connecting*the*dots

North Carolina was, well… interesting to say the least.

My brother moved from Greensboro to a small rural town 45 minutes outside of the city, where the entire population lives off of one textile factory. God forbid it closes down; the town would disappear. After a few days of playing ball and watching baseball on the tube, we were finally introduced to some NC culture.

On a mild afternoon, we hiked to the top of a rocky overhang in a nearby state park — a good mile straight up steep rock strewn steps. I huffed and puffed like a smoker on a treadmill, but it was well worth it, as the view from the summit was amazing. Sitting on a rock, with my legs draping over a 1,000ft drop, looking out over Carolina, watching hawk after hawk glide by, I was moved to write some post-breakup poetry.

Stop laughing.

So, after pulling myself out of Nirvana, we made our way down the mountain and back to civilization to check out… an Arena Football League game.

Those guys are terrible — the best they could muster was a decent spiral. We sat on the equivalent of the 50-yard line — the 25(?) — with 300 other people, watching drunken fans, one after the other, chanting and screaming like idiots for the Prowlers to score.

It felt like a tailgate warm-up for NASCAR.

Following the game, we continued the journey of the stereotype and headed out to a country bar — in the middle of nowhere — to watch my brother’s girlfriend perform in her cover band. Now, don’t get me wrong, I had a great time watching her sing (she’s got a mad set of lungs), but the bar they played was too funny. As my friend Darren put it:

I’m embarrassed to be white.

I practically rolled on the ground laughing as people line danced to a cover of Montel Jordan’s, This Is How We Do It. Darren then compared the festivities to a wacky Bar Mitzvah, noting that no one in the joint would get that reference.

As the night rolled on, Brooklyn seemed like a distant planet; I caught an 85 year old couple dirty dancing, a set of middle aged people humping each other in a group and one young, attractive woman dancing a jig, alone, fending off every approaching male in sight.

Baseball caps weren’t allowed; cowboy hats were.

We were in the inner sanctum; I was truly amazed that they let us live after witnessing their ritual behavior.

So now I’m back and New York City doesn’t seem quite as crazy anymore.