You'll Be Taking My Private Markovich Plane

I've determined there are at least three people named Jeremy Markovich on Earth. One is me. One is some guy in California. And one is fictional.

Someone out there on the interweb decided to write a novel online. It's romantic. It's for young adults. It's about a girl whose mother dies. She decides to take off to an exotic place to find herself. She does so with the help and blessing of her filthy rich father. Her father's name? Jeremy Markovich.

Among my favorite quotes: 

• "Pa, you're Jeremy Markovich, most handsome CEO ever before his time."
• "Since this is alot of money, you'll be taking my private Markovich plane."
• "Elliot got his own suite at the hotel, thanks to Jeremy Markovich."

I cannot tell you how flattered I am.

The novel itself is incomplete. But I am gripped. For one thing, I would like to know how I got so much money. I would also like to know how I started Markovich Industries. And then I would like to know how I can make this all possible for me in real life.

As for the name, I wrote the author, a 13-year-old named SmileyRose. She said her best friend's last name is Markovich. Her dog's name is Jeremy. She assures me she means no offense.

I've read the first two chapters. It could use a little editing. But the story is starting to develop. And at least it seems like my fictional daughter has her head together. Good parenting, I say.

I'll read the rest of the story when it comes out. But SmileyRose, if you're still writing, I have only one request.

Make me tall.
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Picture from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/pseudopolis/

Wedding Advice From The Unmarried

Hope this helps.

An E-Mail From Across The Atlantic

World Financial Center

Duke Energy Center

So this was fun.

Yesterday at work, we got an email from a guy in the United Kingdom who wanted to know why the skyline behind the main logo on wcnc.com was from Shanghai. Of course, it's not Shanghai, it's Charlotte. Duh. But through the power of Twitter, I found out that the new Duke Energy Center in Charlotte looks a lot like the World Financial Center in Shanghai. I wrote the guy back, then wrote a blog about it on wcnc.com:

It turns out our brand spanking new Duke Energy Center has a much taller and slightly older brother who lives in Shanghai.

The World Financial Center is the second tallest building in the world. At 1,622 feet, it’s more than twice the height of the Duke Energy Center. Its main architectural feature is what looks like a carrying handle on top. You know, just in case Paul Bunyan comes to town and decides to take it with him.

This morning, I got an email back from the guy, who explains his initial confusion:

I live in a small town called Newport Pagnell in the UK.

I saw your website because you did a piece with headlines "York to revise Smoking Ban"

which caught my eye, as at first I thought it was York UK. and last thing i want is people smoking in public again.

1n 2008 We went to china for a month, when the "bottle top Opener" building was being built. We would have been told what the Building was called and its purpose, but "bottle top opener building" stuck. when I sent original email I had not looked at photos, and was doing it from memory. and from memory many of the building in your Logo I thought resembled buildings in Shanghai. I have now looked at the photos and can see there is a lot of difference.

Never been to Charlotte, We did drive up the coast from Florida to New york some 10 years ago, but went through Charleston and Jacksonville.

No real plans to come back to the US. After 9/11, I hear US immigration is a right pain in the arse. Last time we came (10yrs ago) it took us an hour to get through, so how long would it take now?

Sorry to spark things of in your office, but i am sure it was a good healthy debate.

No need to be sorry, Kevin. The pleasure's all ours.
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Here's the blog: Is That Charlotte? Or Is That Shanghai?

Death of a Bar

The final hours at Sir Ed's.

Last night I stuck around at Sir Edmond Halley's just long enough to see them run out of beer, then wine and then liquor. Then they closed. For good. I was there with my friend Chris, who admittedly hadn't spent much time there over the years. Later, my girlfriend Kelsey came in. We had gone on our first date right there, sitting at the end of the bar, scribbling our NCAA tournament picks into a bracket. That's my Sir Ed's memory.

I wrote something about it for Charlotte Magazine. People seem to like it. Although, Sir Ed's was so beloved, I could have put up the same picture, written "Aren't you sad?" under it, and it would have received the same reaction. Everyone has their own memories. Many of them, you probably don't care about. That's why I focused on the final night. Because someday down the road, a lot of people will probably try and say they were there, even though they weren't. At least I have proof.

(huntingtonquarterly.com)

This is actually the second time I've been at a bar on the night it closed. Back in the day, I used to go to a place call Mycroft's. It was on a street corner in Huntington, West Virginia, right across the street from Marshall University's football stadium. It was a lot like Sir Ed's. Unassuming. Laid back. I used to go in there after getting off of work at 11:30 at night. For a while, you could bring a mug of any size and they would fill it up with beer. For a low price. I don't remember how low. But it was West Virginia low.

