Adam's Blog, Right?

SUPERLAMBBANANAS

2008-07-08T14:25:00.001-07:00

Currently in Liverpool, a place where everything is insignificant when "compared with Liverpool's most famous export of all, the Beatles." It's a self-deprecating statement so bitterly true that the city's tourism agency has taken it on as an official slogan. I'm not sure I'd be so severe, but for the most part, their right.

Arrived here on Sunday after a brief stop in Matlock for a Peak Performance Workshop in Matlock with good ol' Graham Langley. As a former drama teacher, Graham describes storytelling in terms of Brecht and Stanislavsky, so it was excellent to be able to talk storytelling in my own language for a few hours. Matlock was a nice little town but I was only there for a night, so I didn't get quite a good feel for it. However, located in the middle of a gorge, it reminded me of a quaint little UK Gatlinburg, as the streets were lined with nothing but bed and breakfasts and ice cream shops and arcades and rides up the mountain in cable cars. Still, I met a bundle of new storytelling friends and even shared a lunchtime feast with them.

Sunday was a miserable day of travel. My uphill walk to the workshop was entirely in the rain and consisted of me sweating and cursing and getting lost near "the UK's premiere Ford dealership." I had to take several trains to Liverpool that night and one got cancelled and I was stuck for more than hour in a sandwich shop. As always, I had a distraction nearby and gladly took the time to continue breezing through On the Road.

I spent most of my time Monday at the city's World Museum, looking at all things space and dinosaurs and aquariums and African masks and giant bugs. A lovely little girl came up to me in the aquarium to show me that she had found Nemo and Dory and I thought it was the cutest thing I've possibly ever seen. There was also a FREE planetarium show and an ant colony exhibit that proved fascinating. The ants walked 10 feet across a rope hanging overhead and back to get gigantic pieces of flowery nutritional goodness for the queen. I spent about 20 minutes watching in awe. Folks, ants are some strong ass motherfuckers.

However, the highlight of Monday was the parade of Superlambbananas. As the European Union's capital of culture for 2008, Liverpool has decided to honor it's most famous work of art,the Superlambbanana, with a series of about 50 Superlambbanana replicas. They all look, well, quite frankly, like a lamb with a banana for an ass. But really, can you think of a name in the entire history of the world that is greater than the that of SUPERLAMBBANANA? I think not. On my way to the museum, I got stopped by a woman who saw me admiring one of the Superlambbanana replicas. She was from the board who oversaw all the Superlambbananas and asked me silly questions such as, "What percentage of your trip today was based on your desire to visit the Superlambbananas?" I said 25% because I had no idea what she was talking about.

Monday night I was also supposed to visit a local storytelling circle but I found out it was canceled once I got to the bar it was supposed to be hosted at. I have learned that storytelling circles are very, very, very informal, so it was no big surprise. I also had to cancel a trip to see a storytelling competition in Frome (rhymes with broom) for Wednesday because there are no trains that run out of the city after 9 pm to anywhere else that has accommodations less than $100 a night.

Well, at least I'll always have my Superlambbananas.

Off the Beaten Path

2008-06-13T03:45:00.000-07:00

Spent last weekend in Derby (pronounced DAR-by) otherwise known as the middle of fucking nowhere. The city really had nothing to offer except things like this:

So instead I spend my time doing things like this:

Nonetheless, I ended up having a great weekend at the Amber Valley Storytelling Festival, even with the 30-minute walk to the bus station, the 30-minute ride to Shipley, and the 30-minute walk to the park that it took me to get there and back every day. Tack on me getting lost for an hour on Saturday, and me missing the bus back to Derby on Sunday and having to wait 2 hours reading Haunted and eating fish and chips in the yard of an abandoned hospital, and all in all I spent 8-9 hours simply going to and fro. But oh my, was the festival wonderful. It was a small storytelling festival for children with some very big names attached, so I it was a great opportunity to mingle with established performers in an intimate setting. I spent Saturday introducing myself and going to nearly all the performances, while Sunday I sat down and interviewed Sophie Snell, Debbie Guneratne, and Pete Chand. Pete just so happens to organize Festival at the Edge, the UK's largest storytelling festival, and promised me an introduction to any performer I wanted there, which is is such a lucky connection. Unfortunately I didn't get a chance to speak with Bharit Patel, a fantastic mask performer who wins my favorite telling of the weekend, but hopefully I will be meeting up with her in Birmingham before I leave. In the end, a great weekend of storytelling with lots of wonderful connections made.

After Derby it was onto the Isle of Man, a tiny little place located right in the middle of Ireland and Scotland's oceanic border. In fact, on a clear day, you can climb the Isle's tallest - and only - mountain to see Ireland and Scotland at the same time. More on that later...

My dear friend Will Halicks is in the UK studying the legend of the black dog, and the Isle of Man is known for being the point of origin for one of the world's most famous black dog stories. Knowing this, I meet a storyteller named Kit in Birmingham who is from the Isle of Man, hear a couple of tales in the native "Manx" tradition, and you get me and Will meeting up for 3 days of Manx Mayhem. I shipped out on Monday by ferry from Liverpool, only to have Will miss his ferry from Dublin and get delayed a day. I took the surprise alone day to curl up in my bed and breakfast, start work on a story about a man who sells balloons, and enjoying splendid views of the ocean:

After a gigantic English breakfast at the B&B I headed to the Manx National Library and Archives for some joint research with Will. I spent a few hours there by myself before Will arrived working through a number of Manx storytelling collections, which draw heavily on tales about deceptive ferries, or "Them Ones," as the locals like to say. The whole island's history is rich in the storytelling tradition, and Man's founder is even thought to be a 3-legged wizard who shrouded the island in a blue mist so it could never be found. He could also throw defending ships into the ocean whenever he wished, and whether you believe any of this or not, it's true that the Isle of Man was never conquered by the Romans even when all of its neighbors were, and you still have a 3-legged man on the country's flag. Upon Will's arrival we started digging into black dog tales for a few more hours, explored the coast for some magical footage for his documentary, and spent all night in a pub catching up about the study abroad experiences that made this the first time in 8 months we'd seen one another.

The next day Will and I made it an early day so we could conquer Snaefell Mountain, the point where you can see Scotland and Ireland, and England and Wales, and heaven and Earth (according to local tourism ads), all at the same time. We took an hour-long train ride to the top, leaving the bottom with clear skies and the best of hopes. We ended our journey in a haze of fog that wouldn't let us see more than 10 feet in front of our face. The conductor said it was maybe the third "bad view" day that had all year. So much for luck. Instead we ate delicious cake and drank tea in the mountain's coffee shop to warm our bodies and souls and then headed back down to make it to Peal Castle by bus. We roamed the town for some more doc footage and then hiked a mountain where we could see Ireland. Take that, fog. After a delicious Chinese dinner we took a ghost tour of the town with plenty of black dog lore and then had a pint with the tour guides afterwards, adding a totally new perspective on what realms storytelling encompasses.

Now I'm in Edinburgh to visit the Scottish Storytelling Centre and get my fill of haggis. I have already seen many a man in the traditional kilt and hope such sights continue.

The Adventure Begins

2008-06-06T13:09:00.000-07:00

Here I sit in my Birmingham hostel, eating fajitas and listening to The Ting Tings. There are a few others gazing at me as they eat their Ramen, and a pair of girls are watching The Craft on a couch behind. I've spent the day sleeping in, getting breakfast at 2 in the afternoon, shopping for Brit music around the city, and cooking the delicious feast in front of me. All of this brings me back to a blog update, because this is the first day of my UK adventure that I've had free since I arrived.

My first 9 days were spent in London, mainly being a tourist. I was centered out of Clink Hostel, a nice place with a great location to the train and Tube stations. I took a free tour of the city on Thursday, saw all the palaces and important things. Took advantage of of seeing two free plays courtesy of Julie Fishell, who's leading a UNC-based London program, both of which were about middle-aged woman fucking with the minds of others to deal with their own midlife bullshit. Only one woman invented fictional characters in her head and pretended they were her own family, and the other forced a broken shot glass into a guy's neck. I liked the latter a bit more. I spent a night walking the Thames River and looking at the city from the top of the London Eye, all part of a sweet little man date with my friend Tony, who's also here for the summer. I spent a whole afternoon in Hyde Park, watching people rant and rave about the Iraq War and the coming of the Antichrist at Speaker's Corner, watching swans and searching for an elusive Peter Pan monument. I spent time in an area called Elephant and Castle, where there was plenty of elephant paraphernalia for me to stare in awe of. I went on a double decker bus. I went to the Tate Modern and saw 10,000 pieces of silverware hanging from the ceiling. I ate a full English breakfast. I ate bangers 'n' mash. I was witness to thousands of British teenagers drinking on the Underground in protest of the new law banning alcohol consumption on public transportation immediately on June 1. And, yes, I was even witness to a drunk's "personal relations" in my hostel room. I'm sure he was probably at the Underground party.

