Trey Pound: Uncensored

The Dying Art of Common Sense

2010-12-05T19:39:00.000-05:00

As I walked into the gas station, I saw a young man peering at the instructions on the pump with a blank expression as he repeatedly poked the same button. Each jab at the panel produced a loud beep, but no actual gasoline. Finally he gave up and headed into the station with a look of frustrated dejection. The attendant inside repeated the instructions, which sounded pretty basic to me: “Press the credit button; insert your card; and then enter your billing zip code.” Yet after hearing the instructions (twice) the customer went back outside and still couldn’t gas up his Honda. As the attendant headed outside to help the clueless customer, I heard him mutter under his breath, “I coulda sworn they told me when I was a kid that reading is FUNdamental…” After about three seconds, the attendant was coming back into the store shaking his head. He looked at me and said, “You should write something about that: the dying art of common sense.” Okay, Abdullah. Here you go.

I laughed off the comment at first, but the phrase stuck in my head the rest of the day. The eloquence of it belied a more glaring truth: common sense really is a dying art. We’ve become a society that needs a warning on coffee cups that the contents may be hot. I certainly hope the contents are hot--that’s kind of what I’m paying for.

My favorite warning was on a box containing a new toaster. In three languages it warned that the toaster inside was not intended for use in or under water. Which is a shame, since I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in the midst of a bath and had a sudden craving for some fresh, crisp toast.

I think part of the decline in common sense is the increase in lawsuits. Corporations became afraid of finding themselves on the receiving end of class action lawsuits, so they began catering to the consumer public as if they were dealing with especially dim-witted five-year olds. There’s a difference between warning someone about an unknown danger, and pointing out what should be common damn sense. As a result, we’ve lost our ability to think for ourselves.

The only way to save the dying art of common sense is to think for ourselves. Consider the consequences of your actions, and respond accordingly. Take the time to read the instructions fully before deciding you’re smarter than the engineers and professionals that designed whatever IKEA piece of crap you’re putting together. And for crying out loud, use your turn signal—we’re not mind readers.

New "Ask Uncle Trey Pound" questions for November!

2010-11-01T05:44:00.000-04:00

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

My best friend is madly in love with a man that everyone is convinced is gay. We don’t have any hard proof (no pun intended) but he’s made some comments that struck us all as odd, plus there are all kinds of rumors about his late-night activities. Uncle Trey Pound, I don’t care one way or another who this guy is sleeping with, but I don’t want my friend to get hurt. What should I do?

Signed,

Friend of a Closet Case

Dear Friend:

Unless you’ve got solid evidence you need to keep your mouth shut. It’s all fine to have your friend’s back, but if you’re just going on rumor and speculation, you run the risk of starting something over nothing. It’s possible that her boyfriend is just the highly sensitive type who’s very in touch with his feminine side. Or he could be a flaming queen who’s waiting for just the right time to come out of the proverbial closet. Either way, it’s really none of your business. If you want to be a good friend, just be prepared to be supportive, no matter how this shakes out.

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

I just found out that my best friend has been keeping a secret from me. It was nothing to do with me—it’s about a secret relationship she’s been having for several months. At first it didn’t bother me much that she didn’t tell me, but after I thought it over all I could think about is why she wouldn’t have told me. I know it’s petty, but I tell her everything. I share things with her that no one else knows, and I thought our friendship was at a place where we could tell each other anything. Now I find out that apparently she doesn’t trust me enough to tell me things. I find myself questioning our friendship and wondering if we’re really friends at all. What should I do?

Signed,

Out in the Cold

Dear Cold:

Before you take anything too personally, keep in mind that different friends play different roles in our lives. Sometimes you feel more comfortable spilling embarrassing secrets to one particular friend. It doesn’t mean you love the rest of your friends any less. Whatever her reason, you have to respect the fact that it’s her life and her decision who she turns to for help with that life. If she’s been open and honest with you in all over regards (as far as you know) then there’s no reason to doubt the quality of your friendship. Think of it this way: yeah you share your problems with her, but does she know every aspect of your life? I highly doubt it. Just continue to be a good friend to her, because that’s really all you can do anyway.

It Gets Better

2010-10-16T01:04:00.005-04:00

Normally I try to keep my personal life (at least the heavy stuff) out of my column. But the recent spate of suicides and bullying incidents compels me to tell a rather personal story in an effort to change the way people think.

While my childhood was a good one, it wasn’t always an easy one. I wasn’t the most masculine kid, and being the son of a super-macho Army officer made me feel even more awkward. As is the case with bullies everywhere, there were always kids that could sniff out my insecurities and I got bullied--a lot. Somewhere out there, there’s a kid like the one I used to be: scared, feeling isolated and alone, and more than a little confused. I was one of those kids afraid I’d never find my place in this world, but things eventually got better. I eventually realized that I, too, am a child of God and that I deserve respect and happiness. When I look back at that difficult time, that’s what I want for others going through it too: to realize their own worth.

Don’t make a permanent decision based on temporary pain. Give yourself time to become the person you were meant to be; give the world time to understand just what an incredible person you are. But most important is staying true to who you are. No one has the right to make you feel like a lesser person because of superficial characteristics. And they can only do that when you give them permission to make you feel bad about who you are.

To all the geeks, outcasts, nerds, fems, and outsiders: hold your head high, stay strong, and remember that it gets better.

p.s., click on the title of this blog post to be connected to The Trevor Project, a suicide prevention site aimed at helping teens realize that it gets better.

au revoir...

2010-08-28T18:38:00.001-04:00

I’ve never been especially good at saying goodbyes. You would think I’d be better, having been raised an Army brat. I spent most of my childhood being the New Kid in one school or other, and that meant saying goodbye to the kids at the previous school. So you would think that by this stage of my life I’d have it down to a science.

Still, I found myself struggling when it came time to say goodbye to JT. We met about almost a year and a half ago when a friend brought her to my birthday dinner at Chico’s. In her I immediately found a kindred spirit: we laughed at the same jokes, finished our sentences the same way, even sharing certain “beverage preferences.”

When I was hired on the front desk of the hotel where she was front office manager, the bond only grew stronger as we spent most of our time on the clock together. Eventually, a bunch of us started spending our free time together, and our status as mutual besties was sealed.

Recently JT reconnected with someone from her past, and she decided to move to Florida to be with him. As happy as I am for her, I’m going to miss the shit out of her. I know that I’ll get to see her again (I’m planning on flying down in October for her birthday), but it still sucks knowing she’s not on the other side of town. It was a comfort knowing that I could stop by her job and say hey, or we could meet up after work for a Sea Of Sangria at Chico’s.

Since she left Greenville early this morning, she stopped by the hotel last night to say goodbye to me. As I hugged her, I could feel the telltale lump forming in my throat. My eyes started to prickle, and I knew I was seconds away from a good healthy, heart-broken cry. But we’d promised each other “no tears” so I had to man up and dig my nails into the palms of my hands. I was actually doing okay at keeping the tears at bay until we walked away from each other. I made the crucial error of looking back over my shoulder in time to see JT walking out the door. The sight of her red curls bouncing behind her as she walked out was just too much. I choked out something about “needing a minute” to my coworker, and found a quiet corner to cry into.

Eventually I got myself under control, but it all reminded me of when I was a kid moving around all the time. All over again, I felt myself being separated from something familiar and it hurt like hell. There are two comforts that I have that I didn’t when I was a kid. For one thing, we didn’t have Facebook back then. Thanks to the wonders of the interweb, I can keep up with her in a way that I never could with my childhood friends. Second, I’ll be seeing her again in less than two months. I think I can manage without her physical presence for that long. I just don’t want to have to.

The Dying Art of Common Sense

2010-07-29T10:43:00.001-04:00

I laughed off the comment at first, but the phrase stuck in my head the rest of the day. The eloquence of it belied a more glaring truth: common sense really is a dying art. We’ve become a society that needs a warning on coffee cups that the contents may be hot. Well, let’s hope the contents are hot--that’s kind of what I’m paying for.

The only way to save the dying art of common sense is to think for yourself. Consider the consequences of your actions, and respond accordingly. Take the time to read the instructions fully before deciding you’re smarter than the engineers and professionals that designed whatever IKEA piece of crap you’re putting together. And for Godsake, use your turn signal—we’re not mind readers.

Project Exodus

2010-07-19T20:24:00.004-04:00

Sometimes the clues are all around you, all you have to do is act on them. All day, I’ve been feeling especially optimistic. Maybe the glowing mood had to do with money actually being in my pocket, or maybe it was due to the gorgeous weather. No matter the inspiration, I was in fine spirits as I walked through downtown Greenville.

I was sitting in Sup Dogs (one of my favorite places to eat and chill), idly screwing around online, when the manager Derek came up to speak to me. Last week, he’d come in to the restaurant where I work on a date and sat in my section. The meal went fine and he was very complimentary about my server skills. This afternoon, he mentioned again how good a server he’d found me to be. As if he’d been reading my mind, he said that I should consider moving to a larger city to pursue the money someone with my personality could make. While I doubt I’d ever relocate to follow a food service job (not really my passion, ya dig?) the idea of moving to pursue my writing career has been haunting my mind a lot lately. Every once in a while I’ll casually look into the idea—researching job opportunities, checking out public transportation, etc.—then get caught up in living my life and forget about it for a while.

But this time it feels different. I was skyping with a friend who lives in Durham the other night and the subject came up. Every time Mark says something about me moving to the Raleigh/Durham area, it’s like the seed grows just a little bit larger in my mind. I’ve talked it over with him before, not to mention with my best friend from high school. Knowing I’d be living in close proximity to Sheon and Mark would give me something of an advantage. I’d have friends already in place, so while I may be the New Kid in Town, I doubt I’d be alone and lonely.

It seems a bit ironic to speak of safety nets, since that’s why I moved back to Greenville in the first place. I was living in Florida, and having a truly rough time of things. So I packed my proverbial bags and headed home to Carolina. But I’ve allowed that safety net to engulf me, and I’ve become stuck.

Today was the day I became unstuck. After talking to Derek (and killing 1½ Western Dogs, fries, and a couple of dollar beers) I mulled over the idea of leaving this place that’s become my home. I looked around 5^th Street, wondering what it would be like to call another place home. I let my fingers trace over the brick façade of 5^th Street Annex and questioned whether I could say goodbye to everything I’ve known for the past six years. As I wiped the slight traces of grit off my fingers, the answer came to me in the form of the bumper sticker on a passing car: “Yes We Can!” Whoa.

I spent a couple of hours in the library, writing and using the city’s free wifi. When I realized how late it had gotten, I headed through the lobby to wait for the bus. I figured I had a few minutes, so I just lingered in the AC and read the public announcements board in the lobby. It was littered with ads for pitbull puppies, and translation services. Then, in a corner of the board I saw it. It was plain, almost covered by the plastic cover of the thermostat someone had carelessly left open. When I read the words across the top I flinched as if I’d been shocked by a mild electrical charge. My face felt hot and the skin on the back of my neck prickled with awareness. Okay, Lord, I get it. Message received. Ten-four, Lord.

So, what you’re reading now represents a new beginning. This blog represents the genesis of Project Exodus. I’m giving myself six months to save money, plan, and eventually move to Raleigh. Hell, maybe I’ll consider a different city altogether. All I do know is that this is the only life we get, and if I’m going to advise people to follow their passions, I’d better be doing it myself.

