Joe Jurney - Transmissions from Mebane

I meant to add this a while back. This is an article from the Independent Weekly out of the Triangle about the proposed Buckhorn Village project. If you know anything about the Independent, then you know that it is unabashedly liberal. However, this is worth a read just to get an idea of why Orange County leaders aren’t too hot on the project. It balances the developers’ “pie in the sky” projections for jobs and tax revenue. Plus, it asks one question that has always bothered me about the plan: Who does want to live above a store overlooking asphalt in the middle of nowhere?

I just returned from voting. Long line at Hunter’s Chapel on Buckhorn Road. Add to that we had some mouthy northern transplant talking to/at us like every syllable out of his mouth was the most important sound ever. What’s new.

Mike Gravel is still on the ballot! So Democrats have a third choice even though the voters guide says he is now a member of the Libertarian Party. Look for Elmer Fudd and Mickey Mouse to draw more votes than ol’ “Give ‘em Hell Gravel” or as he is better known, “Who?”

I hope the state is taking notice to the early voting and primary turnouts and can do something, anything to alleviate the crush of voters that will undoubtedly be casting ballots in November. I would hate for North Carolina to become the new Florida or the new Ohio. I remember people waited for hours at some Burlington precincts back in 2004.

Even though this is just a primary, elections excite me. As a journalist, there is a certain rush of adrenaline that goes along with waiting for the returns and then hammering together headlines and packages in a white-knuckled frenzy right before deadline. I doubt it will be that exciting tonight but it will be a good test run for November. 

Update 1 p.m.: Hillary needs to stop calling me. If my wife finds out I’ll find my stuff out in the yard tonight. Bill called me yesterday. Just waiting on Obama and Gravel to blow up my phone. And how could I ever get tired of the “No to Land Transfer Tax” calls? I have enough of their mailers to re-paper the sunroom.

I also got a call from DirecTV trying to sell me HBO and Cinemax under some complicated contract. Like the run-up to the Iraq War, it sounded too good to be true. I wasn’t fooled then and I won’t be fooled now.

I received a MySpace bulletin today from Laurie Feamster, co-owner of the Clay Street Tavern, that her husband Jeff and her had sold their establishment. The new owner is Wendy. Didn’t catch her last name but she seems cool. 

They were there today to say goodbye. On the jukebox, I played some Warren Zevon and Tom Waits. Those were the first selections I played when I stepped into their place back in the summer of 2005.

The good news is that Laurie and her husband Jeff are staying in the area. Great people.

Cheers to Laurie and Jeff on their future plans. I hope to see them around more often outside of the Tavern.

Also, I welcome Wendy and her parents. I look forward to a new friendship.

You know you’re at a small-town festival when the first sign you see reads “Funnel Cake.”

Quite a crowd of families and teenagers came out Friday night for the 20th Annual Mebane Dogwood Festival.

The scene reminded me of my teen years attending Festival In The Park in Danville. It was a sprawling event that takes place in Ballou Park every May. It was the closest thing to a fitness program that the city ever came up with for the simple fact that you had to constantly hike to get to different areas. Thirsty? Let’s turn around and head up to the food area. Want to see some arts and crafts? Let me do some stretching first. Want to go try to win a Journey mirror from the crooked carnie? Get on your walking shoes.

However, the festival’s sprawl ended in the late ’80s thanks to one man, Geraldo Rivera and one incident on his TV show.

After that show, a rumor ran like wildfire through the Danville community that, get this, satanic skinheads riding in limosines were looking to abduct blonde hair, blue-eyed girls from the festival. Needless to say, many parents wouldn’t allow their Sun-In dyed hair and blue contacts-wearing daughters to go to the festival.

From then on, the festival’s size was scaled back and most of the booths were set up along the park’s main road.

By the way, another “ripped from the headlines” rumor started in 1992 after the L.A. riots. Something about black gangs shooting, you guessed it, blonde hair and blue-eyed girls.

