xtcian

9/13/02 I have to say,

9/13/02

I have to say, today was damn near a perfect day, marred only by the absence of my beloved Tessa. In many respects, it was the perfect representation of the Chapel Hill lifestyle: we slept late, ate Mama Dips for lunch, went to Schoolkids to buy records, slacked at home watching a DVD, went to Pepper's for dinner, then Henderson Street for drinks, then to a party in Chatham County to top off the evening. One forgets the simple pleasures here, and it was very nice, even if it's the kind of life I have no interest in living again.

It felt incumbent on me to provide a good day for the crew Kim and Emily had never been to Chapel Hill before, and Rick's only experience was last year's nightmarish month of hellish Pink House production, so we even went to Surplus Sid's to buy outlandish nightwear. I fancied a blue Swiss Army coat, but Rick actually bought a red-and-white barbershop quartet sport coat that was a hit with the crowds downtown.

Pepper's Pizza was its usual zoo, complete with vaguely hardened-yet-sensitive rock chick waitresses, and the mercurial Moses, who looked happy to see me and then bitched at me in front of the restaurant. One thing was different: the art on the walls - usually moronic black-and-white photographs trying unsuccessfully to give the joint a classy ambiance was the work of David Rose, someone Rick and I immediately loved. His world seemed to be based on a robot called Señor Pantalones and his friend Sausage (who is a sausage). We figured that anyone whose major motifs were robots and sausages had to be supported at all costs, so Rick bought two of the paintings. Of course, this being Chapel Hill, the artist had forgotten to sign them, so I said "well, he's got to be around here somewhere" and we set off to find him.

Rick in front of David's work at Pepper's Pizza

He lives in a backwoods house on Old Pittsboro Road, a shy 28-year-old (I'd guess) guy with his pretty, gregarious wife, watching old movies on a 1967 TV set. He seemed psyched to see us, and signed the paintings with aplomb. Afterwards, we felt damned good; this was money going to a great kid with a genuine talent, and he was going to use the $50 to pay the water bill. "It's not like you're giving money to Julian Schnabel so you can be part of the finger that gets stuck up his ass for a prostate check," Rick said, and you had to agree.

Henderson Street Bar was fun for a few minutes, but if you're not drinking, Chapel Hill bars can seem about as much fun as trivet factory. The guys we met mostly friends of Liz – are awesome folks, and genuinely good writers on our email group. They were, however, identically dressed in blue Oxfords and dark pants, lending a certain surreal quality to the proceedings. The whole event harkened back to the "Robert Frost Tragedy" sequence of the movie, which has newfound meaning for Kim, who drank with them firsthand. Speaking of which, I bought a shot of Rumplemintz for Emily, put it down in front of her, and left the bar without a word. I hope my good intentions were understood.

This being a game weekend, a huge game weekend at that, the sorority forces were out in full peacock feather tonight; painted blondes in the hundreds lined the streets in gaggles and droves, all meeting their flock at various bars to down Sex On the Beach shots with willing fratboys. Even a contingency from the University of Texas was around, hoping to score with some effusive Carolina chicks. The pheremone levels were so high as to be almost visible; estrogen and progesterone ran in rivers down Franklin Street. It was so intense that I made Chip stop the car so that Rick and I could get our picture with a particularly ebullient threesome. Again, I hope my good intentions were understood.

Rick and me between three Carolina girls who wished us "an awesome weekend"