All this time in London, however, was building up to a storytelling workshop led by Ben Haggerty, one of the UK's most prominent and successful performance storytellers. There was 10 of us in the group, all from wildly different backgrounds - a student, a minister, a musician, a theatre director, a child psychologist, a librarian, a couples counselor, an interfaith mediator, an educator, and a play worker - yet we were all searching for a useful way to place storytelling back into our own individual lives. Ben was an outstanding teacher but an equally compelling human being, fitting the stereotype of the charming British gentleman in every way. Over the course of the two days we played games, shared personal stories, analyzed fairy tales, discussed the dynamics of performance, and took the stage with a memorized piece of our own. It was striking to see the strange balance that storytelling rides between theatre and writing, and all in all many of Ben's teachings deeply resonated with the way in which I see my own artistic aesthetic. Long story short, I'm knee deep in one of the greatest learning experiences of my life, stretching myself into a new medium in order to help strengthen and define what my own creative ideals are. As Ben says, "The more choices, the more freedom."

Now I'm in Birmingham, where I spent the last night two nights watching two separate storytellers perform. Birmingham is like a calmer London - most all the same cultural benefits, half the noise. Regardless, I still got lost both nights. It's a curvy road-system they have here. From what I can tell, there is giant music scene in Birmingham, and I might return at the end of the month to see The National again. Yesterday I went to a "Myths and Monsters" exhibit at the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery that had giant animatronic dragons and yetis. There I learned that the word "concessions" does not, in fact, refer to food. It actually refers to discounts. So when someone asks if you would you like concessions, then immediately take the offer. You're not paying for food, you're getting a cheaper ticket! So after turning down several "concessions" in London and spending lots of money I didn't need to, I finally figured out how to get a student discount when it came time to see the magical creatures. Today I also went flea marketing, and an 81-year-old woman gave me a kiss and a Mickey Mouse airplane for free because I was a sweet little American boy. I leave tomorrow for the Amber Valley Festival, a weekend of storytelling for children, and then onto Edinburgh for a week after a brief trip to the Isle of Man, where my dear friend Will Halicks is studying the Black Dog ghost story. Castles and the Highlands await, and I couldn't be more excited.

So really, all is grand. Besides storytelling, I spend the rest of my time reading and writing. I go to lots of museums, look at a lot of art. I drink at 5 in the afternoon because that's just what they do here. I make strong use of the public transportation system. I try to avoid crazy people - one man in London asked me if I had a big cock, another threw change at me. I take lots of pictures. I sketch in my journal. I learn. I journey. I adventure.

I search for choices.

Silver and Gold

2008-01-06T11:22:00.000-08:00

BEST OF 2007

1. LCD Soundsystem, Sound of Silver
2. Radiohead, In Rainbows
3. Arcade Fire, Neon Bible
4. The National, Boxer
5. Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
6. Kanye West, Graduation
7. Band of Horses, Cease to Begin
8. Tegan and Sara, The Con
9. MIA, Kala
10. Beirut, The Flying Club Cup

Tree of Illumination

2007-12-06T06:40:00.000-08:00

Today was the last as a Signature intern. I slept in and went to work at noon and received a phone call from UNC that I had just been granted $6,500 to study storytelling across the UK next summer. Then I set up the "Tree of Illumination" which is 2' tall fake tree that I covered in handmade ornaments of famous Signature associates like Ed Norton and Ethan Hawke and Chuck Mee and Parker Posey. There is also a Lois Smith star and a disco ball. It's a long kept Signature tradition. Then my boss told my to bide my time til the goodbye party so I listened to music and told everyone I loved them and finally we ate carrot cake and drank ginger ale.

This was my day. I did nothing else except eat cake and get money and set up holiday decorations. I like to think that it was perfect.

Forget About Horses, We Ride Elephants In These Here Yankee Parts

2007-10-30T11:11:00.001-07:00

In the past few days, I've met the three most exentrique characters I've yet to encounter in New York City: a gay Asian cowboy, an "invisible elephant" researcher, and a obese hobo lady who thought I was going to kill her with an ax. I think the subtitle of this post would thus be "A Few Musings on Crazy People." Let me explain:

-1-

I made the decision a few weeks ago to purchase cowboy boots with my birthday money, probably something to do with my affinity for alt-country or whatever. I Googled, did some research, found a place with a wicked cool name - Whiskeydust - only to call and find out it had closed for business the day before. However, the nice lady on the phone recommened a place called Stylish Shoe near Washington Sqaure Park, so with my Sunday off I made it a mission to complete some serious boot shopping. The store, though you could never know by its title, was boot heaven, straight out of Back to the Future 3, and when I found myself overwhelmed with too many options, I asked for help, thinking some retired good ol' boy from a ranch would come out from behind those old timey swinging bar doors and ask, "Whataya need, partner?"

Instead, I was met with a gay Asian man listening to Rage Against The Machine. Working in a Country & Western attire store. Something was not right.

Sure, maybe you can go all Brokeback and conenct gays and cowboys, but Asians don't exactly work into that equation quite as much. And cowboys they definitely don't listen to anarchist mainstream metal. Nonetheless, the "cowboy" asked for my shoe size, price range, and color preference, gave me a quick look up and down, and returned with a box and a promise - "These will be the boots you're going to fall in love with." He pulled out, of course, the perfect boot, and after he taught me how to get them in my jeans, he went off to let me "be with the shoe." He changed the Rage Against the Machine to some satellite radio world pop station, and by that time I really had no idea what the fuck was going on with this man anymore. But as I walked around the store, it was obvious that this crazy, strange, telepathic wizard of a cowboy was doing what he needed to be doing in life, and I was in love with the boots on my feet. I tried on a few pairs just for the hell of it, but my heart was already taken, and as I gave the man my money, I knew I was where I needed to be in life myself - in the most diverse, wonderous place around where every notion of expectations can be shattered with a bit of talent and determination. It should be noted, however, that the cowboy's wall of autographed pictures of 1980s hip-hop stars really solified such an idea in my head.

-2-

On my way to get the aforementioned cowboy boots, I walked by a table full of elephant paintings. Elephants are my favorite animal, and oddly enough, I had already bought another piece of elephant artwork, of sorts, a few days earlier, so I stopped to look around. The following conversation recounts the 15 minutes I spent with the elephant artist, an unnamed man who clearly enjoys smoking meth:

Meth Man: "Sunday special, white boy! Half off! I make this shit, I price it, half-off, anything you want. $10!"

Me: "Ok, thanks."

Meth Man: "You like elephants?"

Me: "Yeah, they're my favorite animal, actually."

Meth Man: "What you know about elephants, white boy?!"

Me" Um, well, lots of things I guess. What do you know?"

Meth Man: "I know about the invisible elephant."

Me: "Oh. That's nice."

Meth Man: "You don't believe me, white boy. But you know what, I'm gonna prove it to you. You got a piece of paper?"

Me: "Um, yeah, actually." (Reaches into bag and pulls out a scrap sheet of paper.)

Meth Man: "Here's a pen, boy. You better right this down. I'm going to tell you the name of the invisible elephant. And then you gonna go home, Google this shit, and then you gonna believe me. Ok? Ready? Ok. Here you go. Loxodanta. That's L-O-X-O-D-O-N-T-A. Loxodonta. Three words. Africana. Now I know you can spell that, white boy. And the last one. Cyclopsis. C-Y-C-L-O-T-S-I-S. Cyclopsis."

Me: "Um, do you mean Cyclotsis?"

Meth Man: "No! Cyclopsis. C-Y-C-L-O-T-S-I-S. Loxodonta Africana Cyclopsis."

Me: "Ok, I'll have to check that out. So, have you, um, seen the invisible elephant?"

Meth Man: "Hell no! That shit materializes and then dissapears right before your eyes. How could I see that? But I researched 'em. In Kenya."

