Food on the Run

Marathon Shmarathon.

It wasn’t even a week ago when I saw the ad for the Charleston Marathon. I remembered how a friend and I were going to run the Marine Corps Mud Run but for some reason, it fell through and we didn’t get our team together in time. I always see pictures of people running 5k’s and I always think, I should sign up for those, but I usually see the registration fee and make up some excuse. While scrolling through the participant info page for the Charleston Marathon, I called my friend up and told him the news.

“We’re going to run a half marathon in January.”

“I don’t know man, I haven’t run that far in a long time."

“Ah you can do it, you’ve got over two months to get ready. You’re signed up.”

Neither of us were, in fact, signed up, but I wanted him to run it with me so he agreed and I further inspected the course route, what the t-shirts looked like, and at what intervals the race would offer water. Little did I know that after you pass the half mark of the full marathon (13.1 miles) they hand out bananas and handfuls of jelly beans for a quick energy boost to get you through the NEXT 13.1 miles. 

The arrogant Nate on my left shoulder popped up. 

“You can do a whole marathon, you run almost a half every time you run the bridge from downtown and back. Just run slow, it’s not hard”

Right? I though. I mean I run a lot, I’m in pretty good shape, maybe not marathon shape but it’s not like I’m trying to win it, anyone can finish it. 

Click.

Debit card.

Chase reward points. 

Tshirt size Med.

And like an idiot, I registered, for a marathon. 

That was the hardest part right? Paying around $100 to run from downtown to like, Atlanta, or whatever. I figured I should talk to someone who know’s a little more about this whole "running far” thing so I called my brother in law. He’s a guy who could run a marathon for kicks and giggles. I’ve tried to run with him and it’s always the same story. He starts out at what I think is a sarcastically fast pace only to realize as I immediately start to fall behind, this is his jogging pace. He’s usually home and showered by the time I hobble up to where we started. Needless to say, he knows what he’s talking about. 

“When’s the marathon?’

“A little over two months.”

"How far are you running now?”

“My long runs are pushing a half’s distance.”

“Yeesh…..ok, well, you, uh, you may be able to be ready in time, 26.2 is a long way man, the reason they hand out bananas and jelly beans is because your body has used up every bit of it’s energy by that time. It’s no joke. You need to have at least one long run a week, and each week after, tack on an additional mile until you’re near race distance.”

So that was that, I needed to see how far I could go to get my bearings for this whole training thing, and yesterday was the day I chose to do that. 

I packed it in early at work and headed home to start what I was sure to be at least a 20 mile run. I downloaded a few new albums of angry rap to get me through, stretched a little and started off. Colonial lake was first up and to warm up I glazed over and lapped it for a few miles. Down Broad St to King, a left on Tradd to East Bay and then all the way around the Battery back to Colonial Lake. A left at Lockwood took me to, and then past the marina and on to the Citadel. 

 As I started to feel that all too familiar “I’m tired, this sucks” feeling, I was sure I would be at least near the 10 or 12 mile mark but oh no, I had only gone a mere 7 miles. "Wow, I am in deep trouble” I thought. Not only was I in way over my head physically but as I looked around I saw a lot of graffiti and abandoned houses. A look up revealed I was directly behind the old cigar factory so I picked up the pace and headed for the bridge. 

It’s amazing what upbeat, angry rap music can do for making you forget you can’t feel your legs anymore. After a loop around the submarine in the grass at Patriots Point and back across the bridge I began to feel a serious hunger. By the time I reached the benches on the downtown side of the Cooper River Bridge I couldn’t take it anymore. I promptly stopped, took a seat and made a call.

“Popa John’s, Wesley Drive, how may I help you?”

I got a strange look from both women walking by my bench as I held the mic on my ear phone cord and replied:

“Yes I need to make an order for delivery, two large original crusts with extra cheese and mushrooms.”

“Will that be all?’

