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June 28, 2003
Country Fried Chicken Steak
You know, I'm actually starting to miss the hillbilly people who lived across the street?
Strange, I know.
The new neighbors are okay, I guess... They don't make too much fuss. All I ever see them do is drive up in one of their white vans and then hang around outside for a few minutes before sauntering indoors. They're too typical. Too boring. Too normal...
We need the Olneys back.
If you've never had any hillbilly neighbors, then you just can't appreciate the zest of life that they bring to the neighborhood. Things are just so much easier, there's a real je ne sais quois about their entire lifestyle... (Translated into Hillbilly Talk, that's "What the hell are you talkin' 'bout?") Want to have an outdoor cookout with all your friends and family? No problem! Just hop into your garage, pull out your old kerosene grill, and get to it--fully clad in nothing but your week-old tightie whities. And don't forget to play a couple of hearty tunes for the occasion--anyone from the likes of Conway Twitty or Kid Rock, or even the Insane Clown Posse would be respectable. Why? Because you're a West Virginian Hillbilly, and you've got a wide, eclectic and tasteful sense of the musical world and all it's genres. Anything outside of bluegrass, country western, and Uncle Kracker are unknown, anyway.
But it wasn't just the fact that they felt comfortable enough to barbecue in the middle of their garage. It was the way they did just about everything, as if they didn't care about all the snotty citizens of Dublin and their civilized ways. If they wanted to own four beat up cars, and line them up in their cracked driveway, they did it. If they wanted to sit out on the porch and smoke a J--heck yeah, they did it. And if they wanted to own a three legged dog--tarnation and rolling thunder, they did it.
They had real self-esteem, those Olneys did. And not a care in the world.
Even though I miss the Hillbilly banter, and that crazed look in their eyes whenever you managed to wave at them and say, "Hi," Grandma Olney seemed to scare me the most. She was this shriveled up old lady who spent most of her time riding in the back of ambulances at three in the morning. I'm not sure what was wrong with her, but I was constantly waking up to flashing lights from my bedroom window, only to see this frail little body pushed into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher. After a while, I just didn't see her anymore. I think she either died, or they locked her in the kitchen. Maybe they replaced her with that three-legged dog...
We'd always complain about the volume of their music, or the fact that John, the father, only liked to dress up to his skivvies (His best outfit was the Fred Flintstone t-shirt he wore in the summertime... I think he won it at the Fair or something). But I sort of wish we'd actually known a little more about these "people across the street." We never really referred to them as anymore than that.
They moved away two years ago, and a bunch of college kids moved in last fall. We thought things couldn't get any worse after the Olneys, and we were wrong. The music got louder. The parties were later. The bitch fights in the street on New Year's Eve were broadcast throughout the neighborhood. And sometimes, the morning after, there were beer bottles and God knows what strewn across the front porch and lawn. At least the Olneys had the sense to pick up after their smoked joints and barbecue fiestas. At least they had some decency.
Anyhow, the new neighbors haven't been anything like that... Yet. I don't even know their names--But I'm sure I'll learn it over the summer. However, I doubt they'll ever surpass the eccentricities of the Olneys... No one can go that far.
Today's Soundtrack: "All N My Grill," Missy Elliott, featuring Big Boi & Nicole
Best Part of the Day: I have money!
posted at 7:58 a.m.