Me: "Well then, that's pretty neat."

Meth Man: "Half-off, white boy! $10. I charge what I want."

Me: "Well, just let me look for a bit."

Meth Man: "Ok, but don't you tell me that you ain't got no money. All you white people say you ain't got no money. Now I know better. We the ones that don't have money. So when all you white people don't have money, I know the world's going to shit. So if you don't want something, just let me know. I made these. I know they are pretty. I know they're masterpieces. This one, see, special edition. Everybody wanna know how I do it. But I ain't going to tell ya, even if you buy it, but I'm just saying, I know it's good. They damn good. So don't tell me you ain't got no money. I know better. You ain't going to hurt my feelings, cause I know these masterpieces. So you just buy or don't, don't give me no bull crap."

So I didn't give him any crap, and now I have this artwork hanging in the bathroom:

And as you can tell from the provided link, the Loxodonta Africana Cyclopsis is just the scientific name for your common fucking African elephant. So hey, the guy at least knows his elephants, but I still feel a bit cheated.

-3-

After said boot shopping, I headed to the subway. Earlier in the day I had stopped by a costume store and bought an ax for our Halloween interpretation of the 3 little pigs and the big bad wolf - I was going to be the pig who built his house out of sticks, so naturally, I was dressing up like a lumberjack. So here I was in the subway, all shopped out with comic books and boots and an ax and all this good stuff, tired of carrying all this crap, so I just sat down on the bench in the subway station and started cramming it all in one bag. And then this woman behind me screams and starts yelling, "Boy, what you doing with that ax?" I turn around to find a large woman sprawled out on the bench behind me, a box of chicken fingers on her stomach, pointing at me as she licks honey mustard off her other hand. And so I laugh kind of apologetically and say, "Oh, it's just for Halloween, plastic, you know, not real at all. No need to worry."

That was not the right thing to say, apparently.

The chicken finger lady starts yelling at me, "Boy don't you laugh at me! I don't know what you is going to do with that ax. I don't care if it's plastic. How am I supposed to know? Don't you be laughing at me. You shouldn't be saying all this shit. You should be saying - because what you should not be saying is, 'Oh, sorry, it's Halloween, candy all this crap.' Cause what you should be saying is, cause you better not laugh at me, you should say, 'Oh, sorry ma'am, are you ok? Can I do anything for you? Cause I'm sure you have no money to buy yourself some cigarettes or a cup of coffee or food. Can I buy you a cup of coffee, cause I am so sorry I laughed at you.' Cause boy, I ain't got no money to eat. You better get me something now, boy. Get me something to eat."

And she continued this speech, even as I wandered onto the A train and she sat there munching on the giant box of chicken fingers that she kept on top of her engorged belly, calling me boy and asking me to buy her more fucking food.

-FIN-

Is This Best Buy Kosher?

2007-10-22T18:42:00.000-07:00

My internship demands I run a lot of errands. Pick up blue prints in Union Square. Check. Buy wood glue from the corner hardware store. Check. Cart over 18 boxes of clothes from Target to the rehearsal hall and try not to run over one of those annoying little dog that are fucking everywhere. Check. Carry a tuba 10 blocks to a brass instrument consignment seller. A pain in the ass, and I felt more like street performer than an intern, but astoundingly, somehow, yes, check.

But today, today topped it all. I was left alone to set up our new $10,000 board room projector, and to my surprise, $10,000 does not buy any of the necessary cables to run said $10,000 projector, it just buys a big fat ugly $10,000 projector. So after an unsuccessful stop at RadioShack for a VGA component, I was off, per my supervisor’s recommendation, to B&H. “If they don’t have it, no one will.” I hopped down to 34^th and 10^th, only to find a McDonald’s, wait for my boss to return my “I’m lost” message, buy a Snapple, and then have my boss call and apologize for giving me the wrong directions. However, once in the doors of B&H, I knew my journey was well worth the hassle.

Once inside the establishment, I was surrounded by lots of Jews and lots of electronics. Somehow these things do not go hand in hand, but I digress. The store was big and bigger, packed with TVs and computers and cameras and lots and lots and lots of people. I was immediately reminded of Asheville's local Super Wal-Mart on tax free weekend. Seriously. Only Wal-Marts are much easier to navigate. Here, I couldn't anything, just a bunch of Jewish employees and digital junk, so when I finally asked one of the B&Hers where I could find a VGA cable, he typed something in his computer, told me to wait 3 minutes, and gave me a receipt to take the front. After I found the "front," which was actually just the middle, I paid for my receipt and was given another receipt, where I went to the actual front and waited. Here I realized there was a giant conveyor belt over my head, over everyone's head, over the whole store, and there in the back corner far, far away was a little man throwing things in bins and whisking them all around the store, like he was some crazy wizard running a Coca-Cola bottling factory. I turned in my receipt and a silent Jewish man found a bag on the wall and handed it to me and pointed to the door to leave.

B&H, quite simply put, is a crowded, disorienting Willy Wonka-esque Northern Wal-Mart run by Hasidic Jews, and I'm not sure my shopping experiences can ever be the same again.

Batman and the Big 2-0

2007-10-17T19:51:00.000-07:00

"The lion of self-discovery is meant to kill that dragon whose every scale reads 'Thou Shalt.'"

-Joseph Campbell, American mythology professor

I'm 20. Finally. And surprisingly, I'm ok with that, even a few days in. I never thought I would be. Ever. Really. I was horrified, like there was this big double-digit beast looming over my head like an unavoidable plague, a final affirmation that I am, in the eye's of society, an adult without the drinking privileges, a number whose inherent diction vanquishes the very notion of teenagedom with a big fat "T." Being the baby all my life, I've grown accustomed to being last for everything. The last to vote, the last to get a license, the last in the alphabet if we're playing that game. So like a ticking time bomb, I've watched my friends become adults. Over and over and over, again and again and again. And I was horrified, like a ticking time bomb, my youth was just clicking away, and - BOOM! - there it was, gone. Or so I thought. Watching your friends turn 20 is actually a lot worse than turning 20 yourself. Instead of feeling, well, like I thought I would feel, I feel quite at peace with it, quite calm, quite proud to be an official 20-something.

However, a lot like creativity, a lot like New York, a lot like creative life in New York, a lot like life in general, being 20 is still a mystery to me. A beautiful, thrilling, inspiring mystery that is more a expedition into the unknown than a search for the key to it all. After a month of getting my feet on the ground, and after a rather epic 3 day jaunt of sitting on the edge of a panic attack and avoiding subways and calling in sick to work to listen to Kid A and journal and figure my shit all out, I finally feel like I live here. It's not home by any means, but it's homey, homey as in when I was sick and it was raining I could grab my umbrella and walk down to the corner CVS and love the feeling that I'm here and nowhere else. But I'm still very much figuring out this place, figuring out my place in this place, figuring out my place in this world, in this art, in my own skin. But what I've gained here so far is this new sense of being ok with that. Of not knowing what the future holds, of not knowing everything, and just letting that go and hitting the ground running with what I have. I've always held firmly that art is the process of self-discovery, which, in reality, is to know that you'll never really know yourself, but to just soak in all you can about your being and your experience and somehow placing that in the world and constantly let that evolve into something beautiful and honest for that world you live in to see and learn from. And now, suddenly, my thoughts of everything I hold in artistic value are being thrown for a loop, and that is fucking exhilarating. Because not only do I hold the notion of self-discovery, I feel it, I live it, I am it. So as I search for my creative voice, I feel like I know me, know my strengths, know my weaknesses, and I can say, "This is me." It's like I'm Batman, and I have this whole great big utility belt ready to go, and now I just get to jump around Gotham City looking for how best to use it. So I'm more open to imagination than ever before, learning about all these great things like Anne Bogart's Viewpoints and writing scenes and reading Dylan Thomas plays - things are falling into place from that.

And nicely enough, all this started happening the week of my birthday. I was in the rain in New York City and I said to myself, "I'm glad I'm here and nowhere else." I got into Advanced Fiction Writing. I learned I was going to assistant direct a show. I finished up a grant on storytelling. People are telling me I'm really good at what I do. So all in all, I feel affirmed in why I'm here. NYC is fueling me, encouraging me, inspiring me, telling me that I can and should be doing what I want to do. So being 20, for me, is throwing caution to the wind, entering a new world of self-discovery with the maturity of a young adult who is still searching for what that title actually means. And I kind of like that.

