Journalism, Me Myself and Ty, Sports

Values & disaster-stricken North Carolina

Gov. Pat McCrory broadcast his press conference live on Facebook Tuesday night from Raleigh as he laid out the state’s continued response to Hurricane Matthew.

With flood waters along the Neuse River still advancing on hundred-year flood records, McCrory assured that the state’s disaster relief funding will last into 2017 while vowing to call a special session as early as next week if more money is needed to aid displaced residents from affected counties, which stretch from Edgecombe County near Rocky Mount to Robeson County on the South Carolina state line.

McCrory then opened up for questions, but in the end only had to answer two, both from the same reporter: Kirk Ross of the Washington Post.

The first: “I wanted to see if you have any numbers or estimates on the livestock
and what are some of the concerns while you’re trying to get them buried as soon as possible?”

It may sound odd that the first question from the national press about a major weather event that has, as of this writing, claimed the lives of 20 North Carolinians would be about livestock, but Eastern North Carolina is the the production engine of the state’s poultry and pork industries.

The N.C. Farm Bureau Federation reported in July that the state ranks second in the nation in hog & turkey production and fourth in the production of broiler chickens & trout.

How McCrory would have an estimate of livestock lost while the waters in some areas were still rising is beyond me, but make no mistake that the general consensus here in Kinston is that we, too, are very concerned about the animals throughout Eastern North Carolina. Continue reading

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Journalism, Politics

The Truth Is Out There (But Not In TIME)

Perhaps the best explanation of the ideological shift of “objective” journalism is made in “The Truth Is Out There In 2016. Way Out There” from the Oct. 17, 2016 issue of TIME.

In post-birtherism America, our “truthiness” is weaker than our gluten tolerance.

In the article, Stephen Colbert himself says the reality of Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump is “completely divorced” from the one you and I reside in.

It seems truthiness doesn’t have enough wiggle room to allow for thousands of applauding Muslims. Continue reading

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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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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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