Category Archives: Me Myself and Ty

It's in the vault, Me Myself and Ty

A pirate’s life for me

*CLICK*

Members of my crew advancing on the town I was to protect along with a handful of other members of the militia — thrown together, I imagine, like most militia units would have been during the time period.

To about a thousand spectators, it’s so anticlimactic they don’t even notice it.

The gun you’re holding didn’t fire, but you’re not surprised in the slightest. The blunderbuss you just aimed at the handful of pirates across the improvised stage was never designed to fire, which is why you’re not at the end of the firing line, with all the “real guns.”

So you pull your toy back into your chest and begin spectating.

It’s terribly disorganized. Well, at least the line you’re standing in is — in front of you there are a handful of actors who know what they’re doing, wielding swords and whips and talking pirate. It’s a wonderful show.

So wonderful, actually, that you realize you’re smiling from ear to ear.

It’s fine that you’re enjoying yourself, but your side is losing, so wipe that smile off your face!

The show goes on and your militia finally beats back the pirates, although you have to assume it’s only because the invaders don’t know that of the 16 members of the militia, only four have guns that truly fire.

Hell, you don’t even have shoes. A well-placed buccaneer boot onto your toe would probably be enough to convince you to surrender — especially since you wanted to be a pirate anyway, but that’s out of your control.
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Me Myself and Ty, Politics, Uncategorized

Bunforgivable

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It’s not what you think!

Today I did a terrible thing.

After weeks of Chick-fil-A overexposure due to a media firestorm the likes of which real press coverage could only hope to match, I was hungry today.

I wanted it.

I wanted the deep fried chicken breast. The two pickles. The warm bun.

I wanted that sandwich.

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Eh?, It's in the vault, Me Myself and Ty

The best barbecue pork in North America, eh?

A lot of people would take their word for it. Not me.

It wasn’t like it was totally an impulse that led us to eat Chinese food while we were in Toronto.

We were tired. We were hungry. And Chinese food sounded great, especially since we were in Toronto’s Chinatown. We had been planning it for a while, actually, so when I saw the sign, it became obvious that our quest for food was over.

The daylight was fading, but the challenge beckoned. “Best B.B.Q Pork in North America,” it said.

Well that’s interesting, I thought. Here I am from a county in Eastern North Carolina where people can’t decide which of our legendary barbecue joints is the best, across the county line from the barbecue my family and friends have always thought was the best and less than three hours away from a city that (falsely) calls itself the Barbecue Capital of North Carolina — but these nice Chinese restaurateurs have canvassed not only Wayne County, not just North Carolina, but the entire effing continent and have decided they have the best in North America.

Great, I thought, this saves me from having to continue trying barbecue everywhere I go in the United States.

So I dragged Jessica in the cramped store and we ordered and left to eat on a park bench. I rushed inside a gas station for a Coke because what’s barbecue without Coke, but it seems that it didn’t matter.

Yes, it was pork, but — well, actually I guess that’s the thing I’m least sure about — anyway, at least it tasted OK. And there was plenty of rice beneath it and no Chinese restaurant can screw up rice.

By the time we labored through our meal, it was dark and we both decided that the 14-hour drive followed by only four hours of sleep had caught up with us, especially since we stayed up drinking and had been walking seemingly the entire day. And drinking more, but that’s just understood.

If we were going to make a go of it that night, we were going to need to take a nap, we decided, so we returned to the hostel.

Our room in the hostel was essentially a dorm room with two double bunk beds. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to visit Toronto and will definitely be staying there again if I ever find my way back there. A good traveler spends most of the stay exploring the city, so all that’s really needed is a bed and then strangers sharing the room doesn’t seem like a big deal.

Except for this guy who moved in mid-morning.

He replaced a nice European girl who was finishing up her Trans-Canadian trip on a separate bunk. He was nice enough, but he didn’t care for using the lounge downstairs — he had spread his stuff across the tiny room and was surfing the internet when we showed up.

It was a bit annoying because the light was on, but the real issue with our roommate was the smell. This was BBO. The towel I used to shower that day had acclimated to his smell to the point that I felt like my shower had served only to turn me into one of his body odor-carrying disciples.

I took one look (and whiff) of the room and decided I couldn’t handle it. Jessica climbed into her top bunk and I went downstairs to have another beer.

The Chinese “barbecue” was not settling well. Jessica’s food wasn’t either, so I didn’t anticipate seeing her for a few hours. While it wasn’t the best choice I could have made for dinner, however, you can’t argue with results… Continue reading →

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Don't Call it a Farewell, Journalism, Me Myself and Ty

I’m not good at goodbyes

You can feel the tears queued up behind your eyes even when you talk to the pretty girl. That’s how you know it’s time to go.

Time to say goodbye at a goodbye party, but the two negatives don’t make a positive in this case.

You hurriedly put whatever distraction conversation you were having on the proverbial shelf, but you know it need not ever be resolved. Then you turn to find her, not to say goodbye, though.

Goodbyes are for suckers who don’t think they’ll ever see each other again. A healthy understanding of the ambiguity of the term “later” allows you to say “see you later” without much thought and without much remorse. It sets the table for the reunion.

But you don’t even say it. You just think it. The farewell moment is a long, tight hug. You don’t say a word, but not because the silence says it all. It’s because saying nothing deep down in your head allows you to suspend the disbelief for another night.

Now it’s the escape. Hurry to the door. Say bye to everyone else. Suddenly saying bye to them means absolutely nothing. It’s a cheap goodbye. You’ll see them all Monday and you’ll drink and you’ll bitch and complain about work, but she won’t be there. It doesn’t matter if you say goodbye to them at all, but all of a sudden it’s imperative that you do, just to prove that you can say it to someone.

