Friday, September 10, 2010

So this Italian dude on the shores of Babylon

started all this fun wireless stuff, letting me blog en route to Memphis.

Yanno, that plaque isn't entirely correct. I know this because me and Guglielmo, we go way back to 4th grade reading. Out-loud reading was always a death grip fear for me, because of my stuttering. My assignment one day was a two paragraph blurb about the G, and that's how I know the first American Marconi station was on Cape Cod.

It was really important to me to get that out-loud reading assignment correct, so I poured over it for days, practicing "Guglielmo" until it was as smooth as honey. I liked saying that name because I was told I was half-Italian, so I imagined Guglielmo the grandfather of one of my likely suspects. I wanted to be related to him because I thought he had nice eyes and because he did something cool.

I practiced, and practiced, and practiced, and finally on the assignment day I read my paragraphs without a single stutter, extremely proud of myself over my correct Italian pronunciation of his name. At the end, Sr. Bernard said, "That was very good, Theresa, only his last name isn't Macaroni, it is Marconi" and everyone in the class laughed and that's why I hate adoption.


I took that picture yesterday, my last day on my Long beloved beloved beloved to the point of nauseum on this blog Island. I didn't get out the door as fast as I would have liked due to some unfortunate irritating-me-immensely-and-holding-me-up drama which seems to be my lot in life. The fact that I would so very much like to have a quiet life yet always seem to have anything but leads me to believe I somehow share the same character defects as this guy. But, I am out and just one more day's drive away from my new home.

Yes I cried, of course I cried, how could anyone not cry to leave a town named Babylon, there is no more perfect name in all of America, and a wonderful name of a place for any bastid to reside. As at one time or another we're all assumed  from some idiot to be offspring of prostitutes, or thankfully rescued by adoption from being whores ourselves, to live in a town whose name is so closely tied with promiscuity is beyond perfect. Although my internet time is limited, I have seen more than a few "destined to be a teenage prostitute" posts from some particularly odious rescuer-minded adoptive parents over the past few weeks, waxing repulsive projections of the futures of their adoptlings had they not blessed them with adoption.

I know those kind of projections piss you off as much as me, so to make you happy instead, I wanted to let you know that when you cross the border to Tennessee, across from the welcome station is a building shaped like a guitar, but someone should really cut those trees back so you can get a better look at it. 

I was able to google 'building shaped like a guitar tennessee' when I got to the hotel thanks to my friend G-Macaroni. That's how I found out this cool building was once the Grand Guitar Museum in Bristol, TN which claims to be the birthplace of Country Music. Next time I blog, it will be in the birthplace of rock 'n roll. I don't like country music as much as I like rock or wireless, as a matter of fact I don't like country music at all, but I think it's funky nevertheless that this birthless bastid left one American birthplace for another.

Wireless, country, rock and me. None of us have birth certificates, but we're all still here anyway. Give me a little bit to get settled in, and I'll be back soon.

Oh and by the way, speaking of births of a sort, one thing I must must do once settled....

It's only a day-trip away. You so know I'm going. I must must must make a field trip. I mean, c'mon. You just don't see shit like this up in Long Island.


Thursday, September 02, 2010

I'd never star on the show "Hoarders", but

damn, we've got a lot of crap.

I've got an incredible amount of roughly abused furniture I'm giving away.

You can't have the good new stuff, that's coming with me.

But if you're:

  • on Long Island
  • strong enough to haul this shit out of my house
  • have a van or truck or other vehicle big enough to transport said shit

you can take my shit. Hit me up babygirlm1963 at Emails are forwarded to my cell because I'm l33t like that, so I can get back to you.


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