Blacksburg and Meadows of Dan continued

After New York I caught the Chinatown bus down to D.C. where I stayed with some friends of a friend who I had never met before - they left the back door open for me. I had to ask the first people who walked in - 'Do you live here?'. Most of my time there was spent smoking American Spirits out the back of their house with Will. We were merely supporting the good people of the Virginia tobacco industry. It is extremely strange but exciting to be having in depth conversations on the state of America and the world in general, with people you have never met before - I guess that is what traveling is all about though.

Next stop was Maryland, where I stayed on a small farm owned by my friend Ted's in laws. There I met his brother in law, Greg, who on a whim I drove down to Blacksburg, Va for a week. It was great to be able to sample the American college lifestyle - Blacksburg is a great example of the university town. Its population is only around 40,000 people, but over half of these are aged between the ages of 18-24. It is extremely chilled out, but at the same time all party come sunset. We got around town on Mopeds and a revolving cast of trucks, sampling beers from all over yonder at the magnificent Vintage Cellars, living off quesadeas and chick-fill-a. I was befriended by the entire apartment complex, and attended parties where I became initiated into the sacred order of beer-pong and various other drinking games. The whole rivalry between Virginia Tech and the University of Virginia even began to make sense to me, and at this point, I realized I could totally live in this town. There was a friendship group I could easily fit into, and Blacksburg has a bottle shop of the first order (the aforementioned Vintage Cellars). As such, it was most saddening when it came time to leave this oasis in the high country. A couple of days before I departed, however, I was thrust into the other-worldliness of the truly bizarre Meadows of Dan.

That day we had been at a local vineyard. Yet the fact that we even able to get there is remarkable, because during the course of that day, Greg and myself were witness to some of the worst driving known to man. I mean, this girl was horrendously bad - turning around to talk to us for ten seconds at a time, backing out onto a highway and blocking all oncoming traffic..just a couple of her faux pas. Her worst sin though was neglecting to take a glance at the fuel meter, as by the time we reached the vineyard we were almost totally out of petrol. Hence the reason for our stop off at Meadows of Dan. Our first inkling that such a place might actually exist came to us on our walk back to the car park. There was a firetruck on standby in case of any emergency, which had an extremely mythical name. 'Meadows Of Dan! What kind of name is that?', our friend Sean exclaimed. 'Yo, don't make fun of my town', came the reply from within.

We thought nothing further of it. Greg put the car in neutral on the way back down the hill to conserve gas, but there was a definite question mark over whether we would make it to a town or not. Luckily, with no help from the locals (who when asked where the nearest gas station was only replied with a barely understandable grunt of 'movin, movin' - thanks heaps, pricks), we spotted a town off the highway, which turned out to be the mysterious Meadows of Dan.

Meadows of Dan is essentially two gas stations and a general store. Confederate flags were for sale, which I suppose is nothing out of the ordinary in the south, but that wasn't what struck me. It was the people. They were just...plain...creepy. It was the Children of the Corn all grown up. Me and my friends were looked upon with unguarded hostility. Bikers orbited the gas station as if on patrol - the message was unmistakably, 'Get the hell out'. Men wore leather tassled flares and carried skeletons on the back of their bikes, the women were plump and unseemly. There appeared to be an unnatural obsession with pumpkins. So we got our gas and got out, but not before taking a few happy snaps in front of the street sign.



On my last day in Blacksburg I was smart enough to burn my toes on a moped. I had been riding around town, and in my efforts to get the stand down (in thongs of course) put my feet right against the exhaust pipe. It was quite hot. For the next couple of weeks I had to change the bandage everyday due to blistering. Oh well, it will be a cool battle scar.

One of the things I noticed in Blacksburg, and in America in general, is the wonderful capacity of people in this country to interact with complete strangers. People talk to one another on the street, in bars, in queues, in a way that makes Australians look like cold pricks. But lets face it, we are. We hate each other. We view other people as obstacles between us and getting our groceries, or beer, not potential friends or someone to talk to to kill time. Its almost like we don't give a shit about anyone unless we already know them. Australia, the indifferent country. When I went to the opening session of The Dark Knight, there was 45 mins to kill after we got out seats before the movie started, so a cinema wide inpromptu game of charades started. This would never happen in Australia. 'What? Interact with strangers when I'm not pissed, yeah right mate'. There was a particularly amusing moment when a blonde girl got up to mime a movie title. The first yell out from the crowd was 'legally blonde', then 'Debbie Does Dallas'. It was a rather raucus affair. There were these total frat dudes sitting behind us who were the source of much beautifully crude humour. One guy got up for his turn and they called out, 'You're a faggot!', 'Could your hair be any longer?', and other such well though out insults. It was entertaining. The movie of course was pretty good also.