The Dogwood Festival on Friday night was sparsely populated with booths. Plenty of people showed up to see Mason Lovette. I have to confess that I never did hear the band play. Part of the reason was that I was busy walking around and the other part is that everytime I went near the stage, it sounded like a song was ending or they were tuning up.

I did see the guitarist from the best punk/hard rock band ever from Danville (C.O.D.) taking money from children at a carnival game booth. He should remember the Festival In The Park in 1992 where his band stirred up a mosh pit that caused the Danville police to swarm in and nearly started a teenage riot.

We returned to the Dogwood Festival around noon Saturday to see a totally transformed event. Booths lined both sides of Clay Street.

My wife saw a pocket book booth that pulled her in like a Death Star tractor beam. We bought some homemade Indian bracelets. We watched some cloggers and some kids try to break dance on the asphalt. Ouch! Puppets waved and yelled ”bye” to our lost souls from a ministry kiosk.

I have two problems with the festival however. The first is that it is was nearly impossible to walk down Clay Street because of the volume of people. Organizers may want to consider spreading things out because you cannot stop to look at items nor can you speak with someone lest you create a traffic jam of people. The other problem is that there needs to be a green space for the bands to play on. No one wants to sit on asphalt to watch a beach band in the middle of an 85-degree day.

To beat the heat, we took refuge in Clay Street Tavern and Dick & Jane’s. Red Oak and peach martinis taste good on a hot day.

We missed the “Mayberry Memories” stage show but “Barney” and “Gomer” were roaming around the festival. My wife was able to get Barney to say “Nip it in the bud.”

The Ribfest was confusing and a tad disappointing. I was under the impression that the rib cookers would offer their fare for sale. Instead, the public was invited to sample the food so it wasn’t a total loss. I just wish I could have had more because that meat was plumb falling off the bone. I had to settle for full rib and barbecue fixes from Smokin’ Joe’s and A&M Grill’s booths.

There was one booth that made the biggest impression upon us. It was a man singing karaoke-style gospel music behind a table with stacks of homemade CDs that resembles the Sierra Nevadas. He was singing when we first walked by his booth and, four hours later, was still singing. Windell Capel was in the middle of an anti-alcohol tune when we approached his booth. He had props including an empty six-pack of Michelob bottles set up among the tons of compact discs. We asked him which CD was the best and he sang to us which one was the greatest, the CD entitled “They Don’t Live Here Anymore.” He sang to us the “Buy 2, get 2 free” special and even sang while he signed the photo shown above.

We went home and put on the CD. The title track tells of our hero going to the “drug house,” the “liquor house,” and the “welfare office.”

Bring on the Alamance County Fair.

Mebane will hold its annual Dogwood Festival beginning Friday. It will be the first one I will be able to attend in the three years I have lived in Mebane.

Last year, I was drafted to DJ at the Clay Street Tavern under my alter-ego DJ Boomer Boom.

I had a grand plan to enter through the back entrance of the Tavern at around 7 p.m. to “Ecstasy of Gold” with strobe lights and a fog machine rolling, draped in garb straight out of a Parliament/Funkadelic concert. Then I would climb into the booth and lay down some blunted up G-Funk for the next four hours that would make DJ Shadow trash his turntables.

The reality is that I ended up taking requests from the regulars to hear Bocephus, Skynyrd, Bocephus singing Skynyrd, Billy Squier and Zeppelin. I was able to slip in some Flaming Lips, Husker Du and even “Shake Your Rump” by the Beastie Boys.

This year I’ll actually make it outside to see what the festival has to offer and finally hear what that Mason Lovette Band is all about. Plus, there is a something called “Memories of Mayberry.” From what I can gather, it is Barney Fife and Gomer Pyle impersonators. Fine, “Gomer” just better not break out into “Help Me Make It Through The Night.”

Click here to find out more information about the Dogwood Festival. See y’all there!

It was good to see members of the Orange County Board of Commissioners grill the developer of the proposed Buckhorn Village in a recent Times-News story. The project still has a ton of question marks hovering over it.

I’m kind of torn about the project: On the one hand I like the possibility of having a movie theater or restaurants merely three miles away from me. Then again, I don’t like the idea of not being able to see stars at night because of the streetlights that will probably accompany such project.