An Open Letter to Freshmen: Don't Forget to Live.

2010-07-13T21:53:00.001-04:00

Usually when I write a column, I approach it with a mission: to make a point. There’s always one central message to my columns that I want to convey with each word. This message is for the incoming freshman, not to mention a reminder to those returning students at America’s institutions of higher learning. It sounds simple, but don’t forget to live.

While this is an undeniably significant time in your life, don’t let yourself become overwhelmed by the seriousness of it all. Don’t forget to take time to find joy--make the time for joy. Whether it’s intramural athletics, the theater department, or volunteering with kids, find something that makes you happy. One of the worst feelings is to come to the end of an experience only to look back and realize there’s so much more you could have gotten out of it.

Just as important as the activities are the friends you’ll make during this time of your life. Lifelong friends, romantic partners—you never know who will play which role until you take a chance and get to know others. More importantly, you have to give them a chance to get to know you. Share your gifts and your personality because you’ve got a role to play in their lives too.

So go to football games, go to that party next door, ask out the cute redhead in your Econ class that keeps making eyes at you. But whatever you do, don’t forget to live.

Why I'm My Own Biggest Fan

2010-07-04T20:36:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend who’d looked through the list of “fans” of the Ask Uncle Trey Pound column on the Facebook fan page. After noticing that my own profile picture was among the fans, he joked with me, “I see as usual you’re your own biggest fan!” I laughed along, until I had some time to think about it. I came to the realization that, indeed, I am my own biggest fan. And I can’t imagine life any other way.

My parents raised me to believe in myself and in my abilities. And what is a fan other than someone who believes in those things? So, yes, I am my own biggest fan, and I think everyone else should be as well. Think how many conflicts would resolve themselves if people just had the courage to cheer for themselves. If self-esteem issues weren’t a consideration, how much healthier would the collective populace be?

I was once described as being “stuck on” myself, which I took to mean I was overly impressed with myself. Shouldn’t we all be impressed with ourselves? If nothing else, we’ve survived another year/month/day on this planet, and that’s no easy feat. Just think of the mechanics that go into keeping the human body alive in the course of a day. It’s a thing of wonder, and worthy of admiration.

So, if you’re reading these words, consider this your official permission to love yourself. I give you absolute permission to acknowledge your faults and love your strengths. I am giving you the “okay” to fall in love with the person you are and the person you can become. Just don’t talk to yourself. That shit’s nuts.

New "Ask Uncle Trey Pound" questions!

2010-06-22T17:23:00.004-04:00

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

My good friend has a habit that is none-too-endearing. She has the habit of, while talking to someone, pulling out her phone and sending or responding to texts. I get that some things can’t wait, but I’m getting really tired of talking to the top of her head all the time. How can I remind her that I’m standing right in front of her?

Signed,

Put On Hold

Dear On-Hold:

Increases in technology (as well as our dependence on it) mean that more and more people are showing an appalling lack of manners when it comes to social interactions. While it seems impossible to change how everyone with a cell phone behaves, you can at least offer your friend some clues that she’s being rude. Chances are she’s not even aware of how her actions are coming across. I’d suggest a casual approach: when she whips out her phone to check her texts, try sending her a text that reads, “top of ur head is nice, but id rather c ur face.” That should get her attention… at least until the next text comes through on her phone.

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

A friend of mine recently came out to his parents. Unfortunately they didn’t react quite as well as he’d have liked. They basically cut him off and refuse to speak to him or even say his name. While he’s glad to no longer be “living a lie,” he’s heart-broken that two of the most important people in his life won’t speak to him. I’m trying to be a supportive friend, but I have no idea of what to tell him. A little help here, Uncle Trey Pound?

Signed,

Straight Ally

Dear Ally:

Tell your friend that there’s good news: he’s already done the hard part by coming out. That first baby-step out of the closet can be the most difficult one to take. So he should be proud of himself for being honest with himself and with the world. As for your friend’s parents, try looking at things from their point of view for a moment. Even if they had some clue as to your boy’s true orientation, they still have to deal with a hard truth. They no longer have the luxury of ignorance and denial. Now that they know their idea of their little boy isn’t an accurate one, they have to sort of mourn it. They’re going to have to let go of their preconceived ideas of who their son will be and what his life will look like. And the hard truth is that they may never get to that point. There may never come a time when they embrace their son openly and without reservation. But tell him not to let that stop him. While it might be hard to believe, there’s a whole world out there waiting to accept him for who he is. And you’re being a good friend to him. Good luck to the both of you.

Last Call with Uncle Trey Pound

2010-06-22T17:23:00.001-04:00

There’s a fine line between a hobby and a habit. In the case of drinking, that line is usually the one a cop asks you walk to prove your sobriety. Thankfully, that’s never been an issue for me, but recent events have caused me to rethink a major part of my life. In April, I turned 33 and I began planning the birthday celebrations like any other year. Little did I know that this year would mark a turning point in my drinking career.

Everything was going fine at first—if you can call five shots of Jager in twenty minutes “fine.” Before long I was having difficulty navigating the trip to the bathroom, and my words seemed to have a lot of trouble coming out of my mouth in an understandable fashion. After copious amounts of alcohol, we made our move from Chico’s to 5^th Street Distillery. About that time that things began to get a little…..hazy. And by “hazy,” I mean strange drinks I hadn’t ordered kept appearing in my hand. Thinking only of the sober children in China, I made every effort to finish each drink. Finally, I got to a point where the only acceptable answer to the question “Hey Trey Pound! Want another shot??” was “Hell no.”

I clearly remember the exact moment when things took a turn. My stomach began to make this odd, threatening gurgle, and I knew that I would very soon be returning all that alcohol to the bar. I made a half-assed attempt to stem the flow of vomit, but when Jager, vodka, beer, and something that tastes like Mike’s Hard Lemonade are all determined to exit at once, there’s no stopping it. I’m told that I managed to limit my vomit to my friend’s boots, but then he knew what he was getting into when he kept handing me drinks.

I finally emptied the tank and started trying to figure out what the next plan should be. There’s the old Puke-n-Rally: you get it out of your system, then you’re back for more. But at the (newly minted) age of 33, I had a major revelation. As I flicked a chunk of vomit from my cheek, it occurred to me that I’ve become That Guy. There I was, belligerently drunk, surrounded by people who were fetuses when I drank my first sip of beer. Talk about depressing.

Thankfully, I was surrounded by friends who’d been there before and knew how to handle the situation. They quickly moved me away from the crime scene—I was coherent enough to respond, “Hell if I know…” when one of the bouncers asked me who puked on the deck. I managed to make it out of there without getting caught/embarrassed/photographed, but the lesson was learned.

I could pontificate on how moderation is the key to safe enjoyment; I could also mention the healthy side effects that come from cutting back on one’s drinking. But anyone who knows me knows what a load of bull that would be. Instead I’ll say this: if you happen to encounter me and I’m not my usual ebullient, out-going (possibly naked) self, I’m probably not depressed or suicidal. I’m probably just sober. This might take some getting used to.

The Time God Showed Up at My High School Reunion

2010-06-20T17:29:00.001-04:00

There’s one thing that can always be said about the North Pitt High Panthers: we sure know how to throw a memorable reunion. Not twenty minutes into last night’s Panther Palooza multi-class reunion, a little girl almost drowned in the pool of the hotel. Apparently there was a group of teenaged girls having a pool party, and one of them slipped beneath the water on the deep end and went unnoticed. At the same time, a group of Spaniards were in their room on the fourth floor and one of them looked out the window and noticed the girl, lifeless, at the bottom of the pool. The men raced down to the first floor, one of them dove in, and together they pulled her out of the pool.

It was about that time that the attendees of the reunion noticed the commotion and some with medical training ran to help. I (not having had any significant medical training) went out to be nosy. It was a horrifying scene: the little girl was laid out on the concrete, still as a stone, with gray lips and eyes that looked permanently closed. While the men who’d pulled her out of the pool tirelessly performed CPR, all I could do was stand there and pray. So pray I did. I prayed with a fervor I’ve never known before. I’m not a particularly religious person, but I felt a distinct calm settle over me as I prayed. I felt a certainty that she was going to be okay. After about ten minutes of rescue breathing and chest compressions, the girl began to spit up copious amounts of water. The volume of water that came out of that little body was amazing. It was also reassuring. About the time the ambulance and rescue crew arrived on the scene she began to respond and breath on her own. I’ve never felt so relieved in all my life.

After, while we waited in line at the bar (my nerves were shot to shit), we all agreed that the little girl’s survival was a result of God moving in her life. And that’s the story of the time God showed up at my high school reunion.

The Undeniable Allure of the Unattainable

2010-06-16T19:48:00.001-04:00

There’s a certain appeal I’ve always associated with the unattainable. I hardly think I’m alone in this—nothing makes an object more desirable than one’s absolute inability to have that object.

In no circumstance is this more pronounced than unrequited love. No man is as attractive as the one you can’t have, and no woman is as hot as the one that’s way out of your league. An unrequited crush is the seventh level of Hell.

So what do you? Do you pine endlessly over the one you can’t have? Or do you make up your mind to move on and cut off the feelings like a gangrenous limb? I guess the answer is as unique as each person who experiences the dilemma. For some the only reasonable solution is to man up and make a move. For others, the best thing to do is move on. Figuring out which answer best fits your situation is the hard part.

The reason I’m thinking so much about unrequited crushes is that I’m feeling one now. I know he’ll never be mine, and that makes it all the more difficult to be around him. His smile is a bittersweet thing: it changes my day for the better, but it breaks my heart because I know I’ll never be the cause of it. At least not in the way that I want to be.

So, as much as it sucks, I’m going to have to cut off the feelings. It’s not really who I am—I’ve always warn my feelings on both my sleeve and my face. But in this case, it’s better to keep the friend and ditch the feelings. The feelings would never amount to anything, but the friendship is something to treasure. I can feel it when I’m with him—he’s going to play an important role in my life. I would hate to ruin that with my silly crush. The best thing to do is let go….how exactly does that happen again?

The N-Word

2010-05-27T11:05:00.005-04:00

Recently, a “friend’s” Facebook page posted a status update including the N-word. I, being the loud-mouthed smartass that I am, felt the need to post a response on her comment. Because of Facebook’s settings (even though I removed her from my friends) I still got updates when others commented on her wall post. I was, frankly, depressed by the number of people who defended her use of the word. One person even responded, “…racism and segregation are over…” and suggested I just needed to get over it.

As I made my way home, I stewed over the situation and decided to break down all the arguments so that people will, hopefully understand why the N-word pisses me off so much.

1.) "It's just a word."--True, it is just a word, but words have power. The things that we say have an effect on others, and if you're going to put words like that out there then you need to be ready for the reaction you may receive.

2.) It's in rap song"/"People say it all the time."--True. The word is featured prominently in rap songs, and quite a few people use the word in everyday conversation. That doesn't make it any more right. People have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge before, but does that mean I'm lining up to take the plunge? Nope. Which brings me to my next point...

3.) "Black people use it."--True. Nevermind the arguments about taking back the word or taking the sting out of it by using it liberally. That's another coluimn. My answer to this argument goes back to response #2: just because someone else uses it doesn't make it okay for you to.

