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

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!!!

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

"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

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

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.