Maybe Rove will go that way too...

Roxy has been out and about in the sweet backroads of Virginny and feels compelled to post a bit of news that she learned about one Mr. Jerry Falwell, the leader of the Morally Bankrupt.

It seems to be a confirmed fact* that Mr. Falwell's death wasn't reported 100% accurately.

While I must say it pains me to tell y'all that NPR was wrong, I am abso-posi-fucking-lutely happy as a redneck watching Nascar to inform you that Jerry Falwell did not die in his office at Liberty University as reported.

Your pal Roxy, while doing field research in Lynchburg, Virginia this past weekend, discovered that the Fartwell went out just like the King.

That's right folks, Jerry died on the shitter.

Which is so apropos since it really doesn't matter where he was - in the office or on the john - he was definitely full of shit.

And that is reason enough to resume posting on my blog.
*Fact confirmed in a bar by a reliable source who confirmed with EMT's on the scene.

Hiatus

Roxy is taking a hiatus from her blog because she is worn out, spent, has no creativity and in general is pretty much bored with life.

And so I sign off, in typical yearbook fashion,

Enjoy your summer! Stay sweet! Don't ever change! K.I.T!

I do declare!

Why Chapel Hill, you're as refreshing as a cool glass of tea on a hot August night. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd have thought you were trying to woo me away from your sultry cousin Virginia.

Despite my hatred of North Carolina (on par with my feelings about New Jersey), I must say I'm simply delighted to be staying at the Carolina Inn at UNC Chapel Hill with its richly appointed entrance, lovely grounds, elegant sunroom, and delectable four-star fare. What a charming seductress of a town, all cafes and college cottages tucked between flowering butterfly trees and long slips of brick pathways. I'm simply mesmerized at the enchanting atmosphere of the places I've seen so far: UNC (I linked their awesome "Virtual Musuem of Univeristy History" - check it out), Vespa Cibobuono, and Franklin Street.

I'm half tempted to take back what I said about this state earlier this year.

Then again, even though you did launch such fine acts as The Squirrel Nut Zippers, Ben Folds Five, James Taylor, and those fine hunks of redneck rockabilly Southern Culture on the Skids, (and soccer great Mia Hamm), I don't think I'm prepared to love you as a whole entity just yet.

We'll see what happens next month when I come here again.

Forget the taming mousse, I'm shaving my head

It is so humid here.

I was deceptively lulled into believing that our East Coast summer was going to be all breezes and butterflies.

Apparently not.

When I left the house this morning, I caught my reflection in a window. With my unruly, curly hair running wild on top and the kitten heeled peep-toes adorning my feet, I could have been mistaken for a Jersey whore.

Thankfully I don't have 2 inch bloodred fingernails with little rhinestone designs. I'm sure that's the only thing that kept the guy outside the Metro from offering me $50 and a good time.