4.) "Racism isn't around any more, so it doesn't matter."--False. Let's not kid ourselves here. As long as there are human beings that judge others for superficial reasons, there will be racism and discrimination. While we can mandate people's behavior, there's nothing we can feasibly do to change the hearts and minds of others. At least not overnight.

5.) "Well, it doesn't bother me..."--I think it's awesome that you're so highly evolved and open-minded but you're not the only one who hears the things that you say. You don't know where I've been or what I've been called, so don't go throwing around loaded words and looking shocked that I'm pissed off.

Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, I feel much better. Thank you for listening to the ramblings of an angry Black man.

Friendship is like herpes...it's forever.

2010-05-22T13:31:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I wonder what people think of me. Don’t get me wrong—I long ago stopped giving a damn about people’s opinion, I’m just curious about the impression that I leave with others. I like to imagine myself an outgoing, passionate, funny person, but I know that others might interpret those qualities as being loud, pushy, and obnoxious. My sensitivity may come across as moodiness and my…. oh, let’s just call me a whack-job and be done with it.

But my point is this: no matter what my flaws, I’ve managed to surround myself with a group of friends gracious enough to overlook them. They welcome my contributions and forgive my transgressions. Their only request of me is that I be the best and happiest version of myself possible. And in return, I only have to offer the same consideration. In order to have a friend, I have to be a friend. I have to be just as slow to anger, and just as quick to forgive. Fortunately I’ve had good examples to follow.

There’s my friend, Ashley, who used her connections (not to mention talking a big game about me) to get me a job when things were looking a bit bleak on the employment front. There’s also Lauren, who realized I was having a bad (horrible) night at work and pulled me aside. She made me repeat some nonsense phrase until I started laughing and the proverbial clouds were broken. There are the friends that got me cleaned up and kept me from getting bounced when I threw up in a bar on my birthday. I should especially mention my friend John, who wound up with some of my dinner on his right boot. My bad. There are also the people who’ve gotten out of warm beds to come pick me up after I was “over-served” (yet again, at a bar) while downtown. Speaking of rides, I’ve been picked up from schools, jobs, gyms, detention centers (I’d rather not get into that one), and morning-after walks of shame. And each time, it was made perfectly clear that the friend was offering the service because we were friends, not because anything was expected in return.

The best thing I can do is be that kind of friend to others. I need to be just as generous with my time and talents. I need to be just as open with my own heart as my friends have been with theirs. I’ve been blessed with great friends, and the best way I can repay that is by being a great one myself.

Jessica's Daily Affirmations (click the title for the link)

2010-05-21T10:04:00.002-04:00

I ran across this online and had to share it. It just lifted my spirits so much, so here you are....

Trey Pound Looks at Life

2010-05-20T10:55:00.002-04:00

A friend once asked me about my luck. I kid about having bad luck, but the truth is, I’m one fortunate sum’bitch. I’ve never had any life-threatening illnesses that couldn’t be managed; I’ve managed to avoid major jail-time/sentences; I have a large network of friends and family that love me for me. All in all, life is pretty freaking good. And I think that’s in no small part due to the way I look at life. I’ve always believed that we get back what we put out into the universe. Not in a “karma” kinda way, this is a little different. Whatever Higher Power you believe in—God, Vishnu, She-ra—wants you to be happy. As such, your Higher Power stands ready to give you what you desire. So if you go into the world expecting to find misery and sorrow at every turn, guess what you’re going to encounter. However, if you approach life with an attitude of gratitude and consider yourself blessed and highly favored, then the blessings you expect will come your way. I’m not getting all hippy-dippy or Bible-thumpy here, I’m just stating my opinion. If you expect to go out and find misery, you’ll find it; if you go out expecting to find joy and happiness, you’ll find that, too. So be careful what you go looking for, because you might just get it.

A Trip Down Pot Lane

2010-05-19T21:29:00.002-04:00

I’ve always wondered about my fascination with marijuana. I never experimented in high school—both my parents taught at my school, so that was out of the question. In fact, I led a rather sheltered existence until college. And like people that go a little crazy in college, when I went, I went big.

My first time smoking weed was with my freshman year dorm-mate, “Greg.” “Greg” was from a town about an hour away and had led as sheltered an upbringing as my own. He’d bought a bag of weed from a cousin of his, and wanted to get high. However, like me, he’d never rolled a blunt/joint before, and didn’t know how to proceed. So we figured we’d both give it a shot (this was in the days before YouTube.com) and between his efforts and mine, we’d get high somehow. We managed to roll two of the sloppiest joints I’ve ever seen but the mission was ultimately accomplished.

I wasn’t sure what “high” felt like at first, but it didn’t take long to get the point. On a normal day, my mind is all over the place. Random thoughts (usually of a smartass nature) fire constantly and the periphery is filled with ideas and concepts for my writing. But that night in the dorm room, I felt myself completely focused for the first time in my life. My mind was absolutely and totally focused on….nothing at all. Had you been able to insert a microphone into my head that night, you’d have heard the sound of wind whistling across the deserted open plains, with the occasional cricket sounding off for good measure. And I loved it. I loved the quiet inside my head, and how little I really gave a shit at that moment.

And now, all these years later, it’s still the same. Every time I pack a bowl I still feel the same giddy feeling of Here it comes! as the flame approaches the green. As the bowl warms, and the green chars, then burns, then starts to create smoke, I pull at the pipe like a starved babe at the teat. As that funky smoke fills my lungs (smelling vaguely like a cross between socks and pine straw) I know I’m almost there. I’m only seconds away from feeling like my brain is trying to sneak out of the back of my head.

Okay, show of hands: who already figured out I was stoned as I wrote this?

Am I writing a book yet?

2010-05-16T16:42:00.003-04:00

It started with a quote I heard from Alice Walker when describing her artistic process for Urban Style (an entertainment program highlighting Black personalities), “If I write a page or two a day, then at the end of the year, I’ll have a book.” When I heard that, it hit me like a bolt of lightning—I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve wanted to be an author all my life, but I’ve allowed myself to become overwhelmed by the idea of writing a book. It just seemed like such a huge thing to write a book. So I allowed my insecurities to stop me from pursuing it. But seeing someone who’s managed the task successfully—not to mention repeatedly—break it down so simply put it into new perspective for me. I guess it’s similar to Rome not having been built in a day. Anything worth doing is worth taking your time and doing right. I’m out of clichés, so I hope my point has been made. If I just take this a page at a time, I can accomplish something really special.

The problem is, just what should I write? I still like the idea of a semi-autobiographical fictional spy novel called Just Smart Enough to be Dangerous, but lately it’s been suggested to me that my daily internet ramblings could be compiled in a coffee table book. The working title is Brain Sharts from Uncle Trey Pound but that’s open to negotiation. See, with my ADD-addled brain, I’ve got ideas firing with every waking moment. Sometimes I’ll have to text myself an idea just to make sure I’ll remember it later. I’ve also been known to email myself a phrase in the middle of the night because I got an idea that I knew I’d be able to use in my writing. I’ve considered overlapping Crash-style plotlines; I tossed around the concept of a Beverly Cleary-style coming-of-age novel; I’ve debated short stories versus a memoir. Then I ridiculed myself for thinking I had anything relevant or important enough to say to justify writing a memoir. Then I beat myself up for ridiculing myself. The shame-spiral ended in vodka, and let’s just leave it at that. That’s when the genius switch in my brain clicked on (I love it when that happens) and I realized that the best way to tell a story (which is the goal of any author) is to tell a story with which I’m familiar. So that means it’s going to involve some element of my own life. And since it’s going to involve my life, then it’s going to involve copious amounts of alcohol and sexual excess—but I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. In fact, I can recall several books I’ve read (and loved) that featured alcoholism and sexual depravity as key plot components. In retrospect, that may be why I enjoyed them, but that’s neither here nor there.

But the type of book I attempt (very important word that one, “attempt”) almost doesn’t matter. What matters more is embracing the adventure. Living isn’t just about living to see another day—though some beg to differ. I believe life is more about the adventures that make said life worth living. Speaking in clichés, life is defined by the moments that take your breath away. And the idea that I could write a book takes my breath away. The idea that I might put words on paper, and that someone else might read those words—on purpose—makes me slightly dizzy.

In Memory of Sgt. Neal

2010-05-10T21:34:00.001-04:00

There are certain people that come into our lives, and leave a definite impression. I’ve been blessed in that it’s a long list of people who’ve cared for me, believed in me, and gone out on the proverbial limb for me. One of those people was Sgt. Wiley T. Neal.

Sgt. Neal was larger than life before there really was a concept. He had a booming voice that could make you unconsciously clench, but could lower to the most confidential whisper when telling you he believed in you and everything you were capable of. He nit-picked every detail of our JROTC uniforms, but only because he believed we were capable of better.

Since Sgt. Neal and my father were both JROTC instructors at North Pitt High School, Sgt. Neal was more than a teacher—more even than a parent’s co-worker—he was like an uncle to me.

So when my mom called and told me that Sgt. Neal had gone on to answer the Great Roll Call in the Sky, I didn’t mourn the passing of a teacher. I didn’t even mourn the passing of a man who’d dedicated his entire adult life to service in one form or another. I mourned for one of my heroes.

See, heroes (in their truest forms) are rare. We tend to throw the word around to anyone that goes out of his/her way to help another. While it’s always admirable to be of service to our fellow humans, there’s something more required to earn the title of “Hero.” A real hero doesn’t act based on what he’s heard is right or wrong; a real hero acts based on what he knows is right. A real hero knows that the ones who need the help the most are the least likely to ask for it, but he stands ready to offer it anyway. By that standard (or by any other, for that matter) Sgt. Wiley T. Neal (US Army Retired) was a Hero. And he was one of my Heroes. And he will be missed.

Trey Pound tries salvia (click title for link)

2010-03-23T12:22:00.006-04:00

So in the interest of full disclosure, I decided to post of the video of me smoking salvia. I first need to mention that salvia (also known as Salvia Divinorum) is ain inhalable (legal) herb sold in many states, including North Carolina. I decided to exercise my right to legal experimentation, and try some. Big mistake. I'm not perma-fried or anything, I just wish I'd left that brightly colored corner of my mind alone. As you watch the video, you can see (according to someone who saw the video) my "soul flying out of [my] body." Trust me, it's just as unpleasant as it sounds. That's one of the reasons I'm posting this video in all its unedited glory. Far be it from to scare anyone straight (ha!) but I think if you're going to try something new, you should at least catch a glimpse of what you're going to be getting into.

Trey Pound tries salvia

2010-03-20T00:05:00.004-04:00

According to Wikipedia.com (that's where I get all my facts), salvia is defined as, "...a psychoactive plant which can induce dissociative effects..." In other words, it's a legal way to trip balls. So with that in mind (also remembering that salvia is easily purchased in stores in cities all across the country) I decided to see what the fuss was all about. I won't show the first of the two videos. Not because I'm especially humble (because that shit was funny), but because I need to edit it. If by some reason, I wind up getting in trouble for this video, there's no point in me dragging down my side-kicks in crime. The second video, the one I'm posting here, is the lesser of two evils. Enough to show you how far gone I was, but not quite the window-licking, helmet wearing half-with I was for a full five minutes. And now, on with the show...