Democracy at Its Best

2007-10-12T21:35:00.000-07:00

9/17/07:

Me, wanting to know the answer to this question.

9/18/07:

Me, on assignment from my intern supervisor to buy new trash bins, learning that recycling is required by law in NYC and punishable if not practiced.

9/19/07:

Me, sending out e-mails to St. George leaders, notifying those in charge of the law.

9/20/07 - 10-11/07:

Me, waiting for recycling bins, continuing to contact residence building officials, threatening to notify police about said law breaking for $500+ fines, waiting more.

10/12/07:

Me, claiming victory as an early birthday present.

Big City Boy

2007-09-08T22:44:00.000-07:00

First week in New York. I find the city beautiful and overwhelming in the most positive of ways, breathtaking both in its potential and anonymity. Brooklyn Heights and the St. George will be home for the next 3.5 months. If you stick your head out our window you can see the Brooklyn Bridge, and it's a 5 minute walk to the pier underneath it that looks onto the Financial District. We live on the corner of Henry and Pineapple, which is part of a family of other fun fruit-named streets such as Cranberry and Orange, with Love Lane like the honorary uncle that's the really just the best friend of somebody's dad, just like Full House. It's very neighborhoody and quiet here, with a grocery store across the street and the subway stop, a corner deli, a movie theatre, a video store, a convenience store, a CVS, a farmer's market, the public library, and a park all within a block's radius. The Brooklyn Promenade runs along the back of our building, jammed between us and the East River. I've been jogging a lot there, and today I found a set of Batman-style Russian stacking dolls at a "flea market" I stumbled upon a few blocks down. It was more a yard sale than anything, but since they don't have yards here I guess they can't call them that. We have a Zion German Evangelical Lutheran Church up the street, whatever the fuck that is. I hear rumor that black squirrels exist but I have yet to find them. However, the pigeons are equally as entertaining and might prove themselves a worthy adversary to their rodent counterparts back in Chapel Hill. Organic in Brooklyn isn't just food, it's dry cleaners and hair cuts and more, and it's everywhere. Shopping here is wonderful since there's no sales tax on clothes and all the department stores play indie rock. The downside is that people fucking love their Sacajawea dollars and that's what you're getting as change, so get used to it. I went looking for a pair of nice shoes the other day and found 3 Payless stores on the same street and asked my friend Julia if that was common and she said no, so that must be some strange Brooklyn anomaly.

We spent our first few days here getting the whole tourist thing out of our system so we could start feeling less like visitors and more like residents. Times Square is incredible in its American Dream-like dichotomy, a hub of endless opportunity and subsequent draining excess. Central Park is like an urban paradise. The Toys 'R' Us has a giant robotic T-Rex that is impressive in scale but not quite entertaining enough to make up for the severe lack of Batman representation. "Les Misérables" was an awful choice for a first Broadway show, but it was epic and grand and kind of made up for it's shittiness in a girth of expensive gadgets. The $18 view from the Empire State Building is stunning, as is the one from the Brooklyn Bridge, though the latter is free and less crowded and doesn't sell rubber Statue of Liberties. The Macy's is huge and overwhelming and when I went to buy a wallet I was assaulted by men trying to give me cologne samples and I really don't think I'll be going back. Ryan and I bought tickets to the U.S. Open off of Craig's List for $25 and picked them up from a "candy store" in a Queens barrio. It was in actuality a liquor store, but the seats were great and watching Venus Williams and Justine Henin throwdown was an absolute highlight. The courts are in Queens, close to an apartment Ryan's boss gave him the keys to for the semester. We went Wednesday and I cooked for everyone and we met the nun upstairs and drank wine and baked brownies and tried unsuccessfully to hookah. But despite all the heavy adventuring, I have yet to run into any of the Big Bad Wolf ideas that the South often mythicizes Manhattan to embody. Sure, there's lots of people, and the service workers could give a fuck about you, and, yes, they don't make crazy like they do in the New York streets, but overall the people are just people. They ask you how you are, they open the door, they tell which side of the subway to get out on. Even so, I'm glad I'm a Brooklyn boy, and I find the idea of waking up on our little neighborhood block and getting a coffee and walking to the park to buy homemade donuts and reading a book at the Barnes and Noble afterwards and just making a whole morning out of it quite thrilling, though I have yet to find a decent record store in all this cultural goodiness. Hopefully I'll be finding a guitar teacher soon and beginning work on my play, and my goals for the semester will be underway. Overall, though, it's been quite a good run of things, and tomorrow I start my internship and apparently get to meet Edward Albee. It's a bit overwhelming in the way that I would imagine it would be if you went to film school and on your first day you find out Steven Spielberg is coming to visit and all you can talk about is how much you love Reese's Pieces cause you're so afraid you're going to just nervously pee right there all over him and you both. However, I plan to beat the Albee butterflies by wearing my new Nike Dunks, cause they're fucking sweet and comfy as hell.

One Day Everything You Love Will Die

2007-08-23T14:26:00.000-07:00

"Why do people have to die?"
"To make life important."

I forgot how much I love Six Feet Under. I've been watching a lot of it lately on bootleg DVDs, considering I'm stuck on my friends' couch and they don't have cable and I've got lots of my time on my hands before my NYC departure in two weeks. I remember my parents didn't get HBO until I was in high school, so the first night we had it I decided to curl up on the couch by myself and watch nothing but hours of it so I could see if its programing was all the life-changing, creative masterpiece bullshit it was always advertised to be. Luckily, I found myself at the very begining of a SFU mini-marathon, and the tale of disfunctionality that was the Fisher & Sons Funeral Home became the cornerstone of my television investment for the next five years. SFU has this unexplainable, quirky addictiveness that hooks you in from the first episode and doesn't let go until you've seen the whole fucking Fisher family die, quite literally, and somehow that same invigorating lightening has struck again. The brilliance is still there, the acting impeccable and the writing layered with an offbeat imagination that somehow hides a firm, brutal honesty on the importance of life and the meaning of death behind layers of dead bodies and musical numbers and explicit sexuality. As a result, I'm only more hungry for the creativity that awaits in the world of brave, professional New York theatre. Well, there's that, and also the fact that I'm dreaming constantly about death and my parents' divorce and my teeth falling out. Death not so much in the morbid sense, but in the dream within a dream type way where a space ship falls on my house or Matthew Fox from Lost sets out on a mission of mass extermination across the UNC campus. The divorce is, well, divorce. But the teeth, that's the weird part. I've always had dreams where my teeth fall out, but in these, I pull my own teeth out. And my father is usually watching, or my cousin is drowning in a pool, or I'm smoking goo with aliens and I punch my teeth out to impress their extraterrestrial ways. When I tried to Google the meaning the only thing that came up was the idea that Freud describes dreams about teeth falling out as unconscious manifestations of guilt about masturbation. On the "fuck no" flip side of the equation, I'm sure it just has something to do with anxiety or stress or a big change or something clinical like that.

I blame this all on you, Claire Fisher. Damn you and your pretty face and your fucked up family.

The No Talent Show

2007-08-21T12:57:00.000-07:00

Take a step back and ask, what is your lived experience?

"The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

-Theodore Roosevelt,
via Wilderness Wisdom

This is Carolina United, this will always be Carolina United, and this is the hope for a Carolina United. This experience will remain one of passion, grace, sacrifice, knowledge, depth, inspiration, and unabashed honesty for as long as I hope to keep fighting the good fight. Goodnight United, goodnight.

Grassy Creek

2007-08-01T15:35:00.000-07:00

it sang to them
to these fawns of the whistling machines
spoke in tongues of knots
of callouses and caves
they perked their ears to the sound
so silent and stunning
a melody of mammoth
a groove of gargantuan
not wanting, not needing
yet still they danced
heaving in the overgrowth of the disco
a rural regime
the moonshine militia
marching and carving into the boom boom beckoning
of the bang bang beat
they climbed up to it, onto it, into it
so desperate to be part
this swallowing sound, the sweetly suffocating
they burrowed past mothers
past fathers, past martyrs
to the thundering thumps of the heart
and they only lived to listen
and they sang the song of the hills

New York, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down

2007-07-25T15:27:00.001-07:00

I don't head out to NYC for another 6 weeks. Still, I already have tickets for The Daily Show, Spoon, LCD Soundsystem, and Arcade Fire. The last two are performing together on a Saturday afternoon on an island that is an old abandoned train station.