They closed it down years ago, and I was there when they did it. Fifteen minutes before the end, they gave away all the beer they had left. Five minutes before closing, the staff jumped on the bar and sprayed the crowd with water. People were chanting and screaming. Then it was over. We all spilled out on to the sidewalk and, without any more beer to fuel us, chatted boringly for a bit then went home. Mycroft's is a parking lot now. Marshall University needed more spaces.

It's sad to see a bar go. But I moved on. I moved here to Charlotte and found my new favorite bar. Now it's closed. But at least I was there at the end. I can prove it.
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Read the Charlotte Magazine story here: The Last Night at Sir Edmond Halley's - A Eulogy.

LeMove

The problem isn't that LeBron James left Cleveland for South Beach. The problem is that everybody left Cleveland for South Beach. And Atlanta. And D.C. And Charlotte. Forbes made an interactive map recently; red lines show people leaving Cuyahoga County for other places, black lines show people moving from somewhere else into Cleveland. There's a lot of red on that map.

I left Ohio in 2002. I probably could have stayed, if I really wanted to. But I was 22, and looking for something new. Ohio was really all I'd ever known.

When I was 25, LeBron's age, I was living in West Virginia and decided to move to Charlotte. I had the chance and I took it. I was comfortable where I was, but I knew I needed a change. None of my friends belabored the point. They knew I had to go.

So let's say you're 25 and you have a chance to take a job in Miami. Wouldn't you go? I know I would. From a sports angle, you can talk about how players were more loyal to their teams forty years ago, but in reality, owners held more sway back then and we were just starting to see the likes of Curt Flood, Andy Messersmith and Catfish Hunter, athletes who put the free in free agent. Today, that system is on its head. You know that.

But look at Cleveland: I feel a soft spot for Northeast Ohio. I grew up there. But I saw steel mills close. I saw jobs leave. I saw people leave. I have friends who still live there. My family is there too. I miss them. But I'm not looking to move back anytime soon.

I can understand why people are upset at LeBron. When most people move away from Cleveland, they get a pizza and a six pack of Burning River beer, not an hour long special on ESPN. I moved away. A lot of other people did it too. So ask yourself, are you upset at him? Or would you have stayed if you had the chance to go?

Slim Pickings

Check out the guy in the red hat playing the organ. He also played the banjo. Ever seen a cartoon of a guy who's playing a banjo, and he's not really obeying the physical laws of this Earth? He's plucking the strings just a little too fast? His head is bobbing just a little too violently to not shatter any vertabrae? Yeah, that was the guy in the red hat, alright.

I went to go see Langhorne Slim (the guy in the white hat) on Saturday, when it was just too hot and just a little too early in Bonnaroo time to get out and watch a show. I stayed in a tent, so I had no choice but to get up at the crack of dawn, just after the sun crested over the RV next to me and heated the inside of my tent to a sultry 95 degrees. In short, I had been up for hours while my comrades in the dark air-conditioned RV could sleep in as long as they wanted. I just got bored.

So around noon, I wandered in and saw Langhorne Slim. I happened upon a lot of bands that way, especially on the early days of this year's festival when I was by myself most of the time, sans schedule and cell phone. I had no choice but to follow my ears.

Langhorne was full of energy. At one point, he pulled a small child up on to stage. They both danced as Langhorne screamed into the microphone and the rest of the band smashed out the notes in an orgy of flying arms and pained expressions. Everybody ate it up.

As for me, I walked back to the campsite to see if anyone else was up and moving. They marveled at me when I strode back into camp, proudly saying I'd caught the first show of the day. They didn't understand how I'd defied Bonnaroo physics. Just watch the video. You'll see.

The Problem With Getting Everything You Want

At some point, shortly after I'd come back from the port-a-potty, I got an alcohol-infused earful about Tim Reynolds. He was on stage with Dave Matthews Band, playing just about as hard as he could be expected to play. Tim, my friend explained, was a great guitar player but just didn't fit in with, you know the sound of Dave Matthews. Which seems silly, because Dave sounds like Dave sounds. At least to me he does.

But then again, this was my first Dave Matthews concert, and I was with a group of guys who'd been to see him as a matter of routine over the years. I went through college hating Dave Matthews because the guy in the dorm room next to me kept playing bootlegged cassettes from the band's live shows and refused to listen to anything else. I didn't understand it then. I still don't entirely get it now either, but it makes sense especially from a Bonnaroo standpoint: you go to a great show and you don't want it to end. Ever.