You may be assuming from the David Hasselhoff-ishness of this video clip that I'll not be sampling any more salvia. That would be a correct assumption. I've been scared straight, at least as far as that shit goes. And remember kids: "There but for the grace of stupid, go I."

And now, a Very Special "Ask Uncle Trey Pound..."

2010-03-15T13:11:00.003-04:00

Mom always told me my mouth would get me in trouble one day. I figured I'd wind up getting my ass handed to me in a drunken bar fight with a Marine, but it was Twitter.com that was my undoing. One night killing time at work, I logged onto Twitter.com for some snarky commentary with my fellow tweeters. I posted some (pretty rude) comments about a large client of my employer...which said client later noticed and brought to the attention of my boss--who had no choice but to fire me. Looking back, it's clear that it's a mess entirely of my own making. I screwed up, and I got fired. Having said that, I should also mention: it really sucks. It doesn't just suck because of the sudden unemployment, either. Now, whenever someone asks me why I left my job, I have to give them an answer that involves me looking stupid. No matter how cleverly I may try to phrase it, what most people hear is "I'm a moron with poor judgement who shot his mouth off." And by "most people," I mean "potential new employers." With the stink of this embarrassment following me like a bad fart, I had to go back out into the job market after losing a job I loved. I should mention, this is an indictment of neither Twitter.com nor my former employer. I still use Twitter.com (though I have upped my privacty settings), and I still have great friends at my former place of employment. Leave it to me to ruin my dream job by being too outgoing. A few positives have come out this, however. I've learned how supportive my friends can be--I've never gotten more emails containing links to job openings. More importantly, I've learned the age-old lesson to watch my mouth. We live in an age where everyone has the ability to (essentially) self-publish. And I made the rookie mistake of not considering who might stumble across my rude comments. But I would be Uncle Trey Pound if I didn't use my embarrassment to benefit others. So consider the consequences of your words in general, online specifically. As a woman much wiser than me once said, "Never underestimate the power of the internet." Yours, Uncle Trey Pound

Baby Dreams and New Beginnings

2010-02-27T03:05:00.005-05:00

Last night I had an interesting dream: I was at a table, with my arms out-stretched in front of me. I was picking up a new-born baby, though how I knew he was a new-born is beyond me. For that matter, how I knew he was a he is also unkown to me. But somehow I knew the wiggling bundle of life was a boy, and I knew he was mine. In my dream I picked him up--careful to support his head--and held him close to me. I took in the cap of silky black hair that covered his head; I watched with fascination as his chubby cheeks tested their new muscles--lips pursing, brow furrowing. It seemed to me that I could smell him--that pure, innocent smell that only babies have--and my heart surged. Just as I was thinking of his name (something biblical was coming to me), I woke up, but I haven't been able to get him off my mind all day. Even as I watched South Central High's basketball team stomp all over Fike High (Ashley's godson plays for Fike and we came out to support him) I couldn't help but think "Is that what (unnamed son) would grow up to look like?", and "Will he be athletic and graceful like these kids?" Turns out my paternal instincts were a bit misdirected. A couple of people have since informed me that dreams about babies symbolize a change or new beginning in the life of the dreamer. I guess the beginning of a new life in dream form represents the birth of a new form of me. Or at least a change that can lead to a new (and hopefully improved) version of myself. It might be as simple as a job change (some of you already know the story), or maybe it's the book idea that came to me in the middle of the night a week ago. Who knows. All I know is that the baby in that dream filled me with a sense of calm I haven't known in about a month. His calm, delicate twitches gave me a confidence that things will get better, things can begin again. The powdery, innocent smell of that new-born (no matter how imagined) soothed the ragged, jagged edges of my soul. Here's to new beginnings.

Why you should care about Haiti

2010-01-20T16:07:00.003-05:00

So. I don't have the funds to actually help the Haitians, so I figured I could at least try to guilt-trip others into doing what they can.

More Watching People Dance

2009-12-16T09:24:00.005-05:00

Last weekend was the company Christmas party, and things went about as expected: the food was good, everyone had fun, and I got drunk. But something happened that I could never have anticipated. Most of our housekeepers have worked together at another property, so they've been to Christmas parties together before. Which means they've seen Serina dancing before. I'd been told she "likes dancing" but there's no way I could have been prepared for the... "performance" to which we were treated. Behold...

Oh, she wasn't done...not by a long-shot. Also, as you watch this clip pay attention to two things: the way she's "interacting" with her "audience" and the look on the Sales Coordinator's face at the very end of the video. She gets this terrified look like, "Oh shit, she's coming this way!"

The entire night was hilarious, but the dancing made the night for me.

Watching White People Dance Makes Me Happy

2009-12-08T11:36:00.011-05:00

Last Friday night, I accompanied a friend of mine to New Bern where he was dj'ing a frat party at a country club. I'd planned on being bored, but they mentioned my two favorite words when used together ("open" and "bar") so I figured I'd find a way to have a good time. Little could I have known... Not long after I helped G set up his sounds and lights... ...the party-goers began to arrive. I should mention they were already drunk when they piled off the buses that brought them in from Greenville. I should also mention that as soon as they got off the buses, most of them went straight to the (open) bar. Those two facts should have told me what a shit-show this was going to be. With that in mind, I powered up my digital camera, and found a discrete spot behind a speaker to capture the drunken shittiness. For the sake of clarity, I'll be explaining each pic/vid clip briefly. For example: The only thing I love more than white people is watching them dance...

I call this one "The White Boy Butt-Wag"...

Not to be out-done, the ladies were getting down on the dancefloor...in a very white way...

There were couples dancing together, but adding "romance" didn't do anything to add class to the dance moves...

All in all, it was a great time. It was also a great reminder to be grateful for my sense of rhythm...

Levi Johnston goes full monty...sorta

2009-11-23T11:36:00.006-05:00

After months of breathless waiting, the pictures of Levi Johnston's Playgirl spread have been released online. I'm not going to lie--I've really been looking forward to it. Not so much because Levi's such a stud. Frankly, he's only so-so. I, like a lot of people, am fascinated with the private figures of public figures. There's something comforting about knowing that those who live in the public eye also have to battle muffin tops and cellulite. Kind of brings them down a notch. Anyway, in the spirit of poking fun of celebs' body flaws, I present Levi Johnston's Johnson...

I guess the photographer caught Levi soaping up his junk....

I'll give him this--he's got some nice legs....

To summarize, I'm left with the same impression of Levi Johnston that I had of the Palin family--not bad looking but ultimately unimpressive.

Random Picture of the Day

2009-11-03T15:28:00.004-05:00

Sometimes the important messages are just right in your face...

Call A-waiting

2009-10-28T21:21:00.000-04:00

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: After going on a date and giving a guy my number, how long should I wait for him to call me before giving up on him? Signed, Call A-waiting Dear Call: The answer is painfully simple: you shouldn't wait for him at all. Anyone who can't find five minutes in the course of his day to call you and say, "Hey I just wanted to say hi." doesn't deserve your patience. Get on with the business of living your life, continue to meet people and go out. That way you're not sitting by the phone waiting for someone who may never get his act together. Good luck!

Seeking Employee "Benefits"

2009-10-28T21:20:00.000-04:00

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: I've been having a flirtation with a good-looking coworker. Things have been getting more and more flirtatious, and it seems like something might be inevitable. We're both single, so it wouldn't be infringing on anyone's relationship. A friend of mine says there's nothing wrong with consenting adults "getting to know each other better." What do you think Uncle Trey Pound? Signed, Seeking Employee "Benefits" Dear Benefits: No, no, no. I've said it before, and apparently I'm going to have to say it again: do NOT poop where you eat. And screwing around with your coworker, no matter how dreamy he may be, definitely counts as pooping where you eat. There are few ways that this can have a happy ending: if one of you hurts the other one, every day when you clock in you've got a reminder of what a fool you made of yourself; those you work with might start to wonder just what you did to deserve that last raise. And let's not even think about all the ways it could bite you on the butt if you're misinterpreting his attention. He could just be one of those really friendly guys that relates to others in a flirtatious fashion. Making a move on him could be a good way to get a sexual harassment complaint filed against you. Either way, you're asking for trouble. And if you keep asking for it, eventually you're going to get it.

Flying Solo

2009-10-28T21:12:00.000-04:00

Dear Readers: The following question was one of many with the same theme. Since they all basically asked the same question, I distilled it down to one straight-forward one: Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Where are all the good men? Signed, Flying Solo Dear Solo: It might seem that the ever-elusive Good Man is an endangered species, but they do still exist. The important (not to mention difficult) part is not lowering your standards while you're waiting for Mr. Right to come along. There's a difference between settling down and just plain settling, so don't latch onto the first guy that wanders through your life. Keep those standards high and you'll draw quality men to you. Keep your standards too low and you'll continue to get nothing but trash.

Thank you, Jerry.

2009-10-01T17:15:00.002-04:00

Yesterday afternoon, I found out that a local broadcasting legend died after a short battle with cancer. Jerry Wayne was half of the Breakfast Club morning radio show on 107.9 WNCT. For 14 years, he's entertained eastern NC, easing us into productive (or sometimes not so productive) days. He raised money for the Children's Miracle Network through annual telethons and made countless appearances at charity events and fundraisers throughout the area. But more important than that is his legacy. See, I've always believed that a life spent giving joy and happiness to others is a life well-spent. And by that yardstick, Jerry Wayne lived an extremely well-spent life. That legacy will endure far longer than his brief time on this earth. My heart goes out to his family--both his family at home, and his family at the station. As someone who has relied on Jerry and his partner Donna Kelly for morning motivation, I know mornings will never be the same. I thank you Jerry, for sharing your mornings with us for all these years. God bless.

Jerry Wayne

1970-2009

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Stressed-out Boyfriend

2009-09-30T19:01:00.001-04:00

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

My girlfriend and I have been having the same argument for months now. We live together, and I’ve been hanging out with her roommate lately. Nothing has happened (and it won’t) between me and the roommate, but my girlfriend is the jealous sort and she’s really bothered by our friendship. I’ve tried to explain to her that it’s just a friendship, but it’s falling on deaf ears. What’s worse, I can’t tell her the real reason I get along so well with her roommate: it’s because my girlfriend is kind of a pill. She’s very negative, and whenever anyone complains, she always has to one-up them. If I complain that my feet hurt, she mentions having hers amputated. I guess she’s always been like that, but it’s really starting to get to me now. How can I get her to change Uncle Trey Pound?

Signed,

Stressed-out Boyfriend

Dear Stressed:

Are you really writing for help, or do you want me to tell you what you already know: that you don’t want to be in this relationship anymore? If you’re looking for a reason to break up, I’m sure the ones you’ve mentioned (jealousy, negativity) are good ones. But if you’re looking to make things work with her, you already know your friendship with her roommate is going to have to end. Or at the very least, you’re going to have to cut back on the amount of time you spend with her for the sake of your relationship. As for your girlfriend, there could be a few reasons she’s such a downer. It could be that she’s had a rough life, or maybe she’s clinically depressed. Either way it’s not going to be easy, but you’ve got to talk to her. She’s not going to read your mind and pick up on your unhappiness, so be honest with her.