My oh my, what a wonderful adventure this will be.

Ah! My Arm!!!

2007-07-22T15:28:00.000-07:00

Last week my friend Tony and I watched the Ecuadorian edition of Man vs. Wild. Not only was it the most depressing episode of the show I've seen - Bear finds shelter, Bear build ladder to reach shelter, Bear watches ladder shatter as it drops into Amazon, Bear has no shelter, Bear gets rained on, Bear can't find food in rain, Bear stuffs shirt with grass to stay warm, Bear stays up all night getting rained on while wearing shirt full of grass, Bear travels down actual Amazon on log, Bear whittles bow and arrow, Bear finds burrow, Bear scares animal out of burrow, Bear readies bow to kill said animal, Bear breaks bow while hunting animal, Bear watches as animal escapes, Bear has cut hand from bow disaster, Bear again has no food, etc - but more importantly, Tony made a profound, prophetic, downright stunning observation on the state of American culture as we watched Discovery Channel promo its summer celebration of fear for the 12th time that night:

"Dude, we as humans devote an entire week of our lives to sharks. That's fucking ridiculous."

Ridiculous indeed, Mr. Strowd, ridiculous indeed. It's such a simple statement, but with an eye of scrutiny and a body teetering on the age of sobriety, this became the very definition of American excess. I don't think my parents were sitting on their couch back in the '80s contemplating the future implications of cable TV, but rather complacently happy just watching low budget Bananarama videos and drinking wine coolers and calling it a night. Now, we're a society full of movie marathons and Big Gulps and oversized condoms that are sold in oversized bundles for the real men out in the world.

But from an alternative perspective, perhaps this is the singular statement that exemplifies just how great America is. I mean, sharks are pretty sweet, and so is TV, and the combo of the two is pretty much a rarity among the rest of Earth's inhabitants. But I think squirrels are pretty fucking sweet too, so until I see Suburban Rodent Mania Month on Animal Planet, I'll take Bear and the rest of Discovery can shove it.

The Race Begins

2007-07-12T11:23:00.001-07:00

"It is a travesty that Osama bin Laden remains at large nearly six years after the 9/11 attacks and appears to have found new sanctuary to operate freely in the Afghanistan-Pakistan border regions. The Bush administration and most congressional Republicans would rather stubbornly stick with a flawed strategy and fight a war that senior military leaders say cannot be won militarily, than adapt to fighting the enemy who attacked us six years ago."

-Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid

If there was ever a comment that expressed my views of the current political sphere so simply this would be it. America is in its 11th hour, and if the change we need to happen is going to happen it must be now. I've found myself becoming increasingly more aware and more responsible for the future of our country this summer, and I have made a commitment to get my feet out on the campaign trail in January in support of someone who can readdress the problems we have neglected both abroad and domestically because of an administration trapped within a singular objective.

YouTube debate, I'm all yours.

42 Democracy

2007-07-07T19:28:00.000-07:00

I present my Fourth of July...

Field day games are not directly associated with patriotism, yet something in their tender aggression seems to be the very embodiment of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Life comes from the youthful invigoration of oversimplified lawn games, as relays and hula hoops transport participants back to the days of kindergarten simplicity. Liberty is represented by the freedom of getting messy from a round of tug of war and not worrying about showering afterwards. And as for happiness, nothing screams joy quite like a water balloon colliding with your heat-worn face.

At least, that’s what my roommates proclaimed, as our Stratford Hills apartment spent the nation’s 231^st birthday putting that theory to the test. Subsequently, 42D’s Fourth of July Field Day Kegger Barbecue Blowout Bash was centered on the idea of kiddy games. The aim was to make our forefathers proud, ensuring guests rekindled not only their pride in the stars and stripes but also in a simpler time of adolescent freedom by replicating the spectacle of primary school field day. Admittedly, the small plastic cups in hand at our event weren’t exactly as virginal as watered-down juice, but otherwise, the premise was exactly the same as it was 10 years ago.

The journey began at Party City, a consumer haven that profits off the business of patriotism and other flavor of the holiday season concepts. After the purchase of color-appropriate dinnerware, 1,740 feet of crepe paper and a scale model of Lady Liberty, we were off to design the proper balance between America and fun time. As the feat was nearly complete, our neighbors, a retired couple from Florida, broke their usual quiet and commented on the lovely job we did covering our ceiling in red, white and blue streamers. Clearly, we couldn’t have been more in tune with the American spirit, and we were proud of it – paying tribute to our compliments, we affectionately bestowed our apartment with the pet name of “42 Democracy.”

Yet the true party was not within the walls of our little Chapel Hill legislature, but rather outside them. Game referees sported red, white and blue leis and branded an officiating stick found earlier in the woods, while the participants arrived in the suggested attire of old shirts and well-worn bathing suits. Predictably, most clothing was soiled by the end of the first game of the afternoon – the egg run relay, a balancing act between spoon and hard shell that usually ended in disaster. Though I failed to claim a victory in the relay, my eye was on the prize all afternoon; for three straight tournaments in my earlier years of public education, I was a repeat winner as the jump rope contest king, and I was looking to keep my streak alive somehow.

As games such as the shoe kick and the sponge bucket relay came to an end, others claimed the title I so badly wanted. But finally, with the water balloon toss, my partner and I inherited a superhuman ability to catch flying liquid-infused latex and took the title of first place. Yet no matter who won, all of our American soldiers did their best to win the prize and make their country proud with victory. The favorite battle of the day went to the mummy wrap, a toilet paper body-wrapping game that resulted in such self-described fashions as haute couture and bohemian chic. And though only one winner could be crowned, the lawns of Stratford Hills were a market place of ideas alive with the creativity and freedom George and company so highly valued. But ultimately, the reward for all was the American tradition of gluttony and excess in the form of a generous cookout complete with hot dogs, Gumby’s pizza and homemade apple pie.

Finally, after all the balloons were burst and all the bellies were full, guests moved inside for the official awards ceremony. All received certificates of excellence in exchange for their efforts, but winners claimed Dollar Tree prizes for their victories. Julia Yarwood, the winner of the egg run relay, received a bottle of roach killer. Tony Strowd, winner of the three-legged race, claimed a NASCAR paint by numbers, and Kate Finneran, captain of the winning sponge bucket relay team, won a giant inflatable alligator pool toy, which she quickly named Carlos. But all in all, it was here that the true colors of our nation finally flew high. For no matter what we establish as our goals – a yacht for the Mediterranean, a college fund for the kids or a cheap field day prize – the American dreams lives on. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness persists, even when the bombs are water balloons and the soldiers are in Tar Heel territory.

It was a happy birthday, indeed, but an even happier occasion for those at 42 Democracy.

*It should be noted that this was written while still in "party mode" on the night it was completed for my features writing class. I made an A on it. It was the highest grade in the class. So suck on that, JOMC 227.

Dumpster Diving

2007-06-30T19:28:00.000-07:00

I just found a Hoover vacuum by the dumpster and it's free and clean and in working order and our fucking carpet is disgusting and this just made me day.

The Simple Beige Beauty

2007-06-29T19:36:00.000-07:00

For my father...

At 975 square feet, the simple beige beauty at 17 Oak Hill Road is the antithesis of modernity. While most have hardwood floors installed by home improvement chains or an underpaid immigrant, this one can claim its original oak boards; when most have a sliver of grass regulated by neighborhood inspections, this one wears a well-tilled vegetable garden; and when most have garages with faulty mechanized doors, this has a freestanding double carport made off the American Dream. Indeed, little has changed since its construction 53 years ago, and in an age where millionaire retirement homes serve as the tasty, rewarding marshmallows of the real estate cereal box, the house at Oak Hill is the simple, untouched piece of oat at the bottom of the bowl molded by the surrounding Blue Ridge Mountains.

Yet for some, the nostalgic charm at 17 Oak Hill makes it synonymous with a time of innocence when sit-ins and protests seemed to provide no room for it. Here marks the conquests of G.I. Joe and Johnny West, the collisions of Hot Wheels and the corrals of “Bonanza.” Here also holds the bright images of man conquesting moon, of JFK waving for the last time and of The Beatles crossing the Atlantic, some even broadcast on a talk-of-the-town color television. “That’s where I watched the Mets win the 1969 World Series,” my father said, with a scoff.

“And everyone thought they were so bad.”

