Time to Make Like a Tree and Fall

What has happened to my soul as I drift down the long road that is the life of the travel correspondent? I felt the taint of corruption penetrating frenetically down to my inner core like a mole on ritalin. Perhaps too much time spent near politicians in our capital cities? After recently visiting such exotic locales as Washington, DC and Columbia, South Carolina, I sensed the moment had come to take a break. Why not enjoy some of the beauty that exists in our more immediate surroundings? Since the onset of autumn, I had been hearing the hills of western North Carolina calling me home like the song of the sad sperm whale, wondering how the hell it got beached in the middle of a mountain range.
Much of my childhood was spent amidst the landscape of the Blue Ridge and Smoky Mountains, wandering the dusty trails with my mother and father leading the way, my brother and I straining our little legs to keep up with the grinding pace set by our parents. Not since the days of the Bataan Death March of World War II have such arduous treks been undertaken.
Despite my moaning, I admit that I owe a great deal to these hikes. During that period in my life I came to appreciate the brilliance of nature and the astounding diversity of plant and animal life that Mother has to offer. More importantly, I think, I learned the feeling of satisfaction that comes with completing a difficult journey. There are few moments in life that match the instant when you take one last painful step and are suddenly confronted with the awe-inducing panoramic view of tree-lined valleys and wind-sculpted rock that God (or infinite chance for you Atheists out there) has created as the reward for your suffering.
Stuck in the iron grip of such nostalgia, I made my way towards the Blue Ridge Parkway, located just an hour's drive north of most Upstate residents. The park stretches almost 500 miles through the moonshine-drenched mountains of North Carolina and Virginia. You can almost hear the banjo and fiddles pounding out their tunes as you twist along the country roads, wishing you had a bottle of white lightning in your lap. Remember kids, in the wise words of NOFX, "Don't drink and drive - you might spill your beer."
My father had rented a cabin in the area and brought along his new wife and her son. My brother and I arrived without Tommy Lee to complete our motley crew. We set off soon after to explore some of the park, which was built in the 1930s as part of a government works project designed to combat the Great Depression (little known fact: Herbert Hoover was a great inspiration to our current president). The first thing that struck my eye was the beauty of the trees, whose dying leaves created a kaleidoscopic array of reds, oranges, and yellows I had not seen since my latest lapse into the land of the lysergic.
I have painstakingly interviewed various sources in order to ascertain whether the recent drought creates more or less vivid colors in the foliage and they all disagree. I suggest you go check it out for yourself next year, even if you have never visited the parkway and have nothing with which to compare the sight, you can always feign expertise. How do you think I got this column?
In between the colorful canopy of the forest and the breathtaking valley views, we paused along the way in order to make brief excursions to some of the other fine features available in the local wilderness. Looking Glass Falls was our first stop, a cataract that drops sixty feet. The falls are named for Looking Glass Rock, whose expanse the creek runs underneath before making its hasty descent. The view of the falls is especially impressive during autumn and there is no hike involved, so it is a good spot for those who want to check out nature's dripping, naked beauty, but are physically unable to endure the inconvenience of walking in the process.
Not yet tired of watching molecules of water conform to the whims of gravity, we hopped back into the auto and headed toward Graveyard Fields. The area got its name in an age long gone from the tree stumps and surrounding trees that looked similar to grave stones in a graveyard setting. Influences such as forest fires and the living dead have changed the area's appearance greatly in the intervening years. I recommend pausing in the parking area, which provides an awesome view of the surrounding countryside. Once we were done pausing, we quickly dove for the cover of the forest canopy - it was colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra up there!
Once your eyes grow tired of gazing upon one bit of the Earth's majesty and would like to move onto the next, there are a couple of options at Graveyard Fields. You can either visit the lower falls, only a quarter of a mile away or take a longer jaunt to the equally impressive upper falls. Let me know if they are as impressive as I say, frankly we only had time to check out the shorter path.
As the sun fell from the sky and the frigid mountain air began to beat against our skin, we realized that it was time to abandon the wilderness and make our return to civilization. A hot meal was also on the agenda, and we decided to visit the nearby town of Asheville in order to find the best available vittles. Dad's new wife Nalan happened to be turning twenty nine that day for the twentieth time, so we decided to pick out a special spot so we could properly celebrate this joyful occasion.
After a brief discussion we chose to obtain a reservation at Jerusalem Garden, smack in the center of the vibrant city. Colin's girlfriend Arby joined us at the restaurant and we sat down for an impressive repast. I started with an Efes, a Turkish pilsner named after the ancient city of Ephesus, located on the western coast of Turkey. I sipped my beer and laid back to soak in the rhythms of the Middle East.
Surprisingly, despite being the home of several terrorist groups and a religion even more repressive than Mormonism (debatable, I suppose), the Middle East is a source of a lot of great culture. Belly dancing is just one fine example, and we were treated to a fine display by a lovely lass whose sensual movements and penetrating glances would turn even the most stone-faced macho man into a weeping mass of shameful lust. Behind her played a two-man band, cranking out classic hits from 1056 on their ut, a guitarlike instrument, and darbuka, which are somewhat similar to bongo drums.
As we enjoyed their ancient Billboard Top 40 music, we dined upon a smorgasbord of dishes from the region, beginning with baba ganoush, hummus, falafel, and a mouth-watering pie made out of spinach and feta cheese. I was particularly surprised that I enjoyed the spinach appetizer, being that I am the anti-Popeye. Eating a can of the stuff would cause my body to break out in hives and my muscles, limited as they are, to run away and hide.
We finished off our meal by discovering the location of the long lost sheep of Little Bo Peep. Apparently, they were being prepared and served in a cornucopia of entrees by the kitchen staff. Lamb kebabs, lamb schwarma, and minced lamb arrived on steaming plates and the flock soon went to its ultimate fate, digested inside our satisfied stomachs. Colin also took home a very nice new sweater.
For those interested in visiting Jerusalem Garden for a private party, they do have a back room decorated with colorful Arabic rugs and tapestries. If you like chairs, do not apply, the private dining area provides a more authentic experience, which does not include such modern amenities. In exchange, you will receive personal performances from the lascivious, lusty lass with the belly of jelly. You might have to go elsewhere for a happy ending, though, unless in your mind the term connotes the end of another one of my interminable diatribes. If so, you are in luck!