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Working Stiff

2009-09-30T18:59:00.002-04:00

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

I work for a small, privately-owned company. Our owner expects his employees to take on extra responsibility, yet doesn’t want to compensate us for our efforts. We’ve all griped about it, but no one is sure what do, as jobs in our industry are hard to come by these days. No one wants to bite the proverbial hand that feeds us, but it’s getting frustrating Uncle Trey Pound. We’ve been feeling taken for granted, but lately we’ve been feeling taken advantage of which is even worse. Before it seemed like he was just tight with a dime, now it’s more like he’s actively trying to use us.

Signed,

Working Stiff

Dear Stiff:

Yours is a fairly common complaint. Bosses tend to be good at delegating responsibility—that’s usually how they become bosses. But if you’re doing work for which you’re not being compensated, then it’s your responsibility to speak up. You don’t have to have to organize a union, or boycott the company, just sit your boss down and (calmly) share your concerns with him. It’s entirely possible that he’s unaware of the revolt brewing among his minions. If your suspicions are accurate, and he really is taking advantage of your work ethic, then you need to have your exit strategy in place. While there might not be a lot of jobs in your industry available right now, doesn’t sound like you’ll be missing out on too much. Good luck!

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Roomless Roomie

2009-09-30T18:37:00.003-04:00

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

My roomie's boyfriend is always hanging around our apartment. He doesn't actually live there, but he might as well, since he's always there. He eats our food, washes clothes here, she even keeps men’s toiletries in the bathroom for him. What should I do Uncle Trey Pound?

Signed,

Roomless Roomie

Dear Roomless:

What it sounds like you've got is a boarder who's not paying rent. Casually ask your roommate if her boyfriend will be moving in soon. Since you didn't mention how you actually feel about him, I'm going to assume you have no problem with him personally, just the living situation. Mention how much easier things would be on everyone if someone else was splitting the rent. Be honest with her about how he's eating you out of house and home and it's starting to bother you. Don't let your resentment for the situation turn into resentment for your roommate. Regardless of whether or not this guy stays or goes, you've got to live with your roomie.

To all my new readers...

2009-09-25T03:59:00.005-04:00

I just noticed something extraordinary, and I felt so humble that I had to respond. I maintain a fan page for my advice column (Ask Uncle Trey Pound) on facebook. It's a way to stay connected with readers and friends of mine. But just now when I glanced at the list of fans, I noticed something odd... of the 365 "fans" I don't know a good portion of them. That's important since I've been counting on my friends to fill the ranks of my "fans." When I realized that quite a few of the fans are complete strangers to me, I understood that my writing has extended beyond my little circle of friends. Some were friends of friends, but others were seemingly random-ass people that just stumbled upon my fan page. Something in my writing connected with them enough for them to follow the page and keep up with updates. That, frankly, justifies my decision to refer to myself as a "writer." A guy with a lot to say, but no one to say it to, is just a guy with a lot to say. But a guy with a lot to say and someone to speak to--someone to communicate with-- is a writer. I am a writer, and I thank you for making me one.

Put on your dancing shoes Sally. We're going out.

2009-08-13T00:36:00.002-04:00

Last night was an epic night of drinking and fun with some friends. What made it better is that it was completely unexpected for me. Yesterday was my friend Ashlie's 21st birthday (first sip of alcohol, if you're dumb enough to believe that) and they threw a party for her at a local nightclub. I'd been thinking that I was working this morning, so I had only planned on hanging out for an hour or two, then heading home. Turns out I had to work this afternoon, which meant I had plenty of time to recuperate this morning, and every reason to drink like a sailor on shore leave last night. Which I did. "Wasted" ain't the word--I drank myself retarded last night. JT picked me up on her way home from work and we warmed up with some drinks at her place while she got dressed. We then headed out to "our" spot (the bar at Chico's downtown) where we pre-gamed some more. JT ordered a ridiculously large sangria, which made me think, "When you're drinking something called a Sea Of Sangria, you know it's going to be a long night." I had my usual beer, and things were off to a roaring start. After an hour or so, we left for the club and things really swung into high gear. There was free beer in honor of Ashlie's birthday, but after a couple of those, I got a taste for vodka 'n tonic, and that's about when the night started getting fuzzy... I recall dancing to Pitbull's song "Calle Ocho" (that shit is the hotness), and doing the Cupid Shuffle with a stage full of people, but beyond that I really can't give many details. Things got a little clearer when we left the club and headed to one of downtown's favorite nightime eateries, Omar's. Omar makes a mean cheeseburge pita, but last night I was in the mood for something more traditional, so I ordered the Athenian. I think it might have been because his (young) son was working the cash register, but I wound up not paying for my food. JT was told her total was $6, and I was prepared to pay something resembling that. I had my pita in hand, and decided I needed something to wash it down. I asked the kid for a canned soda and asked him what I owed him. "$1" was his response. I realized quickly that he wasn't aware I'd not paid for my pita, and just chose not to enlighten him. After eating our food (including the last few bites we ate outside for some reason) we apparently decided it would be a good idea to call George and leave him a profane message cursing him out for not joining us downtown...even though I don't think we actually invited him. He replayed the message for me this morning, and I sounded like a total jackass. Nice. Apparently the oddity didn't end once I was safely home. I woke up this morning fully dressed, sleeping on the floor under my computer desk. I don't know if I was worried about earthquakes, or if I was just having a good old fashioned air raid drill. I just don't know. Now that I think about it, the phrase "I just don't know" really seems to sum up my night.

The Binge Drinkers' Prayer

2009-08-13T00:33:00.001-04:00

Lord protect me from the babbling slurring moron I'm about to become. Watch over me as I slowly destroy my liver, my bank account balance, and my reputation. Allow me to come home with all my clothes on (or at least with) me. And if I hook up with someone ugly, don't let my friends see me leaving with them. In Jose Cuervo's name I drink. Amen.

Comedy show with the parents

2009-06-21T20:42:00.001-04:00

Last night was the Ricky Smiley comedy show at the Convention Center. Since I work closely with the center (and I'm friends with most of the staff over there) I got the hookup on tickets, and got some for my parents and me to attend the show. I figured they'd both have a good time, since they both generally like to laugh. It was hilarious listening to my mom crack up, and my dad hoot along with the audience. It did get a little awkward at a couple of points, but I hung in there and had a good time. Awkward moment #1 came when one of the opening comedians made a couple of jokes about smoking weed. I give my mother full credit for not turning to me and making a smartass comment. The second awkward moment of the night came when a comedian make a series of gay jokes. Not reaching the level of actual homophobia, but enough to make me a little hot under the collar. Normally I'd have gotten up and walked out, but the fact that my parents were sitting next to me kept me in my seat. Thankfully the moment passed quickly, and the night got better from there. The third awkward moment wasn't so much one particular moment, as it was a bunch of little sex jokes to which I felt weird responding in front of my parents. My personal favorite was about the little girl who saw some animals mating at the zoo ...her mother didn't want to explain sex to such a young child, so she told her the animals were "making cupcakes." Later that day the little girl was watching tv and again saw two animals going at it. Her mother again told her that they were "making cupcakes." When the little girl's father got home from work, he told his daughter to go outside and play, because he needed to talk to her mother alone. When the little girl came back in two hours later, she found her mother making dinner in the kitchen. "Mommy," she asked, "were you and Daddy making cupcakes while I was outside?" Startled, her mother responded, "Why yes. How did you know that?" Smiling, her daughter proudly answered "Cuz I licked all the icing off the couch!" Words cannot convey how hard it was for me not to laugh at that with my parents sitting right next to me, lol.

2009-06-14T17:27:00.004-04:00

All the talk of same-sex marriage has me thinking about other limitations on liberties that have been struck down in the past. It's rather revealing that things once considered taboo, have now been proven as antiquated and discriminatory. While reading up on the subject, I ran across a quote from Mildred Loving, who (along with her husband Richard) challenged Virginia's anti-miscenigation laws (laws banning interracial marriages), and won. I thought it was especially touching, and decided to share it. Surrounded as I am now by wonderful children and grandchildren, not a day goes by that I don't think of Richard and our love, our right to marry, and how much it meant to me to have that freedom to marry the person precious to me, even if others thought he was the "wrong kind of person" for me to marry. I believe all Americans, no matter their race, no matter their sex, no matter their sexual orientation, should have that same freedom to marry. Government has no business imposing some people's religious beliefs over others. Especially if it denies people's civil rights. I am still not a political person, but I am proud that Richard's and my name is on a court case that can help reinforce the love, the commitment, the fairness, and the family that so many people, black or white, young or old, gay or straight seek in life. I support the freedom to marry for all. That's what Loving, and loving, are all about.

I'm a Celebrity!

2009-06-12T13:01:00.001-04:00

I got a pleasant little surprise this afternoon while working on the front desk. A guest came down looking for some toothpaste, and when I handed it to him, he gave me a funny look. A little while later when he came down again to check out, I was busy on the phone. He heard me say my name and gave me another funny look. As he approached the counter, he goes, "Are you the Trey that writes the column?" I was so startled that I gave him a momentary blank look before responding, "As a matter of fact I am." I guess I've become so accustomed to keeping the two parts of my life separate that I'm always a little surprised when there's some overlap. Now that I think about it, he didn't mention liking/disliking the column so I'm not sure just how flattered I should be. I'm going to choose to see it as a compliment that he recognized me at all. Either way it made my day. I love being a pseudo-semi-sorta-kinda-celebrity in a small town!

Dammit! I fed the stray...

2009-06-09T22:17:00.001-04:00

A while back, I came up with the concept of "feeding the stray." When a stray animal (say a cat) comes around and you feed it once, it's going to keep coming around because it's discovered a source of food. There's a similar pattern among humans. We've all seen it: the shy, awkward outsider just looking for a chance to belong. The misfit in desperate need of a sense of acceptance among his peers. Then one person extends a polite kindness--an invitation to a party, a drink at the bar--and suddenly the misfit feels like a friend. And just like that, you've fed the stray. You will not shake this loser with anything short of a restraining order--and even those aren't guarantees. If you run into each other in social settings, he'll follow you around like a bad fart. If you give him your number, he'll call you endlessly. The only thing that can end the cycle is when the "stray" finds another source of "food." So you introduce him to your friends (not the good friends, the ones you rarely speak to) praying he'll latch onto one of them. You try desperately to shake this kid like a booger stuck to your finger. There's no moral to this story, just wanted to explain what I mean when I say, "Dammit! I fed the stray..." Some of you know who I'm talking about, but I don't think I'll ever really be rid of the motherfucker. At this point, I've accepted it, even embraced. Hell, maybe I was the stray that he fed. Who knows at this point.

Our time has come

2009-06-08T18:32:00.002-04:00

Today was the day we've been awaiting for so long. The Quality Assurance inspector from corporate checked into our hotel last night and spent the day evaluating our property. There were some glitches that threatened to keep us from opening (lack of carpet on the upper floors, etc), but around 5 the QA guy (more on him later...) pulled John, Jen, and JT aside and gave them the results of his inspection: we passed! That means that we've passed corporate's (high) standards, and will now be linked to the "central database." John popped the champagne, and we all took pictures of the big moment. Ironically, as we sat around sipping champagne from small plastic cups bearing our (now official) logo, we got our first walk-in. I'm sure he wondered just what the hell he'd wandered into, but he definitely got an enthusiastic welcome. He even posed for a picture with Jen.

