbon. Is that Enrique Iglesias I hear? I will be your hero, baby....Neigh!"

After a while, we decide to venture back in to Tazza.
Some stupid whore was looking at my friend and me like we had just chain-ganged her boyfriend, which was unsettling, but bitches can be irrational, so I let it slide.
Until I went to take a sip of water and, after having downed a healthy sip, discovered that she had spit her gum into my glass.
I have been trying to harness my chi lately. I been on a real Zen trip.
But this makes me angry. Fightin' mad.
So we decide to hotfoot it before things come to Jerry Springer style fistacuffs.
And we end up at good ol' Local 121.
Wow it was smelly there.
And some British dude was spying on us at the bar.
As soon as we sat down, he came and sat beside me and started whispering sweet garlicky nothings in my ear. I'm totally revolted and nudging my friend in the knee like, get me the fuck outta' here. So we draw on an old classic. Straight-up fake lesbianism. Pretending that you are attracted to the ladies is so much easier than explaining that you are not at all interested in them.
And just, f.y.i., I find it can also help get you out of a routine traffic ticket.
Seriously, if you are a lady and get pulled over while escorting another lady friend around town, nothing says "crisis averted" like putting a well placed hand on another woman's bare thigh. Try it, it works. Nine out of ten Mercy's agree!
So British guy inevitably absconded his advances and the evening resumed.
The dance floor was on fire with some hilarious maneuvering.
There is too much eye-candy to describe via essay, so I'm making a list, Santa style.
1) Perfectly able gentleman with cane and James Spader's wardrobe from Less than Zero. Why the hell are you bringing a cane on the dance floor? If you have a cane, you better be able to move like that old dude from the Expedia commercials. No, really? You're just going to twirl it around like a flag girl? How are you even possible?
2)Asian guy who has no use for his lower body. I am more engaged in the music then you are and I am sitting down.
3)Guy totally confused about his identity. He's wearing skinny,skinny jeans and Birkenstocks. He probably just moved here from Montana or something, got into the RISD scene and couldn't decide on smelly hippie or hipster. Why not try both? Simultaneously!
----there were others who rounded out this entertaining group of kids, but I feel like I need to point out that the above suspects were friends and, at one point, actually broke out a CHOREOGRAPHED dance move, which they no doubt practiced to perfection in their dorm before breaking it out at the 121. I'm at a loss for words, and I like the words----
4)Guy in Van Halen t-shirt who has clearly never heard of Van Halen. This kid could actually dance. But he had that unfortunate dance face...you know the one! He's happy, feelin' the groove, but also very concentrated. The feeling translates into the oooh, I smell a fart look. Sweet.
5) Girl who thinks she's at an audition for So You Think You Can Dance. Whoah, Nelly! Fancy footwork. Not necessarily the proper venue for merengue, but whatever floats your boat.

I'm really going to have to start carrying a secret camera so I can gift these moments of beauty to posterity.Words are awesome. They make my mouth exercise. But no amount of verbage could compare to the actual clownish spectacle.

Oh, I could just go on and on. So very much fodder there.
But it's the last day of my vacation and I have important tomfoolery to engage in before I'm back to punching a clock.

Aaaah, I miss the wonderful weirdness that is the south.

I briefly attended college in Asheville, N.C.
Shit got a little too crunchy for my taste before I booked it to New York.
God I miss the days when I left the scene precisely when I felt it was time.
Youth! So precious! So heart-achingly fleeting.

I digress.

Asheville is a hotbed of craziness.
Some shit went down you wouldn't believe.

If you are at all of the literary persuasion then you must visit Asheville at least once before you die.
Shout out Ashevillions! Much love!
Seriously though, I stayed in the apartment once inhabited by F. Scott Fitzgerald (can I get an amen for This Side of Paradise....talk about pre-Salinger truth-spraying!) and almost rented a place at the house where wifey Zelda tried to off her self in a fire. (I dunno' what the Commodores had going on with all that brick house business....them's stones are not 100% flame retardant. Clearly!)

Also, my dog pissed on Thomas Wolfe's grave. Totally awesome considering he was a racist ass-munch.

Thomas Wolfe, not my dog. Bitch is a libertarian.

But weird things happened to me while I was in Asheville.

I had an apartment on Flint St.
It was small and my first of many revolving roomates was a raging cunt.
Hey Adrianna, how are you?

Eat me.

But the woman whose lease I took over was like, "hey, watch out. we have ghosts".

I'm thinking, keep smoking that herb and pumping the nag champa, hippie.

Oath to God! I was visited.

It wasn't some sexy incubus affair. I WISH!

Apparently my apt. was located in a former V.A. hospital. No lies, I would wake up to the sounds of heart monitors, breathing machines, and wails. OH! THE WAILS!

So I was not surprised at all when I saw this news item.

My guess is that unless you have spent a considerable amount of time in Asheville, said link will mean nothing to you. But if you are like me and have witnessed some freaky shit going down there, you will understand.

Rock well, my friends...
http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/us/2008/08/08/legrand.haunted.school.wspa

What the fuck?