Archive for June, 2009

The Original White Trash Tale

You have to start somewhere

You have to start somewhere

The inaugural White Trash Tale, as with many of the other stories you will read here revolves around our lost friend Gary. You see, after he met Tonia he dropped out of sight. As is often the case with a new relationship, he didn’t have time to hang with the boys. We were amazed, however, with the speed and precision that Tonia employed in extricating Gary from our group. After only one blow-j behind the air conditioning unit at her mother’s house Gary was lost to us forever. It should be noted that, up until a few weeks ago, any Alamance County resident could receive similar treatment from Tonia for a mere $40.

Because Gary was totally off the radar we had to rely on 3rd parties to feed us knowledge of his whereabouts. One day Bobby received a call from one of Gary’s ex-girlfriends. She had stayed close with Gary’s family long after the break-up and they had been telling her things about Tonia’s actions that she found disturbing. So she called Bobby to try and prompt an intervention.

The story she told was this: Tonia had been inviting men over to their trailer while Gary was at work. Seeing as how the trailer occupied the same land as Gary’s parent’s house and as such was in full view of said house, it probably wasn’t the most discreet thing she could be doing.

Rather than tell Gary what the love of his life was up to, his mother decided to confront Tonia directly. This altercation ended with Tonia smacking her future mother in law across the face and advising her to mind her own damn business. When Bud (of Jar Tree fame) caught wind of Tonia slapping his wife, he marched down to the trailer, kicked the door off it’s hinges, grabbed Tonia by the throat, and told her that if she ever lay hands on his wife again he would hit her so hard that it would forever ruin her only means of income (I am paraphrasing here).
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Habla ANYTHING?!

Not meant for internal use

Not meant for internal use

Dominican Republic…I know it’s not THE south, but it’s south nonetheless. It was the end of vacation and my husband and I were staying at this casino in the capital. The old man had won some money gambling and he decided that he’d pay for a spa treatment for me (I’m a sucker for those things!). I opted for an exfoliation treatment since I was a little scaly from the sun. I walked into the spa and the woman who greeted me asked me to change out of my clothes and into a robe.

I should’ve known that something just wasn’t right when I walked into the treatment room and it reminded me of an operating room. It was solid white, circular, and had a white ceramic table in the center. Conzulea (the lady who would be working on me) didn’t speak English. I didn’t speak Spanish…very well…okay, at all. She motioned for me to remove my robe. She was holding a towel, so I assumed that she was going to lay them across me while on the table, so I could maintain some sense of dignity. Nope. I ended up 100% naked on the table. I started giggling a little bit and perhaps that’s when she misinterpreted my nervous laughter for sheer bliss.

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Another Date

Truth in advertising

Truth in advertising

“Oh, I just know you two will hit it off!” Isn’t that what every person who sets someone up on a blind date says? It’s insulting sometimes to be set up with someone by a friend and mid-way through the date, you think to yourself, “Does (fill in the blank with friend’s name) even know me? What in the world do they think about me if they set me up with this person?!” I didn’t even make it mid-way through the first date before I knew it was over.

Carol, my co-worker at the high school where I taught, just couldn’t wait for me to meet her brother. It’s all she talked about. Again, I thought, since I was new to Roanoke Rapids, why not go out with someone? What could it hurt? So I agreed to go out with him. I mean, she was smart, educated, attractive, and well put-together, so her brother probably wouldn’t be much different. In my head I had images of a tall, blonde, hulking beefcake of a man ready to sweep me into his arms and discuss Faulkner. So it was no wonder that I raced to the door when he came to pick me up and threw it open without a moment’s hesitation (and I didn’t have a peephole).
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The Shack That Bud Built

No, I didn't doctor this up in Photoshop...

No, I didn't doctor this up in Photoshop...

I can't decide which is classier...the sign pleading for more dancers or the Camaro with the homemade hood scoop...

I can't decide which is classier...the sign pleading for more dancers or the Camaro with the homemade hood scoop...

The Paradise Club

The Paradise Club

The Shack

The Shack

A sturdy foundation!

A sturdy foundation!

Yes, you have to go outside to open the windows.

Yes, you have to go outside to open the windows.

"The Jar Tree"

"The Jar Tree"

You may recall reading a little about Gary, whose ex-wife Tonia was recently arrested in a prostitution/drug bust at a little redneck strip joint called The Paradise Club. Well, I’d like to back up a few years (when Tonia’s infidelity was more of a hobby than a business) and tell the tale of the tool shed/club house that Gary’s estranged stepfather “Bud” built for himself. It seems that Bud needed a way to periodically escape from Gary’s overbearing mother, without having to hop in the ’78 Chevy pickup and drive around with 13 beers on his breath. While the justification for building the shed was sound, the execution of project was anything but.