Well, listen up developer. You want my blessing? Here’s my demands:

Restaurants

Eastern Alamance and western Orange is exhausted with Chinese and Mexican restaurants. What we need is an Indian eatery. And a 24-hour place at that. I mean, why should the Iron Skillet be my only option at 3 a.m.? And why do I have to drive to Chapel Hill or Durham to get my Indian fix? This area is screaming for such a place.

Also, I want a 24-hour Allen & Son restaurant. Nothing too fancy, of course. A table, a bottle of sauce, a smoker, an iced tea maker and some of that proof-of-god’s-existence barbecue. If Allen says no then go after the Barbecue Joint guy.

Retail stores

Where Cabela’s is suppose to go, I want a record store. A record store so big and extensive that there would be places to camp out at in between rows. A trip to the record store would require a couple days off from work. The store would stock original, pristine copies of Blue Cheer and The Godz albums for no more than $12 and not the $30 repressings on 180 grams of vinyl.

A video rental store that stocks nothing but trashy B-movies and horror films from the 50s-70s. This would have to be a 24-hour place as well because who knows when I may want to have a Russ Meyer film festival at my house?

Movie Theater

Fine, have your 12-screen Olympus Mon of theaters, BUT three screens have to be set aside:

One screen would have to show classic movies that I never got to see on big screen: “The Godfather,” all Kubrick, Ed Wood, Russ Meyer, Billy Jack and Scorcese films, “Spinal Tap,” “Citizen Kane,” “Xanadu”…oh, wait, I saw that one.

The second screen would be dedicated to music films such as “The Last Waltz,” “Isle of Wight,” “Gimme Shelter” and “Woodstock.” State of the art sound equipment needed and plenty o’ volume.

And as a public service, the third screen would be a continous loop of “Up In Smoke,” “Reefer Madness,” “Dune” and “Gus,” the 1976 movie about a field-goal kicking mule. This screen will keep stoners busy and off the streets. 

(Roy wore that ugly tie. He would’ve been better off wearing that Kansas sticker .)

I believe I am finally out of the shock from the close loss to Kansas. Actually, I went straight from abject depression into allergy symptoms. Now, my insomnia (it’s 4:39 in the a.m. on Friday with Mel Street crooning “Smoky Mountain Memories” out of the XM on the TV) is due to allergy battling chemicals rather than stress brought on by anticipation of another Tar Heel game.

I long resigned myself to simply be grateful for Final Four appearances because those kind of banners simply look better in the Dean E. Smith Center rather than the pedestrian “Sweet 16″ or “Regional Finals” or the simple “NCAA” banners. National championships are gravy to me.

I watched the first 15 minutes or so of the first half at my house with my head in my hands and sounding like a skipping Marvin Gaye record by saying “What’s Goin’ On?” after every Heel turnover and easy Kansas layup.

“Alright,” I said to my wife. “Let’s go.” We hurried out the door and quickly drove about two miles down the road to a party. I got out of the car with a six-pack of Red Stripe and ran inside the house. The party hostess tried to introduce me to the crowd of people sitting around watching the game.

I brushed off the introductions trying to figure out what had happen since I left home. The Heels had it down to 17 at the half. I had earlier figured that 15 would be the magic number to be down by at the half. It’s pretty bad when you hope the University of North Carolina Tar Heels can get it down to 15. Hey, but it beats 40 to (shudder) 12.

During halftime I got reacquainted with an old friend from down south: Jose Cuervo. Good ol’ buddy Jose helps me to forget … how to stand, the English language, where I’m at. Jose helped boost my spirits for the second half.

The Carolina rally was classic and I got a feeling that the Heels might take the game to the wire. I started mocking Bill Self as a choke artist and commenting on his flop sweat. The spirit came over me and I got up and did a mini-sermon about the greatness of Wayne Ellington and dadgum Roy Williams. I had people believing. They were ready to testify. I was popping beer caps off with my Carolina Fight Song Bottle Opener. I was the Argyle King, I could do anything … then Danny Green’s three-pointer clanged out. I slumped and knew it was over. How many more days until Late Night with Roy?