Dave puts on a great show. He closed out the entire festival and jammed out on enough familiar songs to make you truly believe it was 1994 all over again. But of course, it's not 1994, it's 2010, which means Dave has been playing some of these songs for at least sixteen years or longer. And so, if you're this guy who is expected to put on a hell-of-a-show every single time you take the stage, how do you keep it, well, interesting? Don't you get tired of not having enough people to make your music sound like you want it to sound? How do you keep it fresh and make it not about just going through the motions?

In this case, you bring an extra horn section and plop Tim Reynolds up on stage, and you explore yourself musically, which is good for guys like me but makes the purists scream bloody murder, like you just used their favorite CD for target practice. On the final night, Dave was slated for two and a half hours but only went about two, and not only did he have too much guitar and too many horns, but dammit he quit early. And come on, how do you do that if you're the last act at Bonnaroo and you're Dave?

Sometimes watching somebody work hard is more interesting that watching everything run smoothly. The Avett Brothers used to be three guys. They'd have to run around on stage just to cover all of the instruments they wanted to play. But they made it work. Their frenetic pace was part of the show. But even now, they've got a great cello player and a utilityman who plays the drums or the guitar or another instrument. The Avetts are still the Avetts, but they're not the old Avetts. Their new producer changed them. The extra guys changed them. At least that's what the guy next to me said. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. It was my first time seeing them live.

If you're Dave, I suppose the adversity is gone. You've got the money and the notoriety to bring anyone you want up on stage to play. It doesn't mean he's any less talented. It's just that he's not putting on the show he once was. We have a tendency to remember only the extremes-- the very good or the very bad, and when things tend to fall somewhere in the middle we are just, well, disappointed. I guess that's just how nostalgia works.

I don't know. With Dave, I can't tell the difference. But how would I know? I stopped listening to the bootleg cassettes a long time ago.

Bonnaroo You

I've been struggling to figure out what to say about Bonnaroo, the four-day long music-driven, drug-infused, baked-in-the-June-heat festival out in the middle of Nowhere, Tennessee. It's been three weeks since I got back. I usually give myself a few weeks for things to sink in and start making sense. If memories stick out, they're important. If they fade away, they were probably meant to be forgotten.

And so here's what's left: the music and the people. I spent the first day back trying to clean off four days-worth of caked-on mud and grime. The rest of the week I tried to re-capture the sound of it all. I downloaded the songs and albums of all the bands I'd seen, trying to recapture what I'd experienced. This weekend, I saw a lot of the guys I went with, and it all we could talk about.

So over the next week, I'm going to post a lot of what I saw, in pictures, videos and words, to try and anecdotally remember what it was like. I'm doing this for myself-- I don't want to lose what I learned. It's not Bonnaroo. But really, nothing is.

Mastication Blues

I eat quickly. Actually no; I eat at a speed which, if a cheetah were running toward me, I could down a sloppy joe just quickly enough to keep that animal from snatching it out of my hand. I am blessed with the metabolism of a nervous mouse and the gobbling gait of a python. If I had the option of unhinging my jaw to eat an entire Cornish game hen in one gulp, I wouldn't do it. But I would seriously think about it.

This weekend, my girlfriend told me to slow down. It's for your own good, she said. When you go too fast, people notice. Who's noticed so far, I asked? Everyone, she said.

So I tried. We were at Sutton's Drug Store on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill, a soda shop where the only thing that's changed since 1964 are the pictures. After making the initial mistake of looking through the entire menu instead of automatically ordering a cheeseburger and fries, I decided to practice. When my New Yorker arrived with chips, I slowed down the pace.

It was the longest meal of my life.

I put my sandwich down between chomps. I made eye contact with something other than my food. I put my hands under the table when they were idle. I took bites that were actually, you know, bite-sized.

It was new territory for a boy who grew up holding his fork like a dagger.

The idea, my girlfriend implied, is to be able to have a conversation with someone while you eat. Say something interesting between bites, she said. Of course, she wasn't using every last bit of her concentration on her meal. Each time, all I could muster was "How are you?" Then I would politely nibble on a single potato chip.

My pastrami on rye was delicious for the first five minutes. It overstayed its welcome. After twenty minutes, I was still eating. The joy was gone. And my girlfriend had run out of ways to tell me how she was.

It all paid off later that night. I was a perfect gentleman at the table at a wedding reception in Pittsboro. I chewed my food appropriately. I asked follow-up questions between morsels. I didn't gag on a roll. My girlfriend was impressed. My reward was breakfast at any pace I wished.

It was gone in seven minutes.