It had been a long time since anyone had seen Gary, but I wanted to get in touch with him while Jonathan was here from San Francisco so that we could photograph and document one of the finest examples of redneck architecture in the south. We needed to document this thing, because we had been telling people about this shack for years…and frankly I’m sure that everyone thought we were exaggerating.

Like some poor man’s National Geographic crew, we headed down Highway 87 in Graham, North Carolina towards our date with Redneck Americana. I noticed something along the way that nearly caused me to lock the brakes up. So I stopped the car at the 87 South Mobile Home Courts, where it seemed that the denizens of the trailer park had taken a few artistic liberties with the road sign.

Another unscheduled stop was made at The Paradise Club, which is a crude cinderblock oasis of depravity in the middle of a gravel parking lot desert. This “adult entertainment” establishment has a long been associated with acts of violence (murder) and a general lack of dental hygiene (missing teeth). I couldn’t resist the allure of taking a photo of the sign begging for dancers…and little did we know that Gary’s wife Tonia had not been able to resist the sign either.

Before we could see Bud’s masterpiece, we had to stop and pick up our tour guide…Gary (whose trailer was about half of a mile away from Bud’s dwelling.) When we stepped inside Gary’s trailer, I couldn’t help but notice the K-mart car stereo that was installed in the wall. I desperately wanted to take a picture of this innovative home theater system (especially since its mounting was slightly askew), but I couldn’t get away with it without being seen by Gary and/or the unknown cohabitants of his trailer.

After a few awkward minutes at Gary’s, we finally made our way down the dirt road to Bud’s shack. It had been several years since I had gazed upon Bud’s creation, and to my delight, it was still standing. The first thing you’ll notice from the photos is that the exterior is haphazardly covered in tree bark. This was done in order to give the impression that the structure is a log cabin. Now if you ever built Lincoln Log cabins as a kid, you’ll recall that the wall logs run horizontally. This lesson was lost on Bud.

We were directed to pay close attention to the cinderblock foundation. Evidently, there was no need for mortar! It would be entirely possible to kick the foundation at any point, and bring this thing down. If you look at the back right foundation “pillar”, you’ll notice some sort of shim placed between the floor of the shed and the cinderblocks. This was done in order to level the floor. You might ask…“How did that get there”? Answer: The whole structure was lifted up and someone slid broken bricks in the gap.

Gary was grinning ear to ear when he pointed out the window installation. He applauded the effort that it took to put real windows in the shack, but he could barely contain his laughter when he told us that if you wanted to raise the windows (or lock them), you’d need to go outside to do so. Yes…the windows were installed backwards.

I am still kicking myself for not taking a photo of the front door. I don’t know how I forgot, because the door itself was the crowning achievement of the whole project, and a testament to Bud’s redneck ingenuity. You see, when Bud constructed the frame of the structure, he did so without planning for the door. He literally put up four particle board walls and realized that there was no way for him to enter his vacation home (which is 300 feet from his real house). He was able to get around this minor snafu by sawing into the wall until something resembling a rhombus was cut out.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the work of art beside Bud’s shanty. Gary’s mother decided that it would be a good idea to plant a dead tree in the yard and place Mason jars on the sawed off limbs. I don’t know what to say about “The Jar Tree”, except that I feel that its aura combines with Bud’s shack to create a wonderful White Trash synergy…a degree of redneckness that is greater than the sum of its parts.

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At Least It Could’ve Been KFC

You can dress 'em up...actually, no you can't

You can dress 'em up...actually, no you can't

Traveling four hours to a wedding in Pennsylvania was a little inconveniant. Especially since I didn’t know either party getting hitched. I went with my boyfriend who had painted houses with the groom when he was in college. As we crossed the Mason Dixon Line, I had a sinking feeling that I was going to be out of my element. I wish that I could say that it was a lovely wedding. The ceremony itself was fairly normal until the best man busted out in the middle of the ceremony with “Love Bites” on his electric guitar.  Did I mention that the groom was released from prison two weeks before the ceremony? I’ve no idea what he did to get in jail, but that wasn’t relevant on his day of wedded bliss.

We were actually the fourth and fifth people to arrive at the local V.F.W. where the reception was being held. We were led to the basement by an elderly woman who told us that normally receptions were held upstairs, but it was Bingo night and they didn’t want to upset the regulars. We sat down at a table and watched people frantically set up the food table. Suddenly, a middle-aged man in a navy blue satin jacket came racing in carrying a styrofoam cooler. Skeeter (and yes, that was his actual name) had ridden his bike over to Hardee’s to pick up the food for the gathering. I know that it came from Hardee’s because the cooler broke into pieces in front of me and fried chicken came flying out of the bags and landed at my feet.
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At The Drive-in

Our county's two drive-ins before they turned to smut for profit.

