TWENTY TWENTY HINDSIGHT

We are America’s smartest city, so says the Daily Beast. Precisely, this is a “university hub, including two of the nation’s elite schools (Duke and the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill), and those schools led to one of the nation’s great technology incubators (Research Triangle). On top of that, Raleigh, as the state’s capital, attracts engaged political minds, as well.”

In this not-so-scientastic study, the fifty-five largest metropolitan areas across this grey nation were assessed on the basis of education and intellectual climate, with factors like the number of non-fiction books read, the percentage of the population with iPhones, and rates of political engagement as gauged by Obama bumper stickers. It’s no surprise that we topped the list, what with being the home of two of the nation’s elite schools and all. I personally feel pretty good about failing out of an elite university, although the only reason I applied to the School of Information and Library Science at UNC was because the students in that program were always at the bar. It’s definitely better than being kicked out of the University of Phoenix, the first institute of higher learning to sever our relationship.

Here’s the thing about living in the smartest trifecta in the country: when you only buy the Times so the neighbors are impressed with your recycling and are constantly nodding through conversations about the progress of someone’s PhD, Minutes Sixty-Seven through Sixty-Nice in Fellini’s La Dolce Vita, but are really wondering if the bartender is gay, you feel decidedly medium. You’ve always considered yourself smarter than average, if only because you got your driver’s license on the first try, but you’re now realizing that you only got into AP Biology because your mom was the principal.

Still, I always wonder if these people really are smart. Their language is so dense that they could be full of shit and I’d have no idea. Use terms like, “ontology” and “meta” and I’ll assume you deserve as MacArthur Genius Grant, and so, when you live here, your ego suffers. The result of this is that you both consider everyone else an asshole and become one yourself. Carrboro is across the tracks (literally) from the University of North Carolina, and, while a large percentage of the population of Carrboro either attended UNC or moved here after grad school at Columbia to work at UNC, there is a decidedly town versus gown thing going on here. No, I don’t live in Chapel Hill, I live in Carrboro. I am an asshole about it. When I was in school, I constantly felt judged. I am obviously a proponent of bumping fussies, I have a dyke mullet and tattoos, and my backpack looks like what people in the ’70s thought the future was going to look like, which is actually very hip in parts of the country as well as Northern Europe, but makes people think I’m wearing a jet pack and flying between classrooms. Being on campus makes me feel like I’m at the nerdy table in the cafeteria again, and so I glare at everyone who tries to make eye contact with me. Fuck you. Fuck you and your ‘Carolina Girls Best in the World’ shorts.

It’s not just on campus either. I feel the same way when I’m anywhere in Chapel Hill. People think I’m stuck up because I am. I sit around with my friends and judge. “Look at that skinny bitch. Someone needs to eat a burger.” “Funny how that boy holding hands with his girlfriend has gay face. I wonder how many fingers fit in his ass.” Why invite this negativity into my life? Because I have class anxiety. When I worked at Whole Foods, I felt like everyone assumed I was some bottom-feeding townie, which I am, but one with a college degree from an accredited university, damn it.

Carrboro people don’t really have vacation homes, but we do have adorable mill houses on half-acre lots. We are an educated people, an upper-middle class people, a people with baby bjorns and co-op memberships and hipster dads, but we are not Chapel Hill people. We may root for the same basketball team and attend the same universities, but we are not Chapel Hill people. We may be a part of the smartest area in the country, but we are across the tracks. We are assholes, but we aren’t those assholes.

Whew, what a weekend. I. Am. Exhausted.

On Friday night the Golden Girdles—a recently-birthed and rather attractive collaborative—hosted their first event at 506. The show was a competition wherein nine local acts wrote and performed a song based on their interpretation of another genre. A metal band, for instance, might write a Christian rock song and perform it in front of a hand-woven tapestry of Rick Warren’s face, although this didn’t happen for some reason. The show included a panel of judges lacking only a semi-conscious Paula Abdul telling everyone how pretty they looked and questioning whether she is human or pumpkin.

My friends Whit and Jill asked me if I’d like to help with their project. As an attention-seeking wanna-be star-fucker, the thought of being on stage in the company of two incredible musicians almost made me wet myself. Do I want to perform in a packed club wearing a short dress and David Bowie cheeks? YES. Do I want to birth iPods out of an anatomically- correct silver vagina? YES. Do I want to suck the coattails of what is sure to be a winning act? YES.

The whole act was so outside-the-box (and by that, I mean “inside”) that it’s stupid hard to describe. Basically, Whit and Jill (aka Ram Rom) wrote a New Wave song set in the late ’70s/early 2080s about machines (WE NEED MORE MACHINES! WE NEED MORE MACHINES!) and wore computers on their heads. My role was mid-wife to the afore mentioned anatomically-correct silver vagina and it’s googly-eyed iPod babies. Amazing.

And we won. Or, I should say, they won and I’m reaping the benefits of their genuii. When Whit and Jill were accepting the award on stage I was holding the silver vagina. It was still wet from the spray paint and all I could think to say was, “This is one sticky vagina.” Into the mic. Also, we won a $100 bar tab at our neighborhood drinking trough. YES.

Later that night, two besties slept on a deflated air mattress in the freezing spare room where I keep my dirty laundry, the keepsakes of failed relationships that I don’t want to look at but can’t burn because of drought regulations, and the creepy baby calendar I got for Christmas. I, however, was nicely heated the company of a new friend across the hall. The two unfortunate palsies in the next room may have been miserable for most of the night but they had the pleasant occasion to sleep with Cozy, my beloved teddy bear. They thanked me for this the next day, like, hey, even though you made us sleep on a deflated air mattress in your freezing spare room where you keep shit you don’t want to look it, it was pretty nice that you let us sleep with Cozy. Thanks, boo.

When recounting this to mutual friends the next day, another friend (we’ll call this one “Clare”) informed our sleep-deprived peeps that she knew perfectly well why I wanted them to sleep with Cozy and that it was not out of generosity. No, “Clare” told them, I wanted them to take the bear because I always banish Cozy from the room when entertaining guests. The thought of my beloved teddy witnessing the depraved acts of a species that can construct miniature polar bears out of mere stitching and love but engage in some bizarre shirtless wrestling is too much. Best to spare the bear.

And this was when I realized that I am way too TMI with my pals.

Great weekend, people. Keep up the good work.