Today wasn't just important to the powers-that-be who have invested so much money in our hotel; it was important to each of us personally. We've all invested so much sweat equity into the completion of this hotel that we all had personal reasons to want to see it open. We've watched the hotel grow from an unfinished construction site to a refined and beautiful hotel. More importantly, we actually feel like a team. A friend of mine that was hired to do part-time night audit made the comment, "I can't believe y'all are just meeting each other. Seems like you've known each other for years." It really is hard to believe we've only known each other for three weeks: we've already created a lifetime's worth of classic moments (for example: our chief engineer singing "Oops! I Did it Again" at karaoke night), and become our own form of special, dysfunctional family. While I might not love every member of that dysfunctional family (Princess), I love the family as a whole. I can't wait to get down to the business of filling some rooms.

Speaking of "family," the QA guy kept setting off my gaydar. Every time he passed within three feet of the front desk, I did my best to shine...and not just for the benefit of the hotel. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a nice smile...especially when that smile is on a man that looks good in a pair of dress pants. After he announced we'd passed our inspection, we went from inspector/nervous employee to members of the same team. While he'd been politely friendly all day, he seemed much more relaxed. Our chief engineer ("...it's Britney, bitch.") said he caught the guy checking me out after I'd taken off my blazer and walked past him to join in the celebration. I wasn't sure how seriously to take it, though. G has been known to mess with my head. Before he left, he made sure to pass his card out to the GM and AGM, and as he stood there, I asked for one also. He laughed and asked, "Why would you possibly need to get in touch with me? I'm not that important." For the sake of decency, I didn't answer that question the way I wanted to, but I persisted and he finally gave me a card. Maybe I'll give it a couple of days and send him a nice "thank you" email. You never know...

New "Ask Uncle Trey Pound"

2009-06-07T22:58:00.001-04:00

Dear Uncle Trey Pound: For the past month, I've been seeing a guy I met through friends for 30+ days. We've been dating, but so far no commitments have been made, which suits us both just fine. The only problem is that while we've become closer emotionally, we haven't become closer physically. In fact it hasn't progressed beyond the awkward hug from him when he leaves to go home. I blame myself: early on I told him how guys in my past have tried to use me for sex, and that I was sick of being used. Uncle Trey Pound, how can I give him the "green light" without looking like a slut? Signed, Got Needs Too Dear Needs: The good news is that you've met that rare guy who seems to really want to get to know you. He's put in some (fully clothed) time with you, and he's respecting the fact that you've been burned before. The bad news is that since he's not picking up on your "green light" signals, that means you're going to have to be a bit more direct. That doesn't mean date-rape drugs and handcuffs, just be more...open with your needs. Let him know that while you appreciate his respect for your boundaries, you need a little bit more than hand-holding and Mac vs. PC debates--you need some lovin' too. Something tells me that if he's like most fully functional heterosexual males, he'll be naked before you can finish your sentence. Good luck, and try not to break any lamps. Dear Uncle Trey Pound: Last year I came out to my parents as a lesbian. They were shocked, and for a long time our relationship was a bit strained. But over the course of the past two months, we've started to communicate more, and things have been really good between us. They've been very supportive, and that's actually part of the problem. My parents have started introducing me to friends as their "lesbian daughter." My mom has tried to fix me up with a couple of women--with disastrous results. Uncle Trey Pound, how can I tell my parents that while I appreciate their support, I'm more low-key in the way that I live my life? Signed, Out, But Not Out There Dear Out: First, you've got to give your parents credit for trying to accept you. In their own awkward way, they're being supportive, and that's more than can be said of a lot of parents. They love you, and they're going out of their way to show it, so cut them some slack. Having said that, I'm sure it's embarrassing to have your business put out there every time you meet a friend of theirs from work. The easiest way to tell them is to say just what you've said to me. You love them for their support, but it makes you uncomfortable to have your personal life the first thing people know about you when you're introduced. Remind them that you weren't their "straight daughter" before coming out, and you're not their "gay daughter" now that you have. You're their daughter, plain and simple. Dear Uncle Trey Pound: For almost three months, I've been dating a wonderful man. I truly love him, but I recently found out that he's been keeping some secrets about his past. Specifically, he's lied about the extent of his past drug use. I don't judge him for his past, but the lying concerns me. Should I give him another chance, or would I just be giving him another chance to lie to me? Signed, Between a (Crack) Rock and a Hard Place Dear Rock: Before making any decisions ask yourself a few questions: How far in his past was this drug use? None of us are the same people we were five or ten years ago, and none of us should be judged by decisions made back then. Also, what are the chances that his "past drug use" will become a part of his present with you? If you think he's successfully put it behind him, I say give him another chance to be the man you need in your life. Finally if you do decide to forgive him, how easy will it be for you to really put this behind you? Will you really be able to forgive and forget, or will this be a constant source of aggravation every time you get mad at each other? If you think you can really put this behind you and forgive him for lying, I think it's worth a shot. Good luck!

A Change is Gonna Come

2009-05-25T22:51:00.004-04:00

The last week has been stressful as hell, but rewarding at the same time. My mornings have been spent going through training at the new job, while in the afternoons I've worked at the flower shop. This week marks my last week at the flower shop, so things will hopefully settle down some for me. Honestly, I'm feeling about my last day at the shop the same way a kid feels about the last day of school: a little anxious about the change, but excited about the new beginning. I'm particularly excited about the people I'll be working with. It's been a long time since I've had the chance to work with such fun-loving, high-spirited people, and I'm loving it. For example, last Wednesday we met up at Tavern on 4th for karaoke. We rather euphemistically called it a "team-building exercise," but it only took one song for the team to be officially built. That song was...wait for it...wait for it... Britney Spears' "Oops! I Did It Again." I'd nicknamed us the Hampton Hoochies, and (if I do say so myself) we sang the hell outta that song. To be more precise, George (our new maintainance man) sang the hell out of it.

Who'd have thought that of a bunch of women, one gay man, and a maintainance engineer, the maintainance engineer would be the one to know every single word. Even the spoken interlude in the middle of the song. Giving credit where it's due, George didn't just sing that song, he rocked it. Then he rolled it over and spanked it, lol. Clearly, it was one of those moments we'll be talking about for years to come. It's also especially gratifying to know I'll be working in a place where I can actually contribute something. Boss Lady at the flower shop rides me so hard, sometimes I have to reach back to make sure she hasn't strapped a plow on my shoulders. While I know I'll be working hard at the hotel (especially as we're getting ready for grand opening) I feel appreciated in a way that I haven't in a long time. As douche-ish as it sounds, I can't wait to get to work.

Random thought for the day

2009-04-22T14:09:00.003-04:00

Just got a question for next month's column about a guy who's tempted to cheat. He went on and on, extolling the virtues of his hot new prospect compared to his current girlfriend. After giving it some thought, I've come up with the thought "don't let the green grass fool you--there's just as much manure over there." To put it in Frat Boy English: for every hot girl out there, there's a guy who's sick of banging her. To find out exactly how I responded, look for the new column on the Ask Uncle Trey Pound fanpage on Facebook in a couple of weeks.

Five Things I've Learned from Porn

2009-04-14T09:46:00.004-04:00

1) I don't care what Oprah says, SIZE MATTERS. 2) Sometimes in life, you just have to fake it. 3) "Sloppy seconds" are only questionable to picky people. 4) It doesn't matter what we look like on the outside, we're all pink and horny on the inside. 5) 5 pounds of makeup can't hide 10 years of meth addiction.

Road Trip Diaries, pt. 2: award ceremony, hot dogs, and back to G-Vegas with time to drink.

2009-04-08T22:40:00.004-04:00

Alright, having successfully found something to eat (the best jerk chicken wings I've had in a long time, for the record), we hurriedly got dressed for the Just Not Famous Enough awards ceremony. Since we didn't have a hotel room in which to change, and we couldn't change at the site of the show, we had to get creative. And by "creative" I mean the girls got dressed in the truck on the side of the street as evening traffic crawled by. My favorite moment from getting dressed was when I was getting changed. I crawled into the back of the truck, stretched out as best I could and started changing pants. When I was done, Su had to let me out. As I climbed out, I caught a glimpse of us in the glass storefront of the F.W. Woolworth's: Su was standing over the gutter using a water bottle to brush her teeth as I climbed (half-dressed) out of the back of the truck. I remember thinking, "Gotta say one thing about Pitt County folks, we sure know how to make in impression." We actually managed to get three girls into their fancy dresses (and me into my outfit) without getting an indecency citation. No small feat, considering the wind kept whipping Su's dress to dangerous heights. Finally, everyone was dressed, and we headed out. The plan was to drop Su off at the press box so she could get pictures of people walking the red carpet. I was to take the girls to the Marriott down the street to meet someone (still don't know who) then come back to drop the girls off for their turn on the red carpet. When we got to the hotel, the only familiar faces I saw belonged to guys from Irvine, who were scheduled to walk the carpet just after us. After getting up with Su and finding out that we were expected on the carpet in 3 minutes, we hauled ass back to the awards show. We pulled up, I hopped out and opened the door for the girls, and they had their turns looking all hot on the carpet. They then went inside to finalize their plans with the event organizer. Meanwhile, I stayed in the press box with Paula and the other journalists, freezing our asses off. The temperature was dropping along with the sun, and it got ridiculously cold out there. Cold as it was, I was kind of having fun watching the local "celebrities" preening and showing off for the (bored, cold, and mostly unimpressed) members of the press. Finally, we were allowed inside. I was in desperate need of something to warm me up, so I quickly ordered a stiff vodka-n-tonic with lime. After all, nothing warms the spirits like some chilled spirits. Once that began to kick in, I started to relax and check things out. Things were a little unorganized at first, but that's to be expected since this was the first event of its kind to be put on in NC. Between awards, there were bands and artists representing each of the nominated genres performing. My favorite was a hip hop group called Liquid Sun (http://www.myspace.com/officialliquidsun). It was a foursome, consisting of three (very good looking) Black guys, and one (pretty-fly-for-a-) White guy. They had the crowd hyped, and wound up winning the award for their category, so it was a good night all around for Liquid Sun. Morgan and Ashlee had been asked to present the Just Not Famous Enough award for alternative rock band. The whole way there, they'd been rehearsing their scripted bit, trying to come up with ways to deliver the lines smoothly. I'm not sure how, but the subject of Legally Blonde came up, particularly Jennifer Coolidge's line, "...makes me wanna hot dog rrreeeeaaaalll bad!" Morgan jokingly said, "I should say that when I get on stage!" and the joke was born. I dared her to do it, and sure enough she did. When the girls took the stage, Ashlee set her up: Ashlee: Well, I'm really excited to be here. What about you Morgan? Morgan: I'm soooo excited. Ashlee: Oh yeah? How excited are you Morgan? Morgan: I'm so excited, it makes me wanna hot dog rrreeeeaaaaaal bad! Unfortunately, no one else was in on the joke, so it sorta fell flat. But the girls looked so hot, I don't really think anyone gave a damn. In any event, the girls did a great job and I was really proud of them for representing the magazine so well. In no time at all, it was time to begin the drive back to Greenville. We were using Morgan's GPS (named "Gypsy") to navigate our way home, and it was giving us constant updates about our expected time of arrival back in G-Vegas. When Gypsy indicated that we'd be back home at about 1:30 am, all it took was Su saying "That's enough time to head downtown for a cocktail..." and suddenly we were on a mission. After a brief pause outside of Durham (where I peed for about 10 minutes), we arrived back in G-Vegas at around 1:37. I managed to down four (maybe five) beers and two shots of tequila before last call. I'm more than a little proud of that--I think that might be a personal best for me.

