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7 September 2010, 01:00

I swear to a giant purple Jesus on black velvet, North Carolina is literally trying to drive me insane. I’m just not saying that in a ha-ha metaphorical sense. I believe with all my black heart that this flipping place has a subversive and diabolical plan to drive me fucking BATTY.

It’s trying to starve me out, scare me to death, or make me crazy.

And, well, it’s succeeding…

So I have this interview in Charlotte. I have the address and phone. I head out. First of all, I got the interview hair going, and I’m rockin’ the clothes – as much as I could rock clothing. It hasn’t been oppressively hot, so I’m not going to get all ickified and I smell pretty decent. I head out at, take note, 1:30 for the interview at 4. This is time for the 1.25 hours to get to Charlotte, 1.25 hours for getting hopelessly lost (which I did) and other unforeseen incidences.

Let me say up front, I like Charlotte more than any place else in North Carolina. It’s a nice size city, which is familiar and comforting, although I think people get their driver’s licenses out of the gas station bathroom dispensers that spit out condoms and gum, because good god almighty geritol, they couldn’t navigate out of a paper bag that had a hole in it, much less operate a vehicle. I thought where I came from, there were bad drivers. Dodah doesn’t hold a candle to the legally blind that get behind the wheel here.

Another thing I like about any place other than Hee Haw, the cops just flipping ignore me. And I’m in a red-arrest-me-now sports car (Lil’ Red did SO well, I’m so proud of him… her… well, haven’t decided the sex of it yet). I had cops sitting in back of me at lights, and nearly had a coronary when I looked up from the iPod to see the po po. Woke me up a couple of times, I’ll tell youse whut.

Back to being hopelessly lost in Charlotte. I call for help, I stop at a pharmacy to ask directions, and I do a quick pigeon sacrifice in a hidden roundabout, and FOUND the address.

Let me say when I looked at the closed hippie bead shop that bore the CORRECT numbers of my interview, the little hamster in my head took a 12 gauge and blew his little hamster brains out. I’m going to have to get a new one to operate my brain wheel, now. I’m 20 minutes EARLY and meander around like some escaped dementia patient muttering to myself about I hate North Carolina. I am trying not to cry, or go catatonic, and I certainly don’t want to stage a big fat nutty in the street because I hear they can put you away for that sort of thing.

I call. No answer. I stare at the building hoping at 4, it might morph into a marketing agency – but no. It’s still a giant periwinkle colored house. No shit. It’s periwinkle. There’s a pawn shop across the street and if I had an extra 50 bucks, I would have bought a shotgun and did some random population control. I had, in all honesty, gone to the zoo at that point.

So, in lieu of a gun, I decide that beer would be a good substitute. I needed something cheap and alcoholic. Sound like me, eh? BROOM CHEE thank you thank you, please, tip your waitress. I go into the pub that is right next door – go figure that… next to the fucking purple hippie house, there’s a pub called the Philosopher’s Stone. A dingy, dive (I LOVE DIVE BARS) with some GOOD ass beer. I walk in and belly up to the bar. Two of the four barflies turn to look at me and stare a little bit. I saw one of them look at my legs. Heh heh. So I ask for something highly alcoholic and cheap. Both barflies offer to pay for my beer, and who am I to turn down such cordial gentlemen…. Well I have ONE beer and bemoan my fate, and contemplate the feasibility of randomly flipping off patrons till I felt better. I stage a mini nutty and regale my inebriated audience on the day, and get another couple of offers to buy me beer. I think if I had stayed, I could have gotten pretty wasted for nearly free. At that point, liking Charlotte more and more.

I was pretty pissed about the thing. This morning I get a hold of the one who set up my interview to see what was the deal – did I have the wrong address? was it there and I just didn’t see it? did the fucking time space continuum open up and swallow the goddamn agency? or was I just suffering from the later stages of senility and dreamed up the interview?

She said the address was right, but it was the WRONG one. WTF? WHA? HUH? She started babbling about how the streets are done weird in Charlotte and this wasn’t the first time this happened and the company is really at the corner of fucked-up street #1 and whereever #2. I sat there incredulous, sort of freaking out. By this time I was the MAYOR of Flipped Outville and I could only mutter apologies and things like, “I wasn’t honestly not blowing off the interview.”

She laughed and said when she gets back to her calender, she’s going to set up another time for me.


I have asked REPEATEDLY that a number of you shoot me. Why do you NOT listen to me? My marble bag is empty and I think once that happens, you don’t get anymore.

You just got to be kidding me with all this. Really.