Every City Sucks: Nashville

Hey, guys! All three of you ready for another hip installment of Every City Sucks?

 

Didn’t think so.

Here it is anyway.

 

 

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There are few places I hate more than Nashville, Tennessee. I hate the concept of it (CUNT’RY MUSIC CAPITAL O’ DA WORLD!), I hate the smell, I hate the very sight of it. A lot of people count Nashville as a city, but I don’t; it’s more of a big concrete farm with a few token buildings over fifteen feet.

I was first dragged there in early 2001, so early it might as well have been 2000 still. That time around, I lived with an abusive alcoholic and a loving but retarded mother. For a time we stayed with alkie’s own mommy, then, we she kicked us out, we floated around, kinda living wherever we could: people’s garages (sleeping on old sofas amidst stacks of cardboard boxes, no pisser, no fridge, nothing), campgrounds, trailers, cars. Last was a little apartment in the hood. Now, if you think the home of the Grand Ole Opry can’t boast a few ghettos, you’re stupider than you look. I was basically living in Friday; hookers, pimps, crackheads, Arab-run liquor stores, it was terrible.

And speaking of Arabs, that’s where I was on September 11, 2001. I was at school that day, and heard disjointed talk from a teacher or two that something had happened and the president was in hiding, but it wasn’t until I got home that I saw for myself what kind of silly hijinks our brown friends had been up to.

A few months later, thank God, I was sent to live somewhere else, and didn’t come back for eleven years.

Then, 2012.

I spent a month on the outskirts of Nashville, drinking, doing drugs, and getting jumped when I was too drunk to defend myself. Those were actually some good times. Wake up, turn on some of that nu-rock bullshit, chill, and then, in the evening, classic rock, beer, and pot.

I almost kinda miss them days.

Almost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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