Road Trip Diaries, pt. 1: Leaving Pitt County, jerk wings, and British Accents

2009-04-05T02:50:00.004-04:00

Friday was one of the funnest, most exciting days I've had in a long time. Ever have one of those days where things just seem a little...better in some indefineable way? People's jokes seem funnier; the sky seems bluer; everything seems to hum with the certainty that life is good. I was so there yesterday.

I met up with Su, Ashlee, Morgan, and Paula at the G-Vegas Magazine office a little past noon. Ashlee and Morgan (two of our G-Vegas Magazine Cuties) were presenting an award at the Just Not Famous Enough Music Awards in Greensboro, and the rest of us were going along to take pics and provide support. The girls showed off their (gorgeous) dresses, while I tried to decide between the ties I wanted to wear with the all-black outfit I was planning on wearing. After grabbing a quick bite to eat at 'Sup Dawgs (freaking love that place) we settled in for the drive to Greensboro. Su, Mo, Ashlee and I were in the G-Vegasmobile, while Paula followed in her car. She was flying out of Raleigh the following day, so she needed to drive on her own. I felt bad letting her drive the whole way alone, but I needed to be in the truck with Su so we could plan our day and help the girls practice the script they'd been given for the presentation of the Alternative Music award.

Speaking of the G-Vegasmobile, I noticed something funny as soon as we left Pitt County. See, around here people are familiar with the magazine. So while I'm used to being stared at when I'm in the truck, it's mostly looks of recognition. People honk, wave, smile at us. The first time I drove the truck alone I felt like a rock star, lol. Once we left Pitt County, however, I could feel the recognition level slipping. People passing us on the highway gave us quizzical looks--at times I could read there lips as they read the G-Vegas logo that's emblazoned down the sides and back of the truck. So the girls and I decided to have some fun. We started smiling and waving when we'd catch people staring at us. Some quickly looked away, embarrassed at having been caught staring, while most smiled and waved back. One little girl stuck her arm out the window, waving wildly as her parents' car flew past us just outside of Raleigh. It was awesome.

Between prepping for the awards show, the girls and I spent most of the trip laughing and joking about random things. Since I was riding shotgun, I was designated dj, and I continuously scanned the radio looking for music to sing along to at the top of our lungs. We car-danced, told stories, and just generally had a blast.

In no time at all, we were in Greensboro. We decided to get some food, which turned out to be something of a challenge. We agreed on Chik-fil-a and parked the truck. When we walked down the street [on the way, we passed the F.W. Woolworths where the A&T students held their historic sit-in], and got to the doors of the restaurant, only to find them locked. The lettering on the doors indicated they closed at 3:30. Huh? We then went into an indoor shopping plaza, looking for more places to eat. Subway? Closed. Hibatchi Grill? Locked up tight. We finally got to a caribbean restaurant that was closed as well. A woman standing just outside the doors at the end of the corridor noticed us and came back inside. Seems she was the proprietress of the place, and upon hearing that we'd just gotten into town from Greenville, opened the place and heated up some food for us. It's been forever since I've had jerk chicken, but the wings I ordered were the best I've had in a long time. They were so spicy they made my lips tingle, but I couldn't get enough. We thanked her repeatedly and tipped generously.

I'd joked with the girls along the trip about how I sometimes like to do fake accents, so we agreed that I'd be "British" on the road trip. As we were paying and leaving the restaurant, the owner asked me, "Where you from? London?" Now, for those not in the know, if one is going to have a fake accent, one must also have an appropriate backstory. So when she asked where I was from, I had my story ready: in my most posh, Eastenders accent I responded "I was born in Trinidad but we moved to London when I was two." Paula studied her shoes, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Ashlee biting the corner of her lip. Hell, she damn near chewed through her lip trying not to laugh, lol. As soon as we got back into the corridor with the door safely shut behind us we burst out laughing, drawing some odd looks from a family that seemed to be on a similarly fruitless search for food.

Coming next in Part 2 of the Road Trip Diaries: the Just Not Famous Enough awards ceremony; "Makes me wanna hot dog reeeeaaaal bad"; and Back to G-Vegas with time to drink.

Pick any direction, as long as it's forward.

2009-04-02T22:20:00.005-04:00

I've been talking lately about taking my writing (namely my advice column) to the "next level" but so far it's amounted to just that: talk. The past few weeks, I've been hanging out at Barnes & Nobles alot--stalking the shelves that feature guides to writing and getting published. My friend Kristen (who writes for Greenville's Daily Reflector) suggested I check out a book called The Writers' Market, but the $30 price tag had me flinching. Since I was able to get my check early today, I decided to splurge and buy the damn thing. The price still made me slightly queasy, but I'm considering it an investment in my future. I'm going to use the resources in what Kristen called her "bible" to advance my fledgling career as a columnist.

While I love working for G-Vegas Magazine, it's been an unpaid position for almost two years now, and it doesn't look like that's going to change anytime soon. So, it's time for me to shit or get off the proverbial pot. I'm not sure if finding a paying gig means I'm "shitting" or "getting off the pot," but I do know that this burning desire to write isn't going to fade. In fact, the time I've spent with G-Vegas has only confirmed to me that this is what I was meant to do.

Tomorrow afternoon, Su, Morgan, one of the new G-Vegas girls and I will be driving to Greensboro for an award ceremony (some award for North Carolina's athletes, artists, musicians, and writers who are on the verge of a breakthrough) where the two G-Vegas Girls will be presenting one of the awards. Along the way, I'll be reading my Writers' Market, taking notes, and making plans. Since it's a bit of a drive, I'll have plenty of time for all that.

Now that I have a definite plan in mind, I feel a lot better about the direction my life has taken. Like the title of this blog states: "pick any direction, as long as it's forward."

Polly and Joe's grapevine (originally written 7/26/07)

2009-04-02T21:17:00.002-04:00

I've spent this weekend at Jackie and the Colonel's place, working on tasks around the yard. It's been a while since I've done anything resembling yard work, and my muscles are screaming right now.

While I was raking leaves along the fence that separates our property from the neighbors, the Ayers, I saw Polly come out and amble towards me.

When my family first moved onto Leggett Mill Road, we were the first black family. Polly and Joe Ayers had lived in their house next door since Jesus was in high school, and were the stereotypically eccentric Southern neighbors. Once, when I was in high school, Joe climbed atop his roof to adjust his satellite and fell off. Keep in mind Joe was in his 70's at the time of his rooftop death climb. To this day, I don't know what's funnier: the fact that my 70-something year old neighbor fell off the roof, or the fact that he was back up there the next day with a rope anchoring his body to the chimney.

Polly, on the other hand, was always viewed as a bit of an annoyance. She was infamous for approaching the fence that separated our properties, and engaging whatever unfortunate soul was closeby in conversation. And it was never really a conversation of any importance. It was usually more of a dull recitation of her activities that day.

About ten years ago or so, Joe passed away, and Polly remained in their house alone. I've seen her occasionally out in her yard puttering around, but I reflexively avoided her. Today, I couldn't avoid her. I was raking leaves by the fenceline (damn that fenceline) when I looked up to see Polly approaching. I waved and went back to my raking, hoping she wasn't trying to conversate. She was. She propped her lean frame against the fence and said something neighborly about the weather. I was still hoping she'd move along, but I was fresh outta luck. She proceded to comment on the weather, Christmas, dogs (about that time, my parents' dog, Max ran up and tried to make friends with Polly), and grapes. It was as we discussed the grape vines that grew in both our backyards, that things took something of a turn.

In certain parts of Eastern NC, it's common to see grapevines growing in peoples' backyards. The grapes, I suppose, can be used for wine, but if most families are like mine they just pick them and eat them. I remember summer nights, mowing the lawn, and grabbing grapes off the vine as I walked past. As Polly commented on the sad condition of her grapevine, she said, "...yeah, I never cared much for grapes, Joe was the one what put that grapevine up...I shore do miss Joe...especially when the grapes are ripe..." As she said it, she gazed off into the distance, as if she was watching Joe pull his rusted pickup into their gravel driveway. She went on to say that some summers, she picked baskets full of grapes, thinking Joe would love them, only to give them away.

As I looked at her in the haze of an unseasonably warm day, I felt like I'd never seen her before. All of a sudden she wasn't the pesky, eccentric neighbor. She was a woman who'd lost her partner. She'd signed on for life, and she'd drawn the long straw. He might have died first, but she had to live without him, and it broke her heart. And every time those grapes hang full and heavy on the vine, she thinks of her Joe, the one what put the grapevine up in the first place.

Nancy Jenkins (originally written 8/29/08)

2009-04-02T21:14:00.001-04:00

Nancy Jenkins died yesterday in Raleigh. Not too many people outside of North Carolina know who she is. Hell, not too many people inside of North Carolina know who she is. She was the mayor of Greenville from 1989-2001 (?) and her term saw a time of great change for our fair city. During her tenure, the Convention Center was built and Eastern North Carolina rebuilt after the Flood of '99.

Somewhere along the way (around '95 or so) she encouraged a young man to continue thinking and writing: I'd entered the Martin Luther King Jr. essay contest at the advice of my english teacher, Mrs. Yeomans. Yeo-Yeo (as Sheon and I used to call her) loved my entry [I recall her discussing the essay with my mother, and saying "I really think God sent Martin Luther King as a savior to the Black people." I think my mother was honestly speechless], but I didn't think it would have much of an impact outside of my school's walls.

The night of the award ceremony (I'll never forget, it was held in the WEB DuBois Center), I was genuinely surprised to hear my name called as the winner for the Senior (high school) division of the contest. As I read my essay [I can't remember everything I wrote, but the general gist was to stop the cycle of bitterness and neglect in the Black community--I will always remember the line, "When will we learn that to bequeath this legacy of hatred and animosity to the next generation is to damn them to the same miserable existence we so vehemently decry?"], I could feel a hush in the room as they sat absorbing my words. It was the first time I could feel the power of my words. I think that might have been the exact moment I fell in love with writing.

After I finished speaking, Mayor Jenkins walked over to me to shake my hand. As she clenched my hand, she leaned in close and said earnestly, "That was lovely. You make sure you keep writing. I can tell from the way you speak and the way you write you've got a brilliant mind, and you need to share that with the world." I was floating on air. Mayor Jenkin's words were the first inkling I had that writing was something that might have any relevance beyond academia. I'd enjoyed writing before, but I'd never really considered any practical application of it.

I have no idea if she had any idea what that simple comment meant to me, but it's still with me, all these years later.