My father and his parents moved there in October 1960, and they left for a parallel road, Monte Vista Circle, in 1972. He wished they’d never left. In later years, trips to see his parents would serve as opportunities to appraise his childhood home, and occasionally his looks to the side for a realtor sign would escalate into full-blown safaris with the arresting turn of a steering wheel.

It wasn’t until June 2007 that one of Dad’s expeditions ended victoriously with a wild beast pierced on the end of his spear. When he first saw the words “For Sale,” he asked himself how he would react, afraid that he might cry in a dramatic Hollywood entrance, his rigid posture reduced to a timid hunch. Instead, he could only laugh, remembering the disproportions of childhood memories. Looking at his bedroom and clearly in denial, he chuckled at their tiny dimensions, “Did I actually live here?”

When Lana Elingburd first met my father, their connection was immediate. She was an Indian swami and he her reincarnated soul, the presence of energy not entirely explained by five senses. Multiple sclerosis blackmailed the woman into finding a new owner, and his interest was nothing short of divine intervention. “I want you to have this house,” she said. “There are houses, and there are homes. And this is a home.” Dad wore a hole through his cell phone and had the deal finalized by the end of the week.

The 46-year-old’s year has been riddled with divorce and the loss of his mother, and his hair is longer than it was since the funeral. He talks suddenly of getting a dog, and maybe even a tattoo of something Irish, but instead the materialization of this hidden realty drema seemed to give the OK to move ahead without collars or needles.

Now, like an eager boy showing off his newest toy, Dad points to an old path where he often walked Mr. Blue – a mutt by most standards, but to the family half Old English Sheepdog based on the feel of his shaggy hair. There’s a nod to his place of conception, a deteriorating garage apartment not fit by today’s standards. A point for the house that never gave Halloween candy. And one last acknowledgment for the field that provided the learning curve of baseball, the thrill of sleigh rides, the gift of a first bike ride. Next month it will be the place of romps with his newest bike, a Harley Davidson Road King. He plans to cover the halls in old photos of his childhood, such as the 1965 classic with the cowboy costume, and gathering from antiques stores is an invigorating new hobby. A sea trunk is his latest and greatest find.

Dad’s smile has grown from a forced acknowledgment into a beaming piece of watermelon with teeth for seeds. Some would say he has fallen prey to the middle-aged man’s Achilles’ heel – the midlife crisis. Others say he is evolving, making strides to a new and improved Mr. Wright. But perhaps the man is just trying to win something back, a retired sportsman out to prove he can reclaim his glory days against all odds. Perhaps he is regressing, back to a time of innocence. Back to a time when there were no obligations, no failed marriages, no deceased parents, simply a boy, his dog and his bike.

Magical Maze of Melody and Madness

2007-06-16T17:19:00.000-07:00

A year ago today, I was surrounded by people like this:

Happy anniversary, Bonnaroo.

3rd Grade Friday Fun

2007-06-05T22:48:00.000-07:00

My Peoples of Africa professor made this for our class so we can study countries and their capitals for tomorrow's map quiz. I find it both sweetly and pathetically reminiscent of "The Oregon Trail." If I'm lucky, maybe I'll get to ford a river.

Ol' Dick Adams

2007-05-12T22:31:00.001-07:00

"Promise that'll you get on that goddamn Cash Cab."

"Sneak into Ryan Adams' apartment. I want a dirty fork and a T-shirt."

-Cat Chakales,
at a Waffle House, on her NYC hopes

Sophomore Slump

2007-05-02T14:27:00.000-07:00

It has only recently hit me that I am half-way done with college. I feel like I should go sit in a room and drink and think about how my Tar Heel time is only slipping away from here. But nope, I refuse. I'll be spending the entire summer here in Chapel Hill, and with all my friends still around in some capacity, I've got another three months before feeling like we've passed the peak. At least I got to celebrate the end of my fourth semester like this:

Hold the Mayo

2007-04-25T00:46:00.000-07:00

Earlier tonight, starving and ready for some guy time, I journeyed to Alpine Bagel with friendly Will Halicks. Soon thereafter I realized I needed salt and pepper, but my search for seasoning was deterred by the discovery of these:

At first I thought these brightly colored packets were some sort of strange, Alpine-branded organic honey, but oh, was I ever wrong. Once I stopped wondering why a place that sells coffee and bagels felt the need to carry ketchup, I quickly grabbed up all the designs I could find and reveled in my ketchup fetish, which I once won an award for - "Most Disgusting Amount of Ketchup on a Burger," Blepo Ski Trip, Winterplace, West Virgina. Will found it amusing, but I'm sure Will's friend found it not so amusing when she introduced herself to me and all I could do was gush about specially designed ketchup packets. Obviously, I am a sad, sad man, since it is now nearly 1 in the morning and I am neglecting to study and get sleep for tomorrow's 8 AM news editing exam, instead opting to take pictures of the winners of the Heinz Ketchup Creativity Contest and write about it on my blog.

According to Heinz, "Teachers will find an easy-to-follow lesson plan designed especially for their class's age group. The kit includes templates for the design contest, instructions on submitting the artwork, fun ketchup facts and nutrition information. Heinz hopes teachers have fun talking with students about Heinz, tomatoes, ketchup and lycopene. That's why Heinz put together the 'fun facts' sheet for each grade grouping - it combines educational information, history on the H.J. Heinz Company and its founder, tomato health information and much, much more." Right. Because teachers can just stop worrying about No Child Left Behind test scores and instead do whatever the fuck they want about tomato products.

Most of the winners hail from New York and Miami, which I'm sure is some thinly veiled comment about the East Coast's condiment market, but I'm not about to Google "East Coast, ketchup factories." (Okay, that's a lie, but all I got was information about Mayagüez, Puerto Rico.) The winning kids received a handful of mediocre prizes, most notably $750 in free Heinz Ketchup for their respective winning schools. Poor kids couldn't even get any free fucking ketchup for themselves.

And such is the evidence for what is quite possibly the lamest contest ever. And that's exactly why I love it.

Ziggy Made Me Do It

2007-04-22T20:04:00.000-07:00

I think this pretty much sums up my weekend, gnome and all.

So It Goes

2007-04-12T15:29:00.000-07:00

"The only proof he ever needed of the existence of God was music."

- Kurt Vonnegut, 11/11/22 - 4/11/07

Maybe You Won't Trust Matthew Kelly, But I Know You Trust Cat Chakales

2007-04-04T15:36:00.000-07:00

"Too often the time we do set aside for relationships is on the perimeters of our already busy lives, so we approach our relationships without the energy they demand in order to be fruitful and fulfilling."

"Most people stumble through life believing that one day they will find the pace of life and variety of activity that will create the rhythm of life that is conducive to optimum, health, happiness, efficiency, and contentment. They will not. The rhythm of life must be desired and created."

"People are a gift. Each person who crosses through your life is a chance to love, a chance to really live. Cherish people."

"Often we are distracted by the past and the future. The future is a mirage. The past was the present. The future will be the present. The only reality is now."

"Courage is essential to the human experience. Courage animates us, brings us to life, and makes everything else possible. Yet courage is the rarest quality in a human person. The most dominant emotion today in modern society is fear. We are afraid. Afraid of losing the things we have worked hard to buy, afraid of rejection and failure, afraid of certain parts of town, afraid of certain types of people, afraid of criticism, afraid of suffering and heartache, afraid of change, afraid to tell people how we really feel . . . we are afraid of so many things. We are even afraid of ourselves. Do not waste your life, because life is there - all you have to do is reach out and embrace it. Anything is possible. Whatever your dream is, make it happen. Have courage. Start today. You will be amazed what life will give you in return for a little bit of courage. Courage is a choice. Be certain of one thing: The measure of your life will be the measure of your courage."

"Intimacy is measured by self-revelation."

I recently went to dinner with my friend Alec.

It changed everything.

As he had just received his cap and gown, Alec wanted to talk intellectually. To reflect, to reminisce, to talk about growth and fear and future and past and present and more future. So we did. And for the first time in a long time, I felt complete. This year has not been so much a year of change, but a year of implementation. The summer before sophomore year I took a moment to reflect on my freshman experience, and realized there was a lot there that I didn't like. And that needed to change. I wanted to refocus relationships and chase after dreams and grasp the honesty of importance. So I did. And suddenly, in that moment with Alec, that all came full circle. What I experienced freshman year connected with the future. 9/11 and YouTube and divorce rates connected with the need to create and perform. The Sophomore Slump connected with globalization. A friend's paralysis connected with a year of achievement. The need for struggle connected with career pathways. Past connected with present. Devastation connected with drive. Acceptance connected with happiness.