The 70s Return Uninvited

I have just returned from a short jaunt to Asheville, where we celebrated the birthday of the lovely, luscious lass that my younger sibling is lucky enough to be dating. I forget her name, but although it does not rhyme with a part of the female anatomy, it does have something to do with delicious fast food burgers. The host of the party, a good man we call by the name of Dan, chose to give the party a theme, eschewing the traditional birthday cake nonsense. Instead, we traveled back into the past, making a visit to the decade we should by all rights have forgotten, the 1970s. On the other hand, what better time to hearken back to those years? With skyrocketing inflation, energy crises, an unwanted and unnecessary war, and an extremely unpopular Republican president, residents of the decade could travel to our time and feel right at home.
Since the entire ten year period was an unholy fashion abortion, party goers had a vast array of possible costume choices. Unfortunately, I could not find a company willing to make me a fur suit made out of shag carpeting. Instead, I sported a tribute to the ABA, the era's failed basketball league, which gave us Julius Erving's plush afro and sporty Chuck Taylor shoes, not to mention the patriotic red, white, and blue ball. Every time someone managed to put the colorful orb into the hoop, a dollar was donated toward the defeat of the Russian horde. Although I was not able to grow an impressive afro in time for the event, I did manage to find the requisite headband, armbands, and tube socks that composed the outfit of the era's ballers.
Once attired in my jester's outfit, I felt right at home amongst the rest of the fools. My brother Colin chose to compose an ode to Starsky and Hutch with his costume. After donning his dark shades and a shirt somehow colored silver and brown, his sideburns and hair suddenly seemed as if they were beamed directly to him by Erik Estrada or some other 70s demigod. The birthday girl flashed a white and red flower-print dress resembling the kind worn by the Brady girls. In a celebratory mood, Wendy proceeded to eat a bowl composed of jello shots and pass out on top of the Twister board. Although there were other impressive costumes, I think we have reached the limit of my ability as fashion impresario.
With the red carpet rolled up, we then proceeded to annihilate ourselves in the traditional fashion. Twelve games or so of beer pong later I too was ready to become one with the Twister board. My zen drinking master, David Carradine, would be proud if he saw me today.

Moratorium

Apologies for not posting anything in the recent days, I have been out of town participating in the third annual Bele Chere whiffleball tourney in scenic Asheville, North Carolina. We finished 5th out of 12 teams, but did get to play in what was probably the most exciting game of the event, which sadly we lost 20-15 in extra innings despite coming from nine behind to tie the score earlier in the contest. The weather was typical of a Bele Chere Saturday, dreary and rainy early and sun-baked later on in the day. The liquid gold overflowed our gullets as usual and one of our teammates may have sustained fatal drinking injuries as a result. Get well Dan! Colin wants to take another stab at finishing off the last sliver of your liver down in Edisto.
In news relating to the future, I will be traveling to the great city of Chicago with my brother this weekend to see my friend Tim and hopefully we will be able to take in a Cubs game. A visit to the Navy Pier is also in order. I shall return on Monday the 4th and my twisted blabbering will resume shortly thereafter. Perhaps I shall speak further of this Chicago place. Please forgive my prolonged writing absence as I have just turned 33 and I plan to see the world quickly before the creeping death of middle age comes up and bites me into senior citizen submission.

