We went hiking out at Bent Creek this afternoon. Bright splashes of color here and there but no, like, serious tripped out psychedelic color on the mountainsides. I must be getting old - I'm actually leaf peeping. How horrifying is that? Next thing you know, I'll be driving 30 miles an hour down the parkway, peering out the windows and stopping dead in horror when there are bicyclists in my lane. "Oh my god!" I'll say, "Bicycles! Whatever shall I do?" Then the woman in line behind me will feverishly light another cigarette, turn up the bad rock n' roll on her radio and curse a blue streak. It's terrible, being able to see both sides of a story, I tell you.
I also managed to hit the library 10 cent book sale and even though I got there horribly late I still scored a nice box full of penny dreadfuls, including a 1930s Nancy Mitford novel which I'm already halfway through. It's divine. I love Nancy Mitford. I should BE Nancy Mitford, god damn it, wafting giddily around 1920s London just being cool with occasional lapses into bitterly cutting wit. Somehow, being giddy in 2007 Asheville just isn't the same: even if I can occasionally lapse into bitter, cutting wit, there's noone around to appreciate it and even if they are, I'm still sure as hell not at the Ritz having a sidecar. I don't even know what a sidecar is, alas, so I will just have to be content with the mountains and an occasional PBR at Broadways, which is, truth be told, appreciative of bitter wit.
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