For a moment there, I was elated. I grasped what it all meant, the friendships and the wars and the plays and the grades. I was free, I was high, I was immortal. I knew everything. But to know everything is to know nothing.

And today, I certainly know nothing.

What I came to realize this afternoon is that feeling full circle is only a stepping stone towards the rest of life. For the first time in a long time, maybe for the first time ever, I know who I am. But now I must embrace that. Yes, I am happy and confidant and successful. But happiness and confidence and success are infinite. They only push us closer to what we all desire, and that is love. And love is the acceptance of who one is. However, to know who we are is one thing, and to embrace that is another obstacle all together. Acceptance is not so much a realization but an action. It's a hike on a mountain or a morning spent fingerprinting or a night climbing to the rooftop of a library. And to know that is devastating and frightening, but at once also thrilling and invigorating.

All I know now is that I want to grab my iPod and blast some Kings of Leon and hike like no body's business.

Here I Dreamt I Was A Decemberist

2007-04-03T23:51:00.000-07:00

The Whigs, RJD2, The Walkmen, Cold War Kids. Such was the March Madness season of live music, a near-unbeatable feat of magic and wonder.

But then, tonight, April ushered a mighty retaliation in the form of something unexpectedly epic.

The Decemberists.

Grand enough in scale thanks to Chris Crack, a budding feud with Fall Out Boy, a crazy high drummer, "The Crane Wife" 1-3 in complete succession, a hot air balloon dress , a near suicidal South Carolinian in the upper left balcony, and a giant whale costume with subsequent audience lamenting, Colin Meloy had to go and top it all.

He invited us on stage.

Jeremy Huynh and I gladly accepted the invitation.

For "Sons and Daughters," three feet away from Colin, and within cuddling distance of the bassist, we sang for all of Raleigh. And we danced. And we rejoiced.

As you can tell in this picture with said bassist working his arm out of Huynh's ear, we were more than elated to be in the company of gods. Not so happy, however, to get lost in Raleigh afterwards. But we had the comfort of Cook Out milkshakes and the backdrop of OK Computer, so all was well in the world.

So Said The Bat Man

2007-03-19T13:13:00.000-07:00

Sean Cass. Road trip. Mountains. Tanbark Ridge. Otters. Fun facts. Swinging bridges. Hikes. Cabins. Waterfalls. BBQ. Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Books. Caves. Steve. Wal-Mart Bats. Dr. Enuf. Bubblegum tattoos. Rufus Wainwright. Milkshake races.

Overall, a nice Spring Break adventure.

Pumpkin Gravy Sex Gold

2007-03-09T21:55:00.000-08:00

It's official.

Not only will I be living with him this summer -

- but I'll be living here next semester -

- with a view like this -

Free Association

2007-02-25T21:44:00.000-08:00

I feel like I want to cry. Not because I'm happy, and not because I'm necessarily sad, either. I've just experienced a random assortment of events this week, both good and bad, leading up to this small existential crisis, and now I just want to cry, as if there's some great beauty in the world right now that I want to recognize physically but can only experience spiritually. I'm listening to this song off the new Clap Your Hands Say Yeah album over and over. It's called "Goodbye To Mother And The Cove" and it makes me want to cry, too, even before the moment I wanted to cry. I've actually been listening to it all week, and every time I hear it this infinite, beautiful sadness washes over me and I all want to is sob because it reminds me of people I love and war and the fair and drowning all at the same time, and it's all ugly and sad and true and heartbreaking and makes me want to go swim at an amusement park and of course I can never fucking cry. When I first logged onto the Internet I saw that some ex-Olympian just survived a plane crash and it made me think of the song. And then I remembered that it's the third tragic sports story in three days I've seen on my homepage. Some player for the Broncos (I think) randomly died, and some other football player's dad died, as well. I'm not sure how the death of a celebrity's father can be "news" unless the father was famous, of course, too, and so I'm not sure what that says about our culture when we're reduced to reporting on the tragedies of athlete's extended families when the families themselves are arguably not famous at all. But then I remember that time that Michael Jordon's dad died and that was all over the news, but then again, he was Michael Fucking Jordan, only the most famous person on the planet at that moment, so that's understandable. I wonder which celebrity is the most famous on the planet right this very moment and what would happen if his or her dad died. My mind is wanting to say Beyonce (I wish I could give her name that little accent) but I feel like that can't be true. But I still think it's a pretty good guess. Maybe Britney Spears? Or is she too crazy now? I'm still debating if surviving a plane crash qualifies as something tragic, or happy, or beautiful, or something beyond all those things. Maybe if other people died it would be tragic. I didn't read the article. But that's something I should do more of, and I should also probably change my homepage. Read more, that is, I should do more of that. And keep in touch with current events other than music blogs. I should go to the gym, too. I've realized this week that I'm having an existential crisis for the fact, among other things, that I have too much free time on my hands this semester, so going to the gym is probably a good thing. I also would like to learn how to play the drums, but I have this secret fantasy where I start a band the summer before senior year and we play one shitty gig at some shitty coffee house on Franklin Street before we graduate. Only 5 people are there - 4 are our friends and the other person is some old lady who's too drunk to leave - and we never perform again because we are so terrible. But the only people I know to start a band with are all fucking drummers, and you can't have band of all fucking drummers, so I should probably learn something like guitar or bass. Actually, I was listening to David Bowie's "Rebel, Rebel" in the car tonight and I realized what incredible instrumentals are on that song so maybe guitar wouldn't be that bad. After that song was over I was at Jaki's watching the Oscars, and after that was over I was listening to "Heroes" and "The Departed" had just won and I was thinking how happy and nice and perfect everything was and all I wanted to was cry but I couldn't. So that was my night. And now I'm thinking about plane crashes and drowning and the fair. A short story I'm writing currently starts out with this guy on a flight imagining what it would be like if his plane crashed in the middle of fucking suburbia and destroyed all these plastic lives and families, and whether that would be some horrible tragedy or some beautiful awakening for these people because in tragedy we find beauty, and since their lives were so fucking robotic and only externally perfect that maybe this horrible fucking wake up call would show them something better and positively change their lives. Or maybe it would just fuck them up forever and kill everybody. So it's completely weird and random right now that I'm thinking the same shit as this short story and now I'm reading (kind of) this story about athletes and plane crashes and I'm having an existential crisis because I feel so fucking stagnant and all I want to do is cry a beautiful cry and direct a beautiful play and change the world. I'm going to start going to the gym and writing more and learning some cool skill like juggling, and that's that.

Houston, We Have A Problem

2006-12-28T23:55:00.000-08:00

raf·ter1 [raf-ter, rahf-]

-noun

1.	any of a series of timbers or the like, usually having a pronounced slope, for supporting the sheathing and covering of a roof.

-verb (used with object)
2. British Dialect. to plow (a field) so that the soil of a furrow is pushed over onto an unplowed adjacent strip.

raft·er2 [raf-ter, rahf-]
-noun

1.	a person who engages in the sport or pastime of rafting.

2.	a person who travels on a raft, esp. to flee a country.

raft·er3 [raf-ter, rahf-]

-noun

a flock, esp. of turkeys.

A little over a week ago, Cat Chakales and I were attacked by a pair of wild turkeys. Hours later, we ate cake and celebrated life.

Soon after, we returned to those same mountains where we first encountered the beasts. We witnessed not only one such rafter, but two. Cat communicated with the first, while the second mingled with lawn gnomes and inflatable snowmen, romping, if you will, in a citizen's front yard.

Obviously, Western North Carolina holds host to a turkey epidemic.

Reaganomics and Such

2006-12-13T12:18:00.000-08:00

Dammit. Thanks for screwing up my Top 10 List, kids.

Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts

2006-11-28T21:31:00.000-08:00

So, yeah . . . I'm responsible for all this.

They All Become Blueberries

2006-10-31T11:52:00.000-08:00

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

So Much For Stamp Collecting

2006-10-22T21:17:00.000-07:00

Fall Break at home brought a shocking surprise.