‘Nope, throw in a two liter of mountain dew please.”

"Would you like to try one of our Papa John’s cookies for $5.99?"

“Haha, no that’s ok, I’m trying to watch my weight.”

The lady at the store either didn’t catch it or was too busy for idiots trying to be funny. It was probably hard to hear what I was saying because of all the cars driving by, because I was on a bench, outside, on a bridge.

“45 min to an hour.”

Perfect, now I can leisurely finish this hell of a run, and just as I’m getting home, a delicious melty cheesy dinner will arrive and I’ll justify it as being healthy because Michael Phelps eats pizza and he’s an olympian. I shot off a tweet and slowly began running again. 

Then things got a little out of control.

At Church St and Market, I received a call from a Greenwood number and my heart sank. It was the pizza guy. I was less than a mile from home but after 17+ miles, I might as well have been in Summerville. I told him I was right around the corner and that I would hook him up if he didn’t leave. My brain told my legs to pick up the pace but 2 strides in the reply was simple. 

No way in hell.

I phoned my roommates. No answer.

 Must run faster. Must have pizza. 

At this point I was grunting out loud, like one of those obnoxious weight lifters that deems it necessary to let everyone around them know how heavy the weight they’re lifting is. My phone lights up, it’s the roommate. Through gasps and grunts I blurt out:

“Are you home?!”

“No what’s up.”

I’m having something, err, delivered.”

“Nate, did you order pizza WHILE you were running?!” That is THE, fattest thing I have ever..”

“I DON’T (Gasp) WANT TO HEAR (gasp) IT!”

Queen St never seemed so long. Every car I passed I was sure was the pizza man had given up and was leaving with my cheesy treats. I rounded the corner and scared the crap out of the poor pizza man on my front porch as I yelled a mixture of a greeting and profanity, out of breath and much louder than necessary (due the my angry rap music that was still playing) and that I would be right back.

I came back to the door to a bewildered pizza man who kindly delivered my two large pizzas and drink and as I fumbled through the contents of my wallet that I had just dropped all over the floor at his feet, he asked in choppy English:

“Are you exercising?”

“Ha, I guess you could say that man, sorry I made you wait.”

“Hey, who say running has no reward, have a good night.”

I may or may not have laid on the floor of my entry way, in a sweaty pile of what used to be my neatly organized wallet, next to a family sized portion of unhealthy greasy pizza, laughing hysterically at not only what the pizza man said but at myself and how much of an idiot I was. Literally running as hard as I could so I wouldn’t miss my pizza delivery. That’s right. I’m an adult. Might as well go for broke.

I sat up, kicked my shoes off, taco styled two pieces of Papa John’s at one time and killed a solid 1/4th of that 2 liter like it was a water bottle. 

This marathon is going to be a piece of, uh, pizza.

No Need to Shave November

What's all this hype about No Shave November about? I understand that it’s for prostate cancer awareness and though it holds no candle to the amount of pink we saw last month, its a great idea to grow your beards out to show that you support the people currently dealing with such a nasty thing as cancer and the hope for a cure to come quickly. However, what about those of us who can’t grow a beard?

I have nothing to blame but my genetics, but it doesn’t make me feel any better that even after a few anniversaries of my, err, 25th birthday, I still cannot grow a beard, or even come to anything close. I see all of these magnificent hipster beards that were started long before the month of November rolled around and it makes me a little jealous, not that I would ever grow one, but I’d like to at least have the option.

Like, what if I go on a camping trip somewhere deep into the mountains and my small plane goes down hundreds of miles from the nearest civilization and I have to survive the wilderness like Alec Baldwin and Robert De Niro did in “The Edge” for weeks and weeks. They had 5 o'clock shadows before they even got on their plane. No outpost trapper is going to believe that I’ve been foraging for roots and berries and fighting off grizzly bears for over a month when I came out of the tree line with the face of a 7 yr old. I’ll just look like a really young, really dirty, ill prepared hiker. 

