Centerpiece
Iconic Member
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So this is a joke, more-so than not. I found it online... FB I believe. I thought it funny and sent it out, purely in jest. Although there is some truth to it, I can see where some might think it unfair. Others may find the humor in it and realize it's a joke, while others will say it's spot on. I didn't come up with this, but when I "shared" it, some folks got really uptight and went off (in defense of A'Ville). They got long toes I guess. You'd think I said something bad about their mother. I found it interesting to see the reactions. Plenty of folks thought it funny. Others agreed whole-heartedly with every word of it. Being from WNC I've spent LOADS of time in A'Ville. I've got a gig up that way next week. What do you think?
"Oh, Asheville — the city that smells like patchouli, weed, and generational wealth disguised as “earthy minimalism.”
Asheville is what happens when trust fund kids discover Appalachia and decide they’re gonna “live off the land,” but only if there’s Wi-Fi and a Whole Foods within walking distance. Everyone’s either a self-proclaimed herbalist, a part-time crystal healer, or a banjo player with a gluten allergy and an Etsy store.
They say it’s a “mountain town with soul,” but let’s be honest — it’s Portland in a flannel with a Blue Ridge backdrop.
And then there’s the tourists — oh god, the tourists. Every weekend, they descend like flannel-clad locusts, clogging up the Blue Ridge Parkway with rented Jeeps and screaming “Woooo!” at waterfalls like it’s their bachelorette party. They come for the “vibe,” take selfies in front of murals they don’t understand, and leave with six jars of artisanal jam and a hangover from three sours at Wicked Weed.
You’ll find them packed into every brewery, wearing hiking boots they bought on Amazon yesterday, loudly mispronouncing “Appalachian” while asking if there’s an Uber that goes up the mountain.
Every local barista has PTSD from explaining what a cortado is to a family of four from Florida who “just love how authentic it feels here.”
The locals will tell you about the “real Asheville,” which apparently existed in a window between 1994 and 2007, before the yoga studios started charging $45 for “ancestral breath alignment” and every historic building got turned into an Airbnb with a “boho zen” aesthetic and a $300 cleaning fee.
Every guy in Asheville looks like a Civil War reenactor who microdoses mushrooms and composts religiously. Every girl is either barefoot in a field talking to her spirit guides or selling $90 turmeric face masks made from local bees and vibes.
And if you’re new in town? Don’t worry — someone will immediately invite you to an ecstatic dance circle, a foraging workshop, and a communal hot tub party “under the full moon energy.”
The men all look like they’re one artisanal axe away from starting a folk cult. The women will read your birth chart before your name and ghost you after three dates and a drum circle because Mercury told them to.
Everyone’s in an open relationship, everyone has a mountain dog named after a Norse god, and everyone’s building a tiny home out of reclaimed barn wood and denial.
The food scene? Farm-to-table. Hyper-local. Wild-foraged. Also, $17 for a plate of pickled ramps and sweet potato foam served by a guy named Sky who once fasted for 12 days to “connect with the earthworms.”
Asheville thinks it's quirky, but really it's just gentrified Appalachia with kombucha on tap and overpriced incense. The energy is like if Burning Man happened in a national park with a farmers market and way more acoustic guitars.
You haven’t truly done Asheville until you’ve been serenaded by a shirtless man with a didgeridoo while someone behind you is crying during a sound bath.
And the tourists love to say, “We’re thinking of moving here,” after one lavender latte and a walk through the River Arts District — as if the city isn’t already drowning in Airbnbs and white dudes named Chad trying to start kombucha distilleries.
It’s not “Keep Asheville Weird” — it’s “Keep Asheville Gentrified, Granola, and Deeply Confused About Its Own Identity.”
"Oh, Asheville — the city that smells like patchouli, weed, and generational wealth disguised as “earthy minimalism.”
Asheville is what happens when trust fund kids discover Appalachia and decide they’re gonna “live off the land,” but only if there’s Wi-Fi and a Whole Foods within walking distance. Everyone’s either a self-proclaimed herbalist, a part-time crystal healer, or a banjo player with a gluten allergy and an Etsy store.
They say it’s a “mountain town with soul,” but let’s be honest — it’s Portland in a flannel with a Blue Ridge backdrop.
And then there’s the tourists — oh god, the tourists. Every weekend, they descend like flannel-clad locusts, clogging up the Blue Ridge Parkway with rented Jeeps and screaming “Woooo!” at waterfalls like it’s their bachelorette party. They come for the “vibe,” take selfies in front of murals they don’t understand, and leave with six jars of artisanal jam and a hangover from three sours at Wicked Weed.
You’ll find them packed into every brewery, wearing hiking boots they bought on Amazon yesterday, loudly mispronouncing “Appalachian” while asking if there’s an Uber that goes up the mountain.
Every local barista has PTSD from explaining what a cortado is to a family of four from Florida who “just love how authentic it feels here.”
The locals will tell you about the “real Asheville,” which apparently existed in a window between 1994 and 2007, before the yoga studios started charging $45 for “ancestral breath alignment” and every historic building got turned into an Airbnb with a “boho zen” aesthetic and a $300 cleaning fee.
Every guy in Asheville looks like a Civil War reenactor who microdoses mushrooms and composts religiously. Every girl is either barefoot in a field talking to her spirit guides or selling $90 turmeric face masks made from local bees and vibes.
And if you’re new in town? Don’t worry — someone will immediately invite you to an ecstatic dance circle, a foraging workshop, and a communal hot tub party “under the full moon energy.”
The men all look like they’re one artisanal axe away from starting a folk cult. The women will read your birth chart before your name and ghost you after three dates and a drum circle because Mercury told them to.
Everyone’s in an open relationship, everyone has a mountain dog named after a Norse god, and everyone’s building a tiny home out of reclaimed barn wood and denial.
The food scene? Farm-to-table. Hyper-local. Wild-foraged. Also, $17 for a plate of pickled ramps and sweet potato foam served by a guy named Sky who once fasted for 12 days to “connect with the earthworms.”
Asheville thinks it's quirky, but really it's just gentrified Appalachia with kombucha on tap and overpriced incense. The energy is like if Burning Man happened in a national park with a farmers market and way more acoustic guitars.
You haven’t truly done Asheville until you’ve been serenaded by a shirtless man with a didgeridoo while someone behind you is crying during a sound bath.
And the tourists love to say, “We’re thinking of moving here,” after one lavender latte and a walk through the River Arts District — as if the city isn’t already drowning in Airbnbs and white dudes named Chad trying to start kombucha distilleries.
It’s not “Keep Asheville Weird” — it’s “Keep Asheville Gentrified, Granola, and Deeply Confused About Its Own Identity.”