My half of a conversation with a friend

2009-04-02T21:10:00.001-04:00

A friend recently sent me a letter, asking me how I deal with issues. In particular she wanted to know how I deal with racism and homophobia. Just thought I'd share part of the letter I sent her:

.....it's not so much a matter of turning a cold shoulder to the cruelty of others, it's more about deciding who determines how I feel about myself. people can hurl all types of invectives and profanities at me, but they don't get to make me feel bad about myself. I made a decision a long time ago that I'm fucking fabulous, and no one's cheap opinion is going to change that. No matter what people say to or about me, God will always be in His Heaven, my parents will always love me, and I'll still be fabulous. Once I made that decision, everything else just sort of fell into place. We each have to make similar decisions every day, and when someone chooses to treat me poorly because of a superficial characteristic (race, gender, orientation, etc.) then they "choose" to miss out on all I've got to offer. They miss out on my weird sense of humor, my heart, and all the philosophical conversations I love having (this one, for example). With that in mind, I can only feel sorry for people who spend their entire lives judging and hating those around them. I pity the pricks, because they're missing out.

A great man was born today (originally written 6/16/07)

2009-04-02T21:03:00.005-04:00

Today's the Colonel's 60th birthday, and it's got me thinking about some things. After years of vowing I'd never be anything like my dad, I finally realized that I'll probably spend the rest of my life trying to become more like him. I understand now that he's the type of man I want to be, and the type of person I want around me. He's compassionate, patient (to a point) forgiving, honest, (the Santa Claus lie aside) and funny. He knows when to laugh at himself, and when not to laugh at someone else.

In more ways than he may ever know, he's taught me how to be a man. Not through lectures and speeches (though I've gotten my fair share of those), but by being what he wanted me to be. He wanted me to be a man who bore my color, name, and talents with pride and dignity--and he taught me by doing it himself.

I recall an incident when I first joined the Navy. I was in boot camp, and there was a poster on the wall that showed all four branches of the military, and their equivalent ranks. It showed what an E-4 was in all four branches, then what an Officer First class was in all branches, etc. Some of the guys and I were clowning around in front of the poster, bragging about how much rank some of us had upon entry. With four years of JROTC and two years of college, I was entering as an E-3, as opposed to some guys with no ROTC, and just a high school diploma, who were entering as E-1's. I pointed out where I was, then looked up the list to see how that compared with the Colonel's rank. Let's see...I'm here (indicating E-3) and Dad is.....(finger traces up the ranks of enlisted titles).....he's right about......(finger begins to pass officers's ranks).....riiiiiiighht about......(finger has reached upper ranks of officers' titles)....here. Whoa. When I saw the stark difference between my meager position and the position of clear power and authority held by my father, I realized just how far he's gotten in his life. The bulk of his career took place in a very unenlightened time in American history, and he accomplished all that as a Black man in that time. To see just how high his career reached was a moment of intense pride and love.

So while I might have had different idols at different times in my life, I now know that my hero--the man who has done the most to ensure my happiness and well-being; the one man who has done the most to shape me into a person of any quality; the man to whom I will always look to determine what makes a man--has always been my father.

It is with great pride that, on his birthday and the day before Fathers' Day, I salute the Colonel--the greatest man I'll ever know.

Today was a good day (originally written 7/25/07)

2009-04-02T20:47:00.006-04:00

This afternoon, I drove out to the old homestead to do some laundry, but I wound up playing photographer with Jackie (mom, for those not in the know). She's still obsessed with her newest toy (digital camera), and I taught her how to use the self-timer on the cam. We spent a couple of hours taking pics of each other and ourselves.

Jackie even managed to rouse the Colonel (that would be my dad, FYI) from his afternoon nap and cajole him into a golf shirt for a family portrait. The Colonel even got Max the dog in on the act, making our family photo session complete.

I had a lot of fun this afternoon, puttering around the yard with Jackie, finessing angles and finding "good light." I mostly enjoyed the fact that our interests converged in such a fun way. It reminded me of when we lived in Fayetteville, and every Saturday Jackie would take me to the library downtown. We'd split up, find our books, then meet up at the checkout line to show each other our choices. It was like our special time, and I lived for it every weekend. Sounds a bit nerdy, I reckon, a 12 year old kid all excited about the library, but I more enjoyed spending time with my mom. She's really an extraordinary woman.

Not to be morbid, but today is the type of day for which I'll be grateful when my parents have died. Today was the kind of day that will comfort me, reminding me that we've spent quality time together. Yeah, today was a good day.

The moment my life changed forever.

2009-04-02T20:43:00.002-04:00

I've been thinking about an episode in my past, and I finally feel like I'm ready to share it. In the past, when I've told people this story, I've been greeted with laughter and incredulity. It offended me some, but I realize now that some people were simple unprepared for how brutal my life has been at times. So, here goes...

**Now would be a good time to pour another glass of wine/light a cigarette (or joint)/use the bathroom, or do anything else that might take you away from your keyboard**

When people ask me about my unusually brief time in the Navy, I give them two choices: the polite answer or the honest one. The polite answer is that "military life just wasn't for me..." The honest answer is "I got caught in bed with a Marine." But the truth is more than that--he wasn't just some Marine, and we weren't just in bed. His name was Monty (LCPL R. Montanez), and he was the one. The One. He was a Puerto Rican former football player with steel-gray eyes and a smile that could melt an ice cube. We met when I was temporarily assigned to the mailroom at NATTC (at Pensacola, FL) and he would come in every morning to collect the mail for his Marine barracks. He started joking with me about how tight my uniform pants were (that was no accident) and eventually his jokes turned into flirts. One day, it occured to me that he wasn't just messing with my head, and I flirted back. I was rewarded with that killer smile of his, and I fell--hard.

We dated for about a month and a half, which is like a lifetime for two men. While we were dating, we established something of a routine. We spent our free days walking downtown or out on Pensacola Beach. At nights, we'd either go to Van Gogh's (an awesome little coffee shop downtown), or we'd go to one of Pensacola's many clubs or bars. Since I was underage at the time, it was a very good thing that Monty was so slick at sneaking me into bars: military id's have the picture on the front and the date of birth on the back. Most places were so concerned with the date of birth that they never looked at the picture on the front. After Monty had his id checked and had paid, he'd slip me his id, and I'd present it with the date of birth facing the doorman and my thumb clamped over his (gorgeous) picture. We only got caught at this once, and the doorman (at a gay bar) was so amused at such a ballsy stunt that he gave me a wrist band anyway.

On nights when one or both of us had to stand watch on base, we developed a routine for that also. Monty was friends with just about everyone in the Marine barracks, so when he wanted to go out, he would just tell the person on the quarterdeck (the "lobby" in civilian terms) to cover for him, and to report in for him as if he was present. When I had duty, I would bribe someone to switch shifts with me, giving me the night off. Unfortunately, these weren't fool-proof methods, and it was this sneakiness that eventually did us in.

One weekend night, we both had duty, and we both made our plans to get out of it so we could go out together. I found some loser with no life to switch shifts with me, and Monty made his normal arrangements to take off. We went out, and had a grand old time. It may only be because of what happened next, but in my mind that night was one of the most glorious of my life. We partied like an old married couple that knew just what to do for the other--he knew which drinks I liked, I knew which songs to request for him. While the club was packed, it seemed as if it was just the two of us, dancing forever in a private party for two.

When we left the club, we headed back to base, and to another one of our routines. He entered the barracks through the quarterdeck, as required, then let me in through his window. Monty did have a roommate, but the guy was married to a local woman, and spent almost all of his time with her at her off-base house.

What we didn't know was that while we were out, the guy covering for Monty had gotten sick. His replacement didn't know anything about Monty's arrangement, so he reported him missing. The Staff Sgt. on duty left a note for the guy on quarterdeck watch to allow Monty back into the barracks then notify SSgt. So while Monty was letting me into his room (and we were drunkenly getting down to "business"), SSgt. Hall was heading in our direction. He had a master key (one of those key-card systems), and he was planning on surprising Monty. Monty had latched the security chain over the door, but SSgt. Hall easily kicked the door in.

I was (to put it bluntly) on top, so SSgt. Hall got to me first. He grabbed the back of my neck and threw me to the floor next to the bed. If he hadn't known what was going on when he walked in (certain...movements can only be one thing, and the smell of sex filled the room), it was crystal clear when he pulled me, naked, from on top of Monty. Monty was equally undressed and in an equally compromising position, so there was no hiding what we'd been up to. I looked up at him, already stuttering on excuses and lies, but they fell on deaf ears. SSgt. Hall was enraged, and he took it out on me. He kicked me and hit me, raining down blows on the back of my head and my exposed back. I'd curled into a protective fetal position, but I just couldn't get away from his fury.

After beating me for what seemed like an eternity, he stopped, panting and sweating heavily. Looking up at him as he stood there gasping for air, a perverse thought ran though my mind, "The way he's sucking air, you would think he's the one that was in bed..."

He pulled me to my feet and push/pulled me into the bathroom. I honestly thought he meant to kill me in there. Instead, he grabbed a towel off a nearby rack, turned the water on, and ordered me to "get cleaned up." I gingerly washed my face, taking note of the boot-shaped bruises already forming on my arm and shoulder. When I walked back out of the bathroom, Monty was sitting on the edge of his bed in his PT shorts and a tee-shirt. His shoulders were slumped, and his head was hanging in defeat. I hoped he would look at me, give me some hope, but he determinedly avoided my eyes. SSgt. Hall spent the following hour and a half calling us worthless trash. He promised to send us "back to mama" branded as fags. He then had me escorted back to my own barracks. I spent the night trying to cry quietly and failing miserably. My roommate tried to find out what happened, but I just couldn't bring myself to tell him. I felt ashamed, dirty, worthless. After a couple of hours of trying to get past my dejected silence, my roomie quietly got up and rounded up all the razors and medications and locked them in his closet. To this day, I'm grateful he did that--it was one of the lowest points in my life, and I really didn't want to live. Needless to say, it didn't take long for word to spread. By the next afternoon, I was a pariah on base. Everywhere I went, the whispers and accusing stares followed.

Two days later, a special Captain's Mast was held for me. If a court martial is the military equivalent of a judge/jury trial, then a CM is the equivalent of a hearing. It's just as binding, but not quite as formal. Frankly, I might have preferred a more formal setting. The base commander stood there and smilingly told me that I was what was wrong with today's military. My actions had "undermined [his] command" and he couldn't stand the sight of me. I was sentenced to 45 days in restricted barracks, followed by an "other than honorable" discharge from the Navy. My JAG officer (military attorney) advised me that my discharge was a sure thing, and my only real option was to request an appeal. I didn't expect the appeal to work (and it didn't) but it bought me time to continue drawing a paycheck while I was assigned to a temporary (read "cushy") job.

I never heard from Monty again. I heard rumors that he'd basically "denounced" me. I'd heard from some people that he claimed I'd seduced him while he was drunk, while others said I'd raped him outright. Deep down, I don't think Monty would ever lie about me like that, but it's hard to say what a person will do when they're between the proverbial rock and hard place. Monty was a "lifer"--he talked about staying in the Corps for life, so he just might have lied to save his career. I've seen people do a lot worse for a lot simpler things. If he did lie, I've long-since forgiven him.

Looking back, that moment set me up for a lifetime of thinking "It's me against the world." Feeling that despised and hated justified my fears, and gave me a reason to keep lying to the world. But finally I realized I'd been through my worst nightmare: I'd been violently outed, beaten, cursed, and rejected. And it hadn't killed me. It was close for a while, but I was still standing. After that I figured if it was going to cause me that much grief, I might as well own it. I finally came out to my parents a year later and there was no going back.