When I first started looking for houses there I was plenty scared, because a whore had been shot dead while running down the street naked. Usually I obligingly rolled to a stop in reverence of the asshole stroll every time, and I tried to appear appropriately frightened so as to show that their effort wasn't wasted on me, because who knew whether that was a retractable hacksaw in their back pocket?
But the crack dealers and dead whores don't daunt those who have "vision." I'm not one of them, mind you, but Grant, who has "vision," told me that other people with "vision" would be buying houses there, and that it was best to get in on it while I could still buy a house with a monthly note less than what I paid to spay my cat. So I looked for a house, and even though i was plenty scared by my potential new neighbors, what really scared me was the fear I'd make a bad investment.
"Just wait," said my friend with "vision." Creative poor people can't afford Kirkwood or East Atlanta anymore, so the West End is the next wave. It looks like he's right. Creative poor people are snatching up homes there like pigeons attacking an abandoned picnic. Caravans full of poor arty types come through every weekend, and off they scatter into the Land of Affordable Houses, with their body piercings and cargo pants, retro furniture and upscale-burrito breath. They hardly pay any mind to the crack dealers, who shake their heads dejectedly, knowing it's a bad day for the neighborhood when bleachy-haired honky bitches won't brake to accommodate a good asshole stroll.
-Hollis Gillespie, Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitches
I hate the asshole stroll. At least I know what to call it now.
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