Dumpster Diving

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

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

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

Happy anniversary, Bonnaroo.

3rd Grade Friday Fun

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

"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

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

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

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

So It Goes

"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

"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

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

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

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

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

raf·ter1 /ˈræftər, ˈrɑf-/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciati[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 /ˈræftər, ˈrɑf-/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciati[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 /ˈræftər, ˈrɑf-/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[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

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

Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts

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

They All Become Blueberries

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

So Much For Stamp Collecting

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

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.