One would think that, upon moving to New York, my life would become exciting and weird, and that I would have all sorts of crazy stories and experiences to relate. This coming weekend will mark 2 years since I moved up here from Georgia, and while I have had a lot of fun, I can’t really say that I’ve had any real “one for the book” episodes. I’ve met smart, nice people, gone to a lot of cool shows, restaurants, parties, etc., but nothing all that bizarre or hilarious has happened to me. (My date with Face Down Ass Up and the handing off of the Uterus Piñata are two notable exceptions; I may go into those later.)

It seems counterintutive, but all the weird, funny stories of my life center around the 13 years I spent in Georgia, particularly the 3 1/2 years that I lived in Crawford (population 600). So, in the coming weeks, when it seems like my stories of Eating, Reading, Listening, etc., just don’t have enough sparkle, I will trot out my memories of Johnny, Little Johnny, Rollin’ Joel, The Murderer, Snout, Lois, Venerable, The Yard Dogs (a.k.a. Shane and Kitty), and other Southern Gothic characters who populated my stranger-than-fiction life down there. I can’t exactly say I miss them, but they make for damn interesting cocktail-party talk.