The Last Tea Party

The Last Tea Party

                On my way from Nashville to Chapel Hill, my odometer for a single tank of gas passed 400 miles around Asheville, NC.  This made me very proud of my Honda Civic.  It was a black, “special edition” EX, defined as such because of the spoiler atop the trunk, the special rims on the tires, and the six-CD changer in the dash.  Before leaving on my trip, my CD changer had been broken.  The only part that still worked of the audio apparatus was the radio and the AUX plug which I used for my iPod.  So far, it’s been adequate. 

                I stopped for gas in Asheville because my emergency level low-fuel light as I hovered around 400 miles to the tank (at the time, for roughly a 12 gallon tank, it would cost between $32 and $35 to fill).  Much of that leg of the trip was through the Smoky Mountains and I was glad my car had handled it so efficiently.  After Asheville, I headed towards Chapel Hill, my next stop.

                At this point I should mention my love for Superchunk.  All day—the date being August 25, 2007—I listened to all of the Superchunk albums I had on my iPod (all except their self-titled debut) in chronological order.  I was pumped to be driving into their hometown.  I thought I might catch a cool indie rock show, or might run into them by chance.  I had met their lead singer a couple years earlier at a Portastatic (his other band) show in Chicago.  I had bought their most recent album from in person as he sat alone at the merch desk, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer.  I was surprised to see him smoking and it immediately made me like him more because we had one embarrassing thing in common.  I went up to him, quite soused, and told him that the bartender had asked me if I was there to see Portastatic, and I had said yes, and he had told me that I better slow down then, as I had about three Leinenkugel Reds in a span of thirty or forty-five minutes (watching Mary Timony amidst that, and making friends with an older guy who complimented me on my Sebadoh t-shirt and told me about how he once saw the Replacements at Maxwell’s in Hoboken).  I couldn’t resist.  They were $2 each.  This singer, an idol of mine, (I had told him I was a huge fan and he must have known that I wasn’t exaggerating) listened to my stupid story and seemed to think it was one of the funniest things he had ever heard.  He started cracking up.  I had made one of my idols crack up—a feeling of true happiness.  I told him I wanted to buy the new album but I didn’t have the cash so I was going to step over to the ATM a few feet to the left and get some cash, even though it was probably going to be a rip-off for the ATM surcharge inside a bar.  Surprisingly, it was only a $1.00 for that, and I pointed this out to the singer, and bought the album, and I have listened to this album (Bright Ideas) fairly regularly for these last three years.  The part of the story I don’t tell, however, is that due to my imbibing so many beers, I had to pee several times in succession.  After trying to pee in one of the urinals or toilets in a somewhat insecure stall or crowded bathroom, I could not go.  This is the bane of my existence and is probably the reason I will end up committing suicide one day.  It is a result of social anxiety invading the most usual of bodily functions and has ruined my ability to “go out” in any normal sense of the word.  I just wish more establishments utilized single-person bathrooms, then I wouldn’t have any problem.  (This actually happened to me at the Blue Monkey Lounge in Memphis, and I was able to hold it until I walked back to my hotel, but I nearly burst from how badly I had to go, but I didn’t feel like mentioning it then).  My solution, in this particular case, was to leave the bar every fifteen or twenty minutes or so and pee in a nearby alley.  After watching Portastatic for about thirty or forty-five minutes, for some reason I decided to leave.  I had the album and I was tired, drunk, and had to pee too much.  Still, despite all the attendant anxiety, it was a memorable and fun show—my first introduction to the Empty Bottle.

                But I drove into Chapel Hill that night, and school at UNC was just starting up and I wanted to find a hotel nearby the main campus strip so I could hang out in bars and maybe find a cool record store and maybe meet some cute college girls.  This was the first time I didn’t procure a hotel before leaving the previous town.  Sometimes it paid off and sometimes it didn’t.  This was one of the times it didn’t.  I went to one really nice hotel in the middle of the campus strip area and the very nice agent at the front desk told me it would cost over $200 for a night and I told him it was outside my budget and he directed me towards Durham, where I could find a more reasonable room.  After driving around feeling like I got lost for about fifteen or twenty minutes, I finally found some low-end chain hotels.  I ended up staying at the Red Roof Inn and it ended up costing me over $70.  I smoked a bowl and looked at my stash and realized that there was almost nothing left.  This depressed me briefly as I considered I would either smoke my final bowl that evening, or the next day before I left for New York. 

                I drove my car back into the main campus area, parked, and tried to find an ATM along an abandoned area.  If there was a fun area to party in Chapel Hill, I definitely didn’t find it.  Somehow I got some more money (at 112 E. Main Carrboro, I read from an online statement) and I walked past a bar and saw a girl.  I asked her if the bar was cool and she said it was so I went inside and got a beer.  I talked to her for a second outside and found out her name was Amy.  Now we are still friends on MySpace.

                I went into the back room and picked out a few songs off the jukebox were people were lazing back against a couch.  I picked the REM song, “All the Right Friends,” a Link Wray song, “Jack the Ripper,” and a song by firehose  that I forget the name of but which was really awesome.  At the time, I was working on my letter to Sycamore, and I mentioned all of these by name so if you ever want the specific information you can feel free to ask him.

                Amy had told me that a band called The Last Tea Party would be playing there.  They were some kind of folk-bluegrass-punk band and I really liked them, especially their last song.  At one point there was an older gentleman in the bar, a record producer I think, who got very excited and bought the entire bar a round of drinks.  Amy introduced him to me and we chatted briefly.  He was exceedingly cool.  If I met him now I don’t think I would have that much to say to him, but I met him when I was at that very ecstatic moment in my life—ecstatic for everything except how little pot I had left.  I had a few drinks there and got a pretty good buzz on, asked Amy for her info so I could add her on MySpace, and asked what might be a good place to get some late-night dinner.  I was told to go to Gumby’s Pizza.

                I placed an order for a large pepperoni pizza at Gumby’s and waited outside for about ten or fifteen minutes.  I heard a Morrissey solo song while I was waiting, something off You are the Quarry, and I thought it was really awesome how I got to hear another indie rock song in a seemingly unlikely location.  I got my Gumby’s pizza, drove back to the Red Roof Inn, pigged out and ate most of it, saving a few slices for the long drive the next day, smoked my last bowl of weed, and passed out.  The next day I headed for New York, which was something like a ten or twelve hour drive.