Of rooftop parties and Meadows of Dan

20/7/08 - Blacksburg, Virginia

Arriving in New York was a trip. Upon touchdown, the woman next to me burst into tears - she had just called home, only to find out that her dog had died while she had been away. We had to circle the airport for a while due to a nearby thunder storm, and the descent was quite bumpy. After collecting my bags, I caught a taxi, whose driver had no idea of where he was going. I had to direct him by looking at the GPS display in the back, which was a comical process to say the least. Anyhow, I managed to make it to my friend Heidi's apartment (after having already walked past it the first time).

The first thing I did in the daylight was to go an see Sonic Youth play in Battery Park. They put on a great show, but it was almost as interesting to engage in a bit of people watching - some hipsters are absolutely ridiculous creatures, so far have they disappeared up their own arses. A group of people sat with their back to the opening band, playing cards and checking to see if anybody was noticing how detached and cool they were. I wanted to slap them on the face. I saw many other absurd displays of self-indulgent look-at-me playacting, such as two guys playing dominoes in a Williamsburg bar - and we're not talking about your afternoon pub here, this was a full of life and action/loud music bar. Wankers.

I won't lie though, Williamsburg is awesome. There is always something going on in the park along Bedford avenue, whether it be soccer, sunbaking or just plain old fashioned loitering. Yeah everybody thinks they are pretty cool, but some of them probably have just reason to think so - there is some interesting stuff going on. Staying with Heidi meant that I was able to meet a lot of people who were doing things around the area. It is always cooler to get to know the locals and participate in everyday life than walk around as a tourist. On the night of the 4th of July, we went to a party on the rooftop of an apartment block where one of Heidi's friends lives - it was pretty crazy, fireworks were going off on the roof as well as over East River. Some crazy English novelist started talking to us, first inquiring as to whether or not we knew the owner of the umbrealla he was holding, before proceeding to educate us on the difference in meaning between the words 'shit' and 'shite'.

''Shit', you see, comes from the German 'Sheizer', whereas 'Shite' is more Irish in origin. They actually have different applications. English people don't say shit as much, for it has more serious connotations'...then one of our friends interjects, asking, 'but they both refer to stuff that comes out of your ass right?'. 'Well, yes, I suppose so' the umbrealla bearing novelist had to concede. He later tried to convince me that I should go to Burning Man festival, which he was most adamant about.

From there we went to some bar, which was where I saw the wankers playing dominoes. I spent a lot of my time in NY in bars to be honest - it was too humid to walk around all day.

To be continued.

Be sure to wear a flower in your hair...and carry a big stick

1/7/08 - University of California - Berkeley Campus

The thing about America is that it's really fucked up. But it is also amazing. It is full of vagrants and miscreants and strange possessed characters. A street flooded with crack addicts and alcoholics is not considered abnormal. I would love to know the story behind the bloodshot eyes and withered faces - many of these guys look like extras from a zombie flick. In my brilliance, I managed to book a hostel in the middle of the Tenderloin, which as I found out on my arrival, is a big mistake, for it is basically skid row. As I walked with my heavy and awkward bags up uncompromising hills, I could see poverty and tragedy in every badly lit alley and street. This is a part of the city that has been taken over by those who are truly beat and despairing. As I walked up one street I saw a drunken homeless man urinate on a car - welcome to San Francisco, I thought.

Fortunately, I had another hostel booked for the next three nights, and I have moved onto the nautically-themed Pacific Tradewinds hostel, which is caught between the financial district, Chinatown and North Beach. Staying at this little backpacker place, at the top of 3 flights of stairs which it shares with the Chinese restaurant next door, has been a truly bizarre experience. It is full of fascinating, and sometimes saddening stories. One girl, Veronica, is supposed to be getting married in 3 days, but she has fled to San Francisco. She has only just turned 18, and why on earth she would be wanting to get married at that age is incomprehensible to me, especially when her boyfriend dropped out of high school, is unemployed and is getting his income through what she referred to as 'other means'. From Arizona, she bears an uncanny resemblance to the classic archetype of the San Francisco runaway. 41 years ago, during the Summer of Love, there were 70,000 like her, most of whom were also on the run from something, and all of which had the own complicated past. Somehow, Veronica has managed to get herself into an extremely messy situation before she has even started university. Her family is trying to convince her to come home, but I don't think she has any intention of satisfying them.

