One time I was going to Boogie Brown’s when he lived in a silver jellybean camper covered internally with graffiti on the side of Buffalo Mountain, and I found some sort of back roads way to go so that I could start getting drunk once I passed Roanoke, and one of the roads was seriously fucked a rutted ass dirt road, not gravel but straight up dirt, and I was passing all these placed that looked like Shelby Lee Adams would be uncomfortable taking pictures at, and fully expected to get stuck somewhere and either die at the hands of racist hillbillies who thought anyone with dreadlocks and facial hair must be some sort of new-fangled negro, or get drunk as fuck hanging out with racist hillbillies who thought anyone with dreadlocks and facial hair must be some sort of new-fangled vagina-haver. But somehow the road started pointing back downwards, and eventually I clipped out onto paved road again and found my way the rest of the way, although I drove right past Brown’s driveway in the woods and almost got stuck again in some seriously non-road road in my stupid fucking Toyota Tercel, and had to back it out like a quarter mile, drunk, like a slow-motion hick ass version of that one Biggie video.
Mountains are powerful things, tall chunks of rock that instill spirituality and independence and all the assholes can’t do much with because it’s not level enough for cul-de-sacs or strip malls. They do that mountaintop removal shit, and in fact in Buckingham County there is the kyanite mine which has carved a huge scar into the earth surface, and I guess that’s why that type of business endeavor is so supremely fucked. That to me is like if you were a Christian and somebody making a life-sized wax figure of Jesus but with a hole in the mouth to stick their dick and pretend to have sex with.
Anyways, I will probably go to that part of Virginia next week, to shoot guns with friends and yell at the sky about how fucked people are. This is a proper thing to do on mountains. This also reminds me of how far behind my plan to get as much white quartz rock as possible to try and build a large stack of quartz rocks on my property I am. I was hoping for a forty foot tall structure by the time I’m 60, and I’ve got nothing but four or five small piles of rocks. To be fair, I haven’t gone to our secret hiking spot and even built my weird quartz towers in the woods for the bears to find this fall either. I am slacking like a motherfucker on real life and dipping my balls far too deep in electrocide.
STEAL "Lookin' For a Mountain"
NEXT UP: I was thinking of my dad today and somehow by chance the song up next reminds me of pops Charlie Tuna!
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