It’s not fair either. I have friends from high school that three days without a razor looked like Brett Keisel, when they were TEENAGERS!

The only way you could tell if I had shaved or not until well into my 20’s was when the sun reflected on the line where my peach fuzz unevenly ended on my cheek. I had a friend ask me why I wasn’t growing my beard out for No Shave November and I laughed because no one has ever used the word "beard" in a sentence directed towards me. I’ve had the same electric razor since 2006, if that tells you anything. Although Braun is a great brand, any electric razor will last a long time if it's only turned on for 45 seconds every other Tuesday.

 I guess it’s not always a bad thing. Getting my ID checked every time I even walk near the beer aisle makes me feel young.

So for all of you who can grow your full, thick, beautiful beards, let it go just a little longer for those of us who can’t. It’s not that I’m unsupportive of prostate cancer awareness and the search for a cure, it’s just that my attempt to show it with MY facial hair wouldn’t be obvious until well after the month of November has passed. 

Babes to babies.

I remember when Facebook first came to campus, it spread like wildfire and made that semester's grades considerably lower because instead of studying we were sending friend requests, changing our profile picture and "poking" people. Now, even my parents, who have yet to learn how to text, still have hotmail accounts and refer to anything online as "the internets" have Facebook accounts. Times have most definitely changed, but the more I scroll down my timeline, the older I feel, especially during this, most, awesome time to be young and on Facebook, Halloween.

Halloween for anyone from ages 18 - 25 is one of the best times of the year. There are costume parties and funny pranks, and costume parties, and pumpkin shi@ everywhere and costume parties. Honestly, it's really all about dressing up like an idiot and going to places filled with other people dressed up as idiots. I remember watching a 6'2 Elmo and Jack Sparrow wrestle outside a bar for a solid 10 minutes until Elmo ran out of gas and either passed out or decided the curb outside of Hal and Mal's was a good place to take a nap.

Not only do guys get their once a year chance to not only be belligerently drunk, and do it in ridiculous costumes, but young ladies get to dress up, or "down" as it usually is, That was one of the best parts of scrolling through Facebook during and immediately after Halloween, the girl's costumes. There was the naughty bumblebee, the naughty nurse, the naughty whatever, with enough clever tailor work, you can make anything into a "naughty" costume. You really got to see the "creativity" of some of the girls out there. Today is no different. Although the characters emulated have gone from Jack Sparrow to Walter White in yellow hazmat coveralls, the naughty bees and nurses are all still there, just not on my newsfeed.

On my newsfeed there are pictures of babies.

Babies and babies and babies with a few wedding sprinkled in there just for giggles. As I grow older so does my Facebook account and all my friends therein. I didn't know I was Facebook friends with so many babies. Being from the South, there is this instinctual need to get married as young as possible and then immediately start a family. Not that this is wrong by any means, it just makes my Facebook experience pretty boring, especially around Halloween. I want to see Elmo drop the people's elbow again. I want to see how many things can be turned "naughty." I want to see a gorilla holding a martini glass talking to Where's Waldo.

As I push all the babies and weddings on my newsfeed to the back of my head and get my tutu, combat boots and hair gel ready for my appearance as Ace Venture, Pet Detective,

 I remember, my best friend, is a doctor. He saved a guys life the other day. In a hospital.

Now the tutu really does look stupid. Maybe I have to accept the fact that I'm getting older and people my age don't really go as crazy as they used to for Halloween because they're married and are all having kids. I see Facebook picture-happy girls who are married driving Tahoes full of car seats that only a few years ago could have made a sailor blush with not only their Halloween costume but with the fact that they could drink that sailor under the table. I guess until I join the ranks of the married, I'll be that guy who still goes really, really, hard on Halloween.

Wyatt Earp is a jerk.

On a recent trip to New Orleans, I was reminded again firsthand why it pays to always be nice to people in customer service. 