Another girl has dropped out of college in North Carolina to pursue acting in California, to the horror of her parents. She seems passionate about what she is doing, but there also appears to be a lot of poorly hid insecurities under the surface, as if there were more to her story that she isn't telling.

Barry, a South African from Perth, works for his board at the hostel and hasn't been home in almost two years. He is escaping from what he described as a 'not happy time' back in Australia. Everyone here seems to be on the run from something, or on some sort of spiritual quest. Many at the hostel are dabbling in various forms of yoga or other eastern practices, which is hardly unusual given San Francisco's history of spiritual experimentation, dating beyond the beats and the hippies, who held as holy texts the I-Ching and Bhagavad Gita. The sad thing is, putting miles between themselves and their problems is not going to help them in the long run. Eventually these tortured souls of North Beach are going to have to deal with the shadows that follow them around, shackled to them like stones. The boys and girls of America are truly lost.

3/7/08 - Denver Airport

FYI - The Department of Homeland Security just raised the threat level to orange. Also, this airport is freaking huge.

Yesterday I walked around the Haight, which is full of dirty hippies who have absolutely nothing to offer. Ken Kesey would be rolling in his grave, for these people have no interesting ideas about life or how to change the world or their own consciousness - they spend too much time practically comatose. They have totally missed the point of the whole counterculture movement, while they sleep in its cradle, defiling it with their presence. Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park was awash with pot smokers, who are all trying to push their sub-standard green. Presumably the San Francisco Police Department must have more pressing concerns than worrying about a bunch of stoners.

I took a walk up Buena Vista Park, which was absolutely worth the climb - with the fog rolling in across the bay the view was magnificent. The most interesting thing about the Haight Ashbury, though, is being able to catch a glimpse, through recreating secondary memories, of what it was like 42 years ago. Aside from that, there isn't really much to differentiate it from any other strip of vintage clothes stores and smoke shops.

After surveying the out there weirdness of San Francisco, it seems to me that America is constantly in a state of civil war. The crazy, earnest left fight for survival against the equally demented and frighteningly sincere religious right, and in between there are a few thoroughly petrified people caught in the middle. Everything is taken so seriously here.

Looking around the airport, people are all going to so many different places - Topeka, Louisville, New York. There is such an energy about America, fueled by its bewilderingly massive infrastructure and the sense that everything is always moving.

Hawaii - Where Else?

To Be Continued...

Who Needs Direction Anyway?

Its not easy being a generation x caricature in a generation y world. Everybody seems to have ambitions and plans and the drive to make them a reality. Whatever happened to good old identity crises and plain idleness? I keep thinking that I am supposed to have some idea of what to do and how to do it, but the fact remains that I just don't have a lot of drive. My only goal is to get to New York sometime in the next two years and to stay there for as long as possible. The only thing pushing me is wanderlust and a certain desire to avoid making 'important' life decisions. The last 3 months I have been freaking out about what I am supposed to do with my life, and the only thing that was keeping me from a complete psychological melt-down was the fact that I watched all ten seasons of Friends (in a period of time so brief that I am to ashamed to mention it).

Basically, I have decided to not worry about the grand scheme of things right now, because that was what was leading me into a crippling period of indecision. Instead, I have determined to get a 'McJob', get some money, and in the words of The Animals, 'get out of this place'. Far out, I'm only 23, aren't I allowed a few years in the wilderness? The world needs slackers to make everyone else feel better about themselves anyhow - its pschologically important to feel superior to at least someone (generally this has not been my problem, but I'm happy to help other people out).

Anyway,

Until Next Time.

Whatever happened to...

I may be functionally unemployed, underachieved and overly obsessed with triviality, but I still feel that I may have something - or even many things - interesting to say. So here begins the start of an experiment that is likely to go largely unnoticed.

Choosing A Writing Name

I suppose I could have adopted a pseudonym, but lets face it, I'm not sure if I possess the wisdom and discernment to invent one that does not completely blow - that being said, I'm sure I will adopt one at some stage in the future. I've determined to go with T.R. Bradbury - there may not be much substance behind the pretentiousness of the initialled byline, but I feel it gives more credibility than merely using 'Tom Bradbury'. Besides, it may kid people into thinking I actually have some degree of authority to write what I write.