Quick, easy strides to the car. It’s no longer a question of holding back tears. Just imagine how close you are to home, to your bed where you can finally let it all out. Cry into your pillow. Wake up and start worrying about work again.

The drive home proves to be a healthy distraction. Just turn on autopilot and let the subconscious take the wheel so you can shut the rest of your brain off. You’ve traveled this way hundreds, thousands of times before.

Fucking goddamn train. It breaks the monotony. Think about the implications. No more dancing. No more drinking. Now it’s hitting you.

Start thinking about the blog entry you’ll write. That’s how you’ll cope, huh? Write that lead in your head because we’re all really fucking impressed. You’re just distracting yourself again, just like you did two weeks ago when he left.

Not saying goodbye doesn’t make them not leave.

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It's in the vault, Journalism, Me Myself and Ty, Politics

(Re)affirmation (re)visited

I recently followed up on a candidate for City Council who put down two separate addresses on his voter registration form.

One was the address at his recently purchased home in the district he was aiming to represent. The other was his work address.

I did due diligence, especially since I knew he was living out of district very recently, but N.C. laws concerning residency are very ambiguous. A formal challenge to his residency filed by a resident fell flat, as well, mostly because the challenger didn’t appear to read my stories, but to make a long story short, the young man is still on the July 17 ballot.

I know the guy well since he’s one of the young professionals in the area and we’ve shared quite a few beers before and since his candidacy. He’s a nice enough guy, but the story isn’t about him or his candidacy. Like nearly everything on this blog, this story is about me.

I had just arrived in Canada and it was 12:01 a.m. when I received a text message from the candidate whose campaign I had nearly stamped out. Continue reading →

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It's in the vault, Me Myself and Ty

Feets of Strength

I hadn’t seen Farrell or Jessica since I returned from Canada more than a month before, I was halfway through a pint of beer and talking with Farressica, Farrell’s dad and Zachary Tubb at Lilly’s Pizza on Glenwood Avenue.

And where was I? I was on the sidewalk, near some dumpsters, struggling to hear what was being said on the other line.

The beer was calling to me. And the pizza. But someone else had called, too and she was telling me all about her assignment.

The story was riveting, but I caught myself thinking about how badly I wanted to get back to the table. I fought it for several minutes, but I was ready to return to my beer.

And then there it was: a white convertible Mazda Miata.

It pulled up to the curb, but for whatever reason didn’t pull up into the definitive parking space behind a white Suburban.

The boy in the driver’s seat attempted to crank the car again, but it stalled.

“Hell,” I thought, “It’s a Miata. I could throw that thing over my shoulder and carry it the 10 feet forward into its proper parking space.” Continue reading →

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DRIVEN, It's in the vault, Me Myself and Ty, Uncategorized

Deer and loathing

A bit dark and gory after the jump, so proceed with caution.

Humanity has never gripped me like it did that night as I screamed into the lonesome night at a creature that had no more a mind to understand me than it did body able enough to escape me.

I had pointed my flashlight up and down the road at least half a dozen times, both praying no headlights would appear to guest star in my late night grapple with mortality and its intersection with morality while at the same time wishing some grown-up would show up — my dad preferably — to solve the situation I found myself in.

The road is a popular drag for speeders, especially since it runs right behind the high school. If you wanted to show off your car’s acceleration, this was the strip to do it. I vaguely remember riding along with one such crazy adolescent as we passed an assumed adversary on the road, topping 80 or 90 mph down the long, straight two-lane drive.

I, of course, wasn’t going nearly that fast on this night. Maybe five or 10 over, but mostly because this was the final two miles of a seven-hour trip and I badly needed to use the bathroom.

The first doe darted out confidently. I had no chance of ever hitting her, but I slammed on my brakes anyway to avoid what was sure to be the rest of her nocturnal grazing party.

And then there he was, taking a 45 degree angle to the road as if he was going to rush me off of the left side of the road.

I merged left to avoid him, but he refused to stop, choosing instead to barrel into the side of my car.

I shook the steering wheel steadily to keep myself straight, but hardly had to slow down at all.

I didn’t even stop. “No time for that now,” I thought, pining for my bed while looking over at my antenna, which now looked like a crumpled pipe cleaner tossed to the side from some craft project.

The radio hadn’t even skipped for a moment. That’s curious.

“Dammit my side view mirror is gone!” said the voice in my head, finally realizing there was something missing from my car like the final answer in some Sunday comics picture challenge.

I’ll have to go back for it.

But I knew there was one more thing I would need to go back to, as well.

This had happened before, of course. Continue reading →

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It's in the vault, Journalism, Me Myself and Ty

The War Between the States of Being

The sensation first came about late Friday night: Was I still walking the line of first-person journalism or was I now reenacting alongside my sources?

I was dressed in full Confederate garb, with the only evidence I wasn’t in the 19th century in my hand: a sweating can of PBR.

Hell, thinking back, the 1862 siege my comrades were reenacting was 30 years ahead of the very blue ribbon that won Pabst the right to its three-letter acronym. Continue reading →

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Eh?, It's in the vault, Journalism, Me Myself and Ty

Trouble at the border, Eh?

It was a 14-hour drive to the border.

The beer I drank in another country. It was an Amsterdam. There were many more.

We had planned to go to Canada for months, although you wouldn’t believe it if you asked us why we were going.

“I want to drink a beer in another country,” I told everyone. And truthfully, that was the extent of the longing to head north.

That’s also what made it so difficult when the border agent asked what we were planning to do in Canada. Continue reading →

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Me Myself and Ty

I’m really not good at pool

This could be titled “I suck at pool.”

Just an update. I arranged a rematch with the girl who beat me at the pub back in March and she beat me. Arranged three more and she continued to beat me.

She’s currently leading the series 6-0, but I’m keeping my head up.

Also, I hate pool.

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