I was running late to the airport as it was, and even though I was just going for a quick trip, I decided to drive my car and park. There was some sort of construction going on in the parking lot and the closest parking spot I could find was almost all the way across the entire lot so I had a quite a hike. My roller suitcase was acting like a spoiled child on one of those kid leashes ridiculous parents harness up their young in. It was a good thing I hurried because there was a line all the way across the width of the terminal in front of the ticket desk. 

I wasn't checking a bag so I weaved my way through the people who, printed tickets in hand, were just standing there apparently waiting to check theirs. I thought, "Look at all these people, checking bags. Look at them waiting and look how smart I am skipping that step. I'm a genius." Once to the little electronic kiosk however, I was taken down a notch.

"Flight something something has been delayed. Please see a reservation specialist or call 1-800-whatever for more information."

Apparently I had a very recognizable look of confusion and disappointment as I looked up because the first lady behind the desk I made eye contact with pointed to the line that spanned the width of the terminal. 

Defeated, I picked my way back through the people I had just laughed at in my head. They were waiting to speak to a "reservation specialist" as well. 

A few miles away, at the back of the line, I watched as one by one, or couple after couple, approached the desk and lit into the poor women behind it about how they were going to miss their connection or how long ago they had booked their flight and how ridiculous all this was. The ladies were obviously stressed out as collectively there were around 65 people waiting.

As I got closer, I noticed the older man in front of me was especially unhappy. He was on his phone with the airline and was being very rude. 

"I'm gonna to miss my connection! You need to fix this. (pause) I don't care if the repair part is coming from China, you give me another connection! 

I turned behind me to exchange an eyebrow raise with the mother and daughter behind me who were looking at each other in disbelief. There was a muffled mixture of profanity and mumbles as he hung up on whoever he was talking to and put his cell phone back on his belt. If I didn't like him before, the cell phone holster on the belt took the cake. 

WHY do people, mostly middle aged and older men, consider it necessary to have a holster for their cell phone on their belt? Is it so they can "quick-draw" their phone old west gunslinger style to get on that call? Is it because there isn't enough room in their, count em' FOUR pockets, for your ONE cell phone?  They're stupid and I hate them.

This guy was chomping at the bit to get to the desk, huffing extra loudly and shaking his head in disgust to anyone that would notice. When it was finally his turn he made his three step approach as theatrical as he possibly could by dropping his bag just hard enough to make a loud thud and slapping his ticket info on the desk.

I turned again to the two ladies behind me to make a "buckle up, here we go" face.

The poor lady behind the desk, Barbara, was obviously stressed. Her hair was a little messed up and her forehead was glistening with sweat from busting her ass with the luggage. He didn't waste any time letting her have it. You could see her shrink a little with the first barrage of "This is the most unprofessional something something" he hit her with, take a breath, gather herself and settle in to take yet another pissed off traveller's horrible attitude right on the chin. 

After she had checked every airline that flew out of Charleston for available options and rearranged connections with a typing speed of what seemed like 900 words a min, something with the computer system put him on hold. She asked him as sweet as she could if he would step aside for just a minute so I could step up. He let out an annoyed sigh and Wyatt Earp'd his phone out of his belt holster as he sauntered off. 

As I stepped up, I saw her again, look down, take a deep breath and armor up for just another livid, delayed passenger to give her hell. 

"Hello sir, how may I help you?"

"Hey there, I think I might need to switch flights."

As she looked up my itinerary, she started talking through the options.

"I have a 4:30 out of Charlotte, that'll put you at your destination about 2 hours later."

"I hate to be that guy, but is there anything earlier?"

She began to look, as she had for the gunslinger in front of me, at every available airline. The times were either way too late or the flights were full. With an almost fearful expression she looked up and said "It's a friday afternoon, most flights are full so…"

"Hey no worries, if that 4:30 is all you can find that'll work just fine."