My father bought a Harley Davidson motorcycle back in March. Now the only things he ever wears are flannel shirts and bike tees, and he has been building an obsession with motorcycle memorabilia ever since. So far I've been able to handle the die-cast models, and the blankets, and the special edition beer cans. Hell, I could even handle the ridiculous 13 fucking Harley paintings in our upstairs' den.

But, this folks, this has gone too far:

It's the newest addition to his collection, and it has complete light and sound action. It even "revs up" when you turn it on. This I can't handle.

Also, he bought a pair of chaps. I saw my father in leather chaps. No son should ever have to witness such a thing.

Please Check Availablity at the Reference Desk

2006-10-04T21:07:00.000-07:00

Drowsy and lazy, jamming out to some Bob Dylan in Davis Library as I attempt to finish 25-30 more pages of journal entries for Leon Katz's drama class, something finally sparked my interest again in Elizabethan tragicomedies and their satirical underpinnings.

"Who wants to eat my wife out after I fill her with cum?"

Yes, it came from a computer nearby, and, no, it was not a comforting feeling when I noticed the words "SUCK MY TITS" sprawled across the screen three feet away. The man chatting turned around, glared, and turned back to refocus his attention on porn. He obviously doesn't mind that he stares at gaping vaginas in a public facility used primarily for undergraduate research.

Suddenly John Marston's assumption in the The Malcontent that "all humans are sexual acrobats" looks much more intriguing than it once did.

Or not. Yeah, definitely not.

Lettuce: The Anti-Drug

2006-09-16T18:20:00.000-07:00

I have been at school for more than a month now. There are numerous things I could have blogged about - Dog Shits, my superhuman ability to craft a flying squirrel costume from a Wal-Mart towel and an inordinate amount of safety pins, and people who steal/fuck/kill chickens, all in that order. (Watch "Pink Flamingoes. Or don't, actually. Defecating on screen is less humorous than expected.)

But only one thing, my friends, has brought me back to the blog.

Recently, slightly intoxicated and dressed in pastels, I found myself off to the Pink Party at the Pink House. (Which, FYI, is the same house where I park my car, and also the same house where Ben Folds used to live, putting me one degree closer to the singer. But I'm already one degree away from Ben, considering the fact that I already met Darren Jessee, so I guess that just gives me two, distinct degrees of separation of Ben, or maybe it just forms one, communal "Blow Ya' Mind, Fuckas" degree of separation, but none of this is really important to the story at hand.) My friends and I hopped on the P2P to make our way to the night's festivities, only to find a man in the back of the bus cradling a head of lettuce. I thought maybe it was the vodka talking, but after much confirmation from my fellow passengers, I concluded that there really was a man in front of me cradling a head of lettuce, preparing me for what is surely to be one of the oddest exchanges of dialogue I will ever have the opportunity to witness between two people.

P2P Driver: "Sir, please bring the lettuce to the front of the bus."
Lettuce Kid: "Dude, it's just lettuce."
P2P Driver: "Sir, bring the lettuce to the front, now. I will not continue driving until you hand over the lettuce." (P2P Driver stops the bus)
Lettuce Kid: "What?"
P2P Driver: "SIR! LETTUCE! FRONT! NOW! I don't think your fellow passengers will appreciate you holding them up!" (P2P Driver stands up, walks to Lettuce Kid, takes lettuce)
Lettuce Kid: "Sorry."
P2P Driver: "Thank you." (P2P Driver returns to the front, jamming the head of lettuce between his seat and the wall of the bus)

Then a semi-riot broke out from a group of frat guys in favor of lettuce freedom, but the P2P Driver just sat in silence and listened to his Fergie and pretended not to hear them.

No One Really Likes Pecan Pie

2006-08-04T21:51:00.000-07:00

Three months of internship hell ended this afternoon.

I spent my last day at the film studio in pseudo-celebration by replacing light bulbs, researching celebrity potheads, listening to Le Tigre, and eating peanut butter pie with the elderly and the handicapped.

However, to my disappointment, the peanut butter pie was garnished with fucking pecans.

I found it to be a fitting end to the Summer of Suck.

Thanks For Nothing, Marlene

2006-08-02T14:29:00.000-07:00

I have an announcement:

My gum has decided to FreAk tHe FuCk oUT.

And now I'm pissed.

See, I have this thing about my teeth. I like them. A lot. I even went so far as to buy a $6 stop watch at Wal-Mart for the specialized task of timing my daily teeth cleanings in 3 minute intervals. Thus, I am very proud of the fact that I have not had a cavity in 12 years, and I intended on keeping it that way for the next 80 years, or at least until my passing, which ever comes quicker. However, my gum has a hit a mid-life crisis, and instead of buying a flashy little sports car it has decided to deal with its frustration in another way - by growing over my back molar, a dark and unbrushable place, turning my visit to the dentist today from an excuse to get a mini-sample of Colgate into a trip of pure, unadulterated horror. "Sir, you have a cavity."

With villainous thoughts of Mr. Grumpy Gums seething through my mind, I decided some bitch needed to pay. I spent my remaining time in the dental chair scowling and plotting the beastliest means of revenge against the world my twisted being could muster. After the most painfully vigorous flossing of my life from "Marlene", I finally got to enact the retaliation that I had so meticulously planned out.

I went to Kripsy Kreme.

And every bite of that Chocolate Iced Kreme Filled doughnut was another stab of revenge, a sweet, sweet stab of revenge straight to Marlene's jugular.

The ABCs of Disaster

2006-08-01T15:24:00.000-07:00

A week and a half ago, last Sunday, something very interesting happened at the restaurant where I am employed.

A) We were understaffed.
B) Sporks wrapped in wax paper were the day's utensils of choice.
C) Our manager was drunk.

This recipe, my friends, makes for a guaranteed, Cajun-style ass kicking served with a side of homemade chips n' dip any day of the week. After said ass kicking, our very inebriated manager decided that he needed to "step it up", so to speak, after concluding free lunch was no true reward for his valiant employees.

His version of compensation? A trip to Carowinds, North Carolina's premiere (as in only) theme park.

Come July 30, the day before departure, I learned that the Carowinds trip had been canned. Our expenditure account, used for employee rewards and benefits, had been drained on the owners' personal trip to Las Vegas. Also included in that package of bombshells was the news that a certain manger is fucking our head, half-his-age hostess, and the scoop that an after-hours party, complete with strippers and cocaine, took place at our bar nearly a month ago.

Apparently the suits don't seem to mind that this was all caught on camera. After all, they own the cameras.

In other disappointing work-related news, the "catalyst" of the film studio has returned. With the return of the "catalyst" comes the personal title of "water boy", which can now be added to my other esteemed intern duties such as "dog trainer" and "florist".

Hotel Lights @ Grey Eagle

2006-07-26T23:38:00.000-07:00

Darren Jessee, formerly famous for practicing the art of drumming in Ben Folds Five, journeyed to the Grey Eagle last Thursday with his new band, Hotel Lights, for a "bargain" concert at only $7 a ticket. After the band opened with "Small Town Shit", I was joined by my Venice Queens, Anna and Roxanne, only to be disappointed after the set ended a mere six songs later - much like iTunes, Jessee apparently finds it necessary to charge $.99 per song when playing live. However, while the band performed "A.M. Slow Golden Hit", the night began to pick up when I learned that Roxanne is on a first-name basis with "Darren". In need of music for her directorial debut "Life as a Canvas", Roxanne has been in contact with Darren over e-mail for months now and has successfully received the rights for two Hotel Lights songs for the film. Thus, with connection in tow, our group of three got to meet Darren and the rest of his band after the show wrapped. After the obligatory "Great set, guys!" and such, the conversation somehow awkwardly diverged into the topic of "Iron Chef", in which it was revealed that Darren has a slight obsession with starches. ("Tonight . . . The Potato!") 20 minutes passed by before Darren finally invited us over to the bar for a beer, but we harshly had to break the news to him that we were all underage, and our attempt to buy alcohol earlier in the night had only resulted in the purchase of a lukewarm Nantucket Nectar (as seen above). Darren appeased us with some photo taking, and we said our goodbyes to the band, only to insult the opening act when buying Hotel Lights merch.

Roxanne: "Who's CD is this? Jennifer O'Connor? I've never heard of her. Is she any good?"
Jennifer: "That would be me."
Roxanne: "Oh."

We found it best to leave soon afterwards.

Adam's First Blog Post, Right?

2006-07-25T10:21:00.000-07:00

This is Adam's first blog post, right? Right, this is Adam Wright's first blog post.