Religious Freedom in North Carolina is most often defined as the freedom to be whatever Christian you choose to be. When we moved in, my next door neighbor wasn’t as concerned that we knew where the nearest grocery store or liquor store but rather which church offers services that correspond with our schedule.
On the way to Highway 70 today we drove past the “New Aggressive Church of Deliverance”. I’m not kidding, apparently Christians don’t take ‘NO’ for an answer any easier than pan-handlers (this is a story for another time). At first we were taken aback by the relentless Christians but after a few minutes we decided to rename this place of worship “The New First Aggressive Church of Involuntary Flagellation” and all was good.
Bonus: A little history lesson… The original 13 colonies all had drafts prepared of the original Bill of Rights in order to discuss and ultimately ratify those amendments. After it’s ratification in 1791, these priceless early drafts went into storage, North Carolina’s draft was relatively safe from everything but the rages of war as Sherman’s dirty army of Northern Aggression waltzed through Raleigh and some enterprising yankee profiteers decided to take some souvenirs. The draft was returned in 2005 to much fanfare.
The DNC concluded tonight to a show at Mile High Stadium that was second only to the Olympics opening ceremonies. Obama made a rousing plea to bring change to Washington. If this war continues I fear all we’ll have left is change. All the while Iraq sits on nearly $80 BILLION in surplus. Oh sure it’s a drop in the bucket compared to the nearly $10 TRILLION the US is in debt, so why not stay in Iraq. Really, what’s another $23 BILLION a year and countless lives to continue to destabalize a region and rake in billions in profits for oil barons.
I can’t even begin to tell you how awesome the opening ceremonies of the Olympics were, I am trying not to be all gay and stuff, but was near tears there. The closing ceremonies were no less amazing. If you were to interpret the imagery there I can only assume that they plan on taking over the world with large wheeled bicycles.
These guys have put every other Olympics to shame. And at an estimated 60 billion dollars it’s unlikely another country will come close any time soon.
As the Olympics closes, I realize the media will have a whole new group of medal-wielding idols to impress some assumed intelligence upon. The next thing you know, these athletes who have committed their whole being to some physical endeavor will soon be considered celebrities and assumed experts on a range of topics. As if they are more likely to have developed a more informed opinion than the average mouth-breathing American.
Here’s a perfect example, Michael Phelps, after years of hard work, continuous practice and exercise has won eight gold medals in a single Olympics and attained world records in seven of those events. Earning lifetime ‘fuck you’ rights and finally a sweet pay day in endorsements. He’s now under attack for accepting endorsements from McDonald’s and Frosted Flakes. It’s not like he’s endorsing sitting on the couch and playing XBox for 16 hours a day which I assure you is as much a contributor to my morbid childhood obesity.
Hey Michael Phelps, if you come across any ‘child obesity advocates’ giving you shit, I suggest you just tell them to “Suck it” and beat them with a sock filled with Olympic gold medals.
Someone asked me about my photochopping skillz, I explained that for me, photochopping is like sex, if it takes more than 15 minutes and doesn’t make at least one person laugh, I want no part of it.
The unfortunate aspect of eating rabbit is it almost never comes without a fair share of bones. And so went my first trip to Watts Grocery, the busy local Broad St eatery served its sweet braised bunny in a bed of risotto that was given far more attention than the meat. I fear the chef might have either been a vegetarian or just hated animals. The slick contemporary style reminded me why I can’t stand any place that uses the word ‘bistro’ in their advertising. Not because of the food, drink or the decor, but rather the clientèle who tends to think that because they are at a ‘bistro’ they are being cosmopolitan, regardless of how classless, loud and dull they are… Listen asswipe, before there was McDonald’s, there were bistros. That’s what bistro means, sit down, eat meat, drink a cup a coffee and get the fuck out.
Thoroughly by mistake afterward, I stumbled into Open Mic Night at Broad Street Cafe. On stage this old codger plucked away slowly and deliberately on a tired banjo. He was followed by the bartender belting out some soulful Tom Waits. However all good things come to an end, this end came in the form of a young dark drink of water strapping on a Fisher Price electric guitar and barking out a greeting like an emo version of Easy E. He proceeded to strangle that poor tone-deaf guitar like Norman Bates all the while squawking out “I don’t want your sympathy, I just want to share your agony” (I wish I was making this up). At which time I fear he might have heard my inside voice utter, “You aren’t sharing my agony, you’re creating it.”. After which the room became extremely uncomfortable so I left.
Last night I enjoyed my favorite little watering hole, Dain’s Place. A narrow, hot, little tavern just off the Duke Campus. I only stopped in for some food, but ended up staying until the band started, setting up a mere 5 feet from my chair. I often try to describe bands by relating them to more popular bands, this band sounded as if an autistic Devo had rolled up and smoked an early 70’s chubby, drunk Jim Morrison. I had enough when they began to rape The Pixies “Hey”. I tried to walk out however one of the more prepared students pulled out a pair of earplugs for me. I was in such pain I automatically shoved them in my ears not even questioning their hygeine. Ozzie the bartender was also clearly in pain so I actually cut the earplugs in half and shared them. I had to share a drink with this well prepared fellow. After the show I was heading to the door, sharing the old joke about the two bulls at the top of the hill. I knew I was fucking it up as I opened the door “…let’s go down and fuck those cows… er no, it’s just one cow… uh (falling into a bad Tommy Boy impression) OK, who’s head goes in the butcher’s ass, no wait it’s got to be the bull…” To which the rest of the bar in unison shares the proper punchline as I bow deeply to their superior delivery making a less than clean getaway.
I love this little college town…