The Place I Call Home

I've been in Nashville for five years now and this city has had its fair share of crazy stories since I've been here. Most of them involve celebrities. Kid Rock came in town for funeral and warrant was issued for his arrest the next morning after he allegedly beat up a DJ at a local strip club. Paris Hilton shut down an entire mall so she could shop peacefully at J. Crew. Ashley Judd's lesser half, Wynona gets arrested for DUI, two nights before she hosts a CMT countdown titled "Country's 50 Greatest Drinking Songs of All-Time" (true story). And because of the Titans legal troubles, I only refer the the franchise as the Tennessee Time-Servers. But rarely are the locals very interesting...until last week.

It seemed like a simple story of a lonely housewife who had her lover murder her husband, except for one tiny fact - the lover/murder suspect had been living in the couple's closet...for a MONTH. The husband never knew until the night he was murdered. On that night, the husband was awakened by snoring coming from the closet. He opened the door only to find a hispanic man sleeping inside. The wife admitted the affair and the husband demanded that she kick the hispanic dude out. The husband then goes for walk and when he comes back Don Juan has a shotgun. Next morning, husband is found beaten to death in his bedroom.

Obviously the bigger story in Nashville isn't the murder itself, it's the fact that this dude was sleeping the closet for a month and the husband never even suspected. The lesson as always: women are sneeky and men are idiots. And if I was the husband, I'd damned if I'm the one beaten death. As a matter of fact, I'd be the only survivor in the house. Welcome Cashville!