Our county's two drive-ins before they turned to smut for profit.

The drive-in movie is one of those lost pieces of Americana that has sadly gone the way of the quill pen, rotary telephone, and manual typewriter. You would be hard pressed to explain the concept to a kid today without breaking out a copy of American Graffiti and even then you would have to get past their confusion about why the creator of Star Wars was able to make a movie that didn’t feature Jar Jar.

There was a time, however, when teenagers flocked to the drive-in to ignore moths and mosquitoes that flew in front of the projector while a poorly reproduced soundtrack crackled from shitty speakers attached by hook to a partially rolled down driver’s side window. All the while scarfing down popcorn and, with any luck, practicing making babies in the back seat. At least that is the drive-in experience that has been romanticized in popular culture. By the time I was born things were a bit different.

The 70’s were a decade of death for the drive-in. Though there were plenty still in operation (our county had two working theaters), it was clear that the activity was on the decline. In an attempt to remain economically viable, one of our theaters, the infamous Circle G Drvie-In, had changed over entirely to adult films. Allowing lone movie goers the freedom to rub one out in the privacy and comfort of their own vehicle. Keep in mind that this was long before the VCR made pornography a living room event for more discreet perverts.
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The Real Reason That I Wouldn’t Return His Call

Rednecks know how to make their mark

Rednecks know how to make their mark

I’m a nice person. Honest, I am. Ask anyone to describe me and that’s usually the first thing that comes out of his/her mouth. I never want to hurt anyone’s feelings at all, so I tend to avoid any situation that could cause me to do just that. When I lived in Roanoke Rapids, NC I met Adam at a club in Rocky Mount one night while I was out with some friends. We seemed to hit it off immediately and I was certainly looking for more friends in the area because I had just moved from Virginia and knew only a couple of people. He called me the next day and we ended up hanging out a few more times with friends, but nothing romantic was on the horizon.

One evening Adam called and wanted to know if I’d go on a “date” date with him. Just the two of us. I wasn’t interested in dating anyone at all, but decided that he was nice enough to give it a shot. If nothing else it would get me out of the house on a Friday night. He worked as a beer distributor and talked me into going to a club in Weldon (which is a stone’s throw away from Roanoke Rapids). He picked me up and we spent the evening drinking and dancing. Unfortunately, this is where it gets a little hazy for me.
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NC State Student Arrested For Monstrous Construction

One man’s art is another man’s vandalism and if that other man happens to be THE MAN then you are in trouble. Such was the case with Joseph Carnevale when he decided to chop up some construction barrels and make a 10-foot tall hitchhiking monster.

No hitchhiking allowed

No hitchhiking allowed

Though the construction company was actually quite pleased with the roadside art, even requesting that Carnevale build them another one, the local police were not as amused. Not only did they dismantle the creation and arrest the boy but they are also investigating other instances of street art displayed on Carnevale’s website.

So far hundreds of people have spoken out on Joseph’s behalf. All of them asking that the charges be dropped.

We at WTT are strong advocates of The Arts particularly when they are portrayed in such a menacing fashion as to frighten motorists. We wish you luck with your legal troubles Joseph and look forward to your next project involving police barricades and donut boxes.

Links:

MSNBC article about the barrel monster

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Pizza The Hut

This doesn’t exactly fall under the heading of white trash news but I have to wonder if they haven’t hired someone slightly simple-minded to run the marketing over at Yum Brands.  It seems that Yum, the parent company of the venerable Pizza Hut chain, is attempting to increase their appeal with the youth market by dropping the word Pizza from their title and going with the simplified moniker “The Hut”.

One pizza too many

One pizza too many

You would think that the mere fact that their single product offering is comprised of the number one junk food among American children would be enough to help them capture their intended demographic. Yet somehow they feel that rebranding their restaurants under a heading that calls to mind at worst a ramshackle hobo dwelling and at best the overweight galactic gangster scourge of the universe is going to up their numbers among the hip prepubescent youth.

In all fairness, I am pretty sure that the chain hasn’t served anything resembling an edible pizza in years. So perhaps this is a move to try to thwart any inevitable litigation that would arise from someone mistaking their product for that of our beloved Italian American monument to junk food. In the end Pizza’s good name is probably better off without them.

Links:

MSN Money article about the rebranding

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Baby Doll Tells All

A nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to go there.

A nice place to visit but you wouldn't want to go there.

Looks like Tonia “Babydoll” Pennington has as much trouble keeping her mouth closed as she does her legs. After being arrested at her place of work, the Paradise Strip Club, my friend’s ex-wife was charged with 14 counts of violating a local ordinance/adult entertainers; eight counts of a clothing violation; seven counts of sexually explicit behavior; five counts of violating a local ordinance by an owner/operator; two counts of conspiracy to sell and deliver cocaine; two counts of selling and delivering cocaine; possession with the intent to sell and deliver cocaine; and two counts of possession of drug paraphernalia (whew that was a mouthful).