Asheville: Escape to Hippyland

I have always lived in the epicenter of conservative America, having grown up in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina, then living most of my adult life in Greenville. I have gradually come to grips with my bible-belting surroundings over the years. Every once in a while, though, I just need to escape the overbearing pressure to join the NRA, drive a Hummer, or otherwise engage myself in some activity designed to advertise the microscopic size of my genitalia. When that feeling hits me, I know just exactly where to go. Just a short scenic drive up US 25 and I-26 lies liberal nirvana and it goes by the name of Asheville. I flare my nostrils and inhale the aroma of incense and patchouli that lets me know I have come home.
Mountain people have been, throughout history, a breed apart. Nowhere is that truer than in Asheville, North Carolina, a colorful buoy of hippie culture floating in a red state sea. Could a tornado have picked up San Francisco and dropped it just to our north like in "The Wizard of Oz?" As unusual as it seems, you have to wonder what force of nature put this place in such an unlikely geographic position. My gut feeling is that the devil is tempting people not to believe the rigorous dogma required to be a boring automaton by setting us bible-belters so close to a place where being different is not frowned upon, but damn near encouraged. If you too have the urge to be a little off-center at times, come along with me to Hippyland.
What sort of activities do I involve myself in during my visits to Asheville? How very nice of you to ask that question so that I can segue into the next part of the article! Besides numerous trips to the Jersey Mike's on Merrimon due to my brother's (he is a Franklin, NC native and we often meet in Asheville) hopeless addiction to their mediocre subs, music is the primary reason I am driven to make the journey. There are many excellent venues in Hippyland, from Jack of the Wood to The Grey Eagle Tavern. For my money, the mecca of Ashevillian audiophilic orgasms is the Orange Peel. IMHO there are very few better places in the Southeast to see a show, and the sheer number of quality gigs they draw is unmatched. All genres are represented, from country to indie rock, from bluegrass to the blues, the Orange Peel has them all. As an indie and punk rock fan, I have seen The New Pornographers, Against Me, The Meat Puppets, Built to Spill, Dinosaur Jr., and Immaculate Machine, all within the last year. With square footage somewhat akin to a basketball court, the arena is quite intimate - I have never been more than thirty feet from the stage. The owners have also successfully fought off the warm temperatures associated with packing a large crowd into a small space by providing the largest fan in the known universe to cool things down. Seriously, they have this thing hanging from the ceiling that reminds me of the propellor from a WW II flying fortress, but somewhat larger. Rumor has it that the blades were stolen off of a windmill and smuggled out of Holland during our recent conflict with the Dutch over paint and tulip tariffs. If that fanstrocity fell from its perch everyone inside would be mashed and slashed into a human pate that would have cannibals the world over drooling like Pavlov's dogs. I will be damned if that thing doesn't make it extremely comfortable in there, though.
So maybe you are a soulless monster and don't care for music - what other diversions does Asheville hold? With the Blue Ridge Parkway only miles away, you could go on numerous hikes, climb some of the highest peaks on the East coast or view some of the prettiest cataracts (fancy word for waterfall) this side of your grandma's vision problem. That sounds like too much work, however, so let's find a good place to get drunk instead. You could head to Barley's Taproom, but we have one in Greenville if you want to just interact with hippie types for a short time, so let's find something a little more original to Asheville. You could try the Thirsty Monk, a new Belgian beer joint located on Patton Avenue, but be warned: the high gravity beers there may interact with your system a bit differently than a six pack of cold Bud. Walking may become a chore and driving is out of the question.
Although faced with many great choices in a town that takes so much pride in its hedonistic reputation, the first place you should head for is the Asheville Brewing and Pizza Company located on Merrrimon Avenue. There you will find what has been missing from your mundane Greenvillian existence, a movie theater that serves the cold, gold liquid refreshment that your shriveled liver has been too long without. Lay back in one of their comfy chairs and enjoy the show with a tasty slice of Italy in one hand and a frothy bit of Octoberfest heaven in the other. Watch a poorly dubbed Chinese martial arts film and you can consider your visit a cultural experience.
While we are speaking of cultural experiences, let's take at look at the people that make Asheville the decidedly diverse place it is. Long hair and beards seem to be a requirement, even for some of the women. Dreadlocks are a major plus. Dress is casual, with the basic attire consisting of a ragged brownish t-shirt, cargo pants (which provide numerous pockets for dank nugs and assoiciated paraphenalia), and tivas. Their odor will be a mildly pleasant melange of patchouli, incense, and marijuana. Piercings are limited only by your own creativity and pain threshold. Anyone wearing coats or slacks without gaping holes is summarily executed. There are openly gay people everywhere - and don't miturate upon that monument! Street performers are all over the place - a couple of the well known regulars include a lady painted in silver to resemble a statue and a gentleman who utilizes cardboard and spray paint to create amazing space-like tableaus . Hopefully I have prepared you for the Ashevillian populace so that your head does not explode. I would hate to have your busted cranium on my hands.
For any of you less open-minded folks concerned about running into any of these weirdos and having to talk to them, just stay up at the Grove Park Inn, where you can view them from afar, like zoo exhibits. The Grove Park features luscious spa treatments as well as their own private golf course, which you can play for a very affordable total of well under a thousand dollars. If you would rather overwhelm the hippies with numbers, a large invasion force of outsiders arrives in Asheville during the Bele Chere festival, which occurs every year during the last weekend of July. Bele Chere is a street festival that features beer, food, and several free concerts (De la Soul almost showed up a couple years back!), providing the kind of listening pleasure only a powerful blow to the head with a blunt instrument can equal. Hey, even a paradise like Hippyland isn't perfect.