Things I learned:

My superstitions failed miserably. The lucky Roy shirt, the barbecue, the Cheerwine, the 1982 Coke bottle, the boot I threw out in the yard around the 14 minute mark. All were useless.

My Jedi Mindtrick to choke Billy Packer probably doesn’t work.

Never go to a party during a Final Four game, especially ones that include pseudo-intellectual, hipster wannabes from (snicker) Fuquay-Varina who make snide remarks like “oh, wow, the ball went into the basket.” Sorry, deep person. You’re right, let’s turn off the game and put on the latest Iron & Wine snorefest and talk about how rockin’ Durham is nowadays.

Jose Cuervo tastes infinitely better when someone else buys it.

This is from a UCLA Bruins message board. There are some more hilarious film posters there featuring Hansbrough.

“You’re the best … around. Nothing’s ever gonna keep you down.” Confess, you know that song.

Show me, draw a foul.

How can I get in on this UNC-TV racket? I need to take some lessons from Ken Mann, the host and producer of the TV show, “My Heart Will Always Be In Carolina.”

The typical show consists of Ken Mann boarding a boat somewhere on the North Carolina coast and traveling around to places like Ocracoke and New Bern while some easy-listening acoustic guitar music plays in the background. Oh, I’m jealous.

This would tie in well with my other dream job: professional surf fisherman. I envision this sport being shown on ESPN 2 or the Outdoors Channel. The fishermen would earn money through endorsements ala NASCAR: fishing gear, sunscreen, beer. Compelling TV? No, but what would I care?

My surf-fishing season begins May 23 with a trip to Topsail Island where I plan on watching my father-in-law farm the ocean of marine life while I spend hours re-baiting my hooks with shrimp and squid.

Awww, Greggie don’t cry. You and Angelic Eyes ought to be used to losing by now. There’s always next year … if the Rat lets you back on the team. As for Angelic Eyes, it was a stellar NINE year career for the Evil Empire. Have fun playing pro ball in Israel.

While I’m piling on Duke, might as well include this photo I found:

This is former Duke basketball player Reggie Love passed out at a UNC frathouse a few years ago. This is one of the non-graphic photos I have seen of this situation. Some have suggested he was probably left there by his friendo, Duhon. Mr. Love now works for the Obama campaign. Jeez, Barack, you pick UNC to win it all and you have a Duke player on your team? Good luck winning the North Carolina primary!

I had prepared to release a tirade against Pittsburgh after that “school” busted my bracket Saturday by folding (science fiction nerd alert!) like space inside a Spacing Guild Highliner against Michigan State. But thanks to Davidson ripping out Georgetown’s collective heart and showing it to the Hoyas, I am no longer mad or even care that my Final Four has been razed.

It may have been hard to generate any real mean feelings toward Pittsburgh because I have nothing bad to say about the city. I visited it in 1995 and I found that it had three great things: A clean downtown, the Andy Warhol museum and Beer World.

Beer World was a dream come true for beer lovers. The place was jammed wall-to-wall with nearly every beer you have ever heard of. I couldn’t help but cry when I walked into the place. After walking through row after row with my jaw somewhere near the floor, I found what I was looking for: Blatz.

At the time, finding Blatz was the punk rock equivalent of finding the Ark of the Covenant. Blatz was something you read about in magazines like Maximum Rock’N'Roll and heard rumors about from people up North. Cheap doesn’t begin to describe this beer. Probably the equivalent down here would be Milwaukee’s Best.

So there I was, standing in front of a Sam’s Club-like display of Blatz. Cases upon cases. Needless to say, I bought five. My friends looked at me as if I had finally gone ’round the bend into insanity as I wheeled the cart full of cases out to a Jeep Cherokee. I figured there were plenty of thirsty friends back in Virginia who would like to taste this nectar of Milwaukee. I was feeling like Jerry Reed in “Smoky and The Bandit” smuggling some bastard Coors cousin not across the Mississippi but across the Mason-Dixon line.