She has now gone on record about her exploits with an official publicly posted affidavit that can be read in its entirety here: Download PDF Baby Doll’s Affidavit

It reads like a slutty syllogism so I will sum up the highlights for those of you with short attention spans and a lack of Adobe Acrobat.
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Baby Doll’s Downfall

I can't decide which is classier...the sign pleading for more dancers or the Camaro with the homemade hood scoop...

Paradise Lost

They say you can never go home again and in most cases that holds true. Life keeps rolling along no matter how small your hometown happens to be. It could be that in your absence three Super Wal-marts have sprung up within sight of one another or perhaps the local strip mall claims to be serving the freshest sushi around (a mere 250 miles from the nearest seaport). But as much as things change there are some aspects of hometown life that are timelessly unyielding.  For example, your friend’s ex-wife will always be a whore. Literally.
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Elon University Lowers Bar For Graduates

Growing up in Alamance County, Elon College never meant that much to me. It always seemed like a place where snotty northerners were relegated after their lack of academic ambition had precluded them from entering finer institutions. As a towny, however, I did serve an important role in the Elon educational process. Students would look down upon townies for our perceived inferior backwoods upbringing. Fueling their burgeoning superiority complex to the point where they could eventually go back to whence they came and take over their daddy’s business or spend their trust funds.

I vividly recall once ordering a gyro at a local restaurant, pronouncing the food correctly as “yee-ro”. The too-smart-for-his-own-good Elon kid taking my order felt the need to correct me before smugly walking away.  “Sir, it is pronounced jire row”, he said with the utter confidence of an imbecile.  Well deserved was the beating that I promptly administered to him in my mind.

Over the years the school has grown. The alumni must be doing well indeed because they kicked in the funds to pay for a slew of new buildings and maintenance for well-manicured lawns. Somewhere along the line they even managed to up their quota enough to change the name to Elon University. Fancy indeed.

As time heals all wounds and distance makes the heart grow fonder, I thought perhaps my disdain for the institution was no longer founded. And upon seeing a sign on Interstate 40 proclaiming that Elon has one of the top 10 MBA programs in the state/top 20 in the nation, I brushed aside the desire to make fun of any school that spends money on roadside advertising and decided that it was time to give credit where credit is due. Elon was all growns up and it deserved my respect.

That is until I saw video of the 2009 commencement ceremony.

Rather than provide an uplifting message about social responsibility or how to put their education to best use in these trying economic times, the guest speaker instead decided to take it easy on the outgoing students. He took it back to basics and made sure that each and every kid, before receiving their degree, knew the fundamental elements of the English language. Yes, he asked them to recite their ABC’s. And just to make it more fun (or to increase accuracy in their recall) he had them sing the alphabet song.

Let me just say that when the sum total of your 4 years at a privately funded ivy-league-wannabe school hinges on remembering 26 individual letters you can bet that mommy and daddy spent their money well.  Thank goodness that they all got it right. Though I am pretty sure that kid on the forth row wasn’t singing along.  Probably was an Economics major.

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Midget On A Miniature Horse

An old school friend was an organizer of the Arts d’Vine festival so we all packed up and made the 30 mile trek down to Kernersville to see what was up.

Over the past few years the western region of North Carolina has been working hard to become known as the Sonoma of the South.  Wineries have been springing up all over the Blue Ridge foothills and, for the most part, they actually produce some very good wines.  So I wasn’t as concerned about the “d’Vine” portion of the evening as I was the “Arts”.

You see the Piedmont has never been known as a hotbed of artistic talent. For years Jessie Helms did his best to suppress our creative urges replacing them instead with steady nicotine infusion to satisfy our souls. But I must say that in this post-Helms era the arts are flourishing and I think it is safe to say that the people of Kernersville are leading the charge. Gone are the coon jiggers of the past. No longer are lawn jockeys considered appropriate. Why you can even engage in lofty conversation while sipping tea and eating finger sandwiches at the local Pegg House Tea Room.

Yes art has come a long way in North Carolina and there is no better evidence of this than the image below.

The high water mark for southern art

The high water mark for southern art

I found this while walking down Main Street in Kernersville. It called to me begging for purchase. Had I not been unemployed and 3000 miles from my home I might have answered the call.  Alas this solemn midget straddling a magnificent yet miniscule equine remains on the market.  I can only hope that we will find each other again one day as there could be no more perfect pairing of art and owner.

Thank you Kernersville for awakening my love for art and fortifying it with enough free booze to almost make me part with my mortgage money.  I will most certainly visit you again.

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