As she started back with her court reporter typing speed to switch my flights, I leaned a little closer and jokingly said in a hushed voice, "Do they send you to some kind of special psychological boot camp to deal with days like these?'

She looked up with a spark in her eyes that made me laugh.

"I've been doing this for over 20 years, and people don't realize we're just as upset about it as they are."

She laughed and shook her head as she looked down, as if to shake off the day thus far.

"Does that make working in baggage claim like punishment?'

She gave me a look that only a memory full of baggage claim nightmares could produce.

"Ohhh, baggage claim is not somewhere you want to work for very long. It'll change you."

"I bet, especially dealing with guys like that guy," as I nodded towards gunslinger who was waving his hands in the air mid conversation with whoever else he was chewing out. She smiled and shook her head again, "It's not like I broke the plane! It's in Houston! I don't even know how to set my radio in my car, I'm sorry I can't fix an airplane that broke down in Texas! My lord!"

I was laughing out loud at this point. She probably had an entire soap box worthy speech ready after years of dealing with angry people.

"I know a little how you feel. It like that saying, don't screw with people who handle your food. I bet you could make or break some people's day with that little keyboard there."

She laughed again as though that was not the first time she had those thoughts and replied as though to another person with "I'm sorry sir, the only flight I can find for you is through Antarctica." She had me rolling in laughter as she acted out a sarcastic "I'm sorry" face and dramatically hit one key on the keyboard as if to make that connection through Antarctica official. 

"You're being very easy, it makes it so much easier to work with people when they're understanding. How's and upgrade to 1st class sound on your second connection? These little planes out of here don't have 1st class but your connection is almost two hours long, how would you like that?"

"Really? That's awesome! Thank you so much!"

"Like you said, be sweet to the lady behind the desk, and the drinks are free."

She handed me my tickets and smiled. 

"Have a good flight, and drink one for Barbara, here at the US Airways desk."

I laughed and took my boarding passes like Charlie finding his golden ticket to the Chocolate Factory. I wanted to hug that sweet lady, but the desk was too high and gunslinger was hovering behind me, impatiently waiting to speak to her again. I shook her hand and held it just a second longer as I leaned in again, eyeing behind me towards gunslinger and said with a hush and a smile,

 "Good luck."

I turned and smiled to the angry man who was about to climb over my now obedient child of a roller bag to get back to Barbara. I wanted to ask him if he liked apples in a Bostonian accent like that scene from Good Will Hunting and then slap my upgraded ticket onto his forehead like "How bout' them apples?" but I didn't. I just went on my way to gate B2, thinking about Barbara in the trenches, taking grenade after grenade.

Lesson learned, as if I wasn't already fully aware. Don't be rude to people in the customer service industry, no matter what the situation. Treat people with common courtesy and a smile and it's amazing how willing they'll be to help you. Hopefully all of this makes sense, as I am writing it 2 vodka tonics into my 1st class flight. 

Petting dogs with bare feet.

I love live music, and although there are plenty of places to go see it here in Charleston, my favorite place is The Pour House. The Pour House is in West Ashley and has live music either on the outside deck, on the main stage or both, every night of the week. I've been there countless times and have seen my all time favorite musician, Martin Sexton there, so it has a special place in my heart.

Upon hearing a band from my neck of the woods would be playing there called The Dirty Dozen Brass Band, I immediately made plans for a trip to The Pour House. I called up a friend and we made our way down Maybank HWY, parked and made our way to the front door. The guy who was apparently working there let me give the door a solid two tries before he informed us the doors would be open in around 5 minutes and that there was music on the back deck playing until then.

Half a PBR tallboy in, my friend looked around and proclaimed, "I feel like I'm a MLB scout at a Wando JV game." I surveyed the scene. The ratio was about 1 girl to 7 bearded guys. Normally, big guys with full sleeve tattoos and solid 6 month beards would make me nervous but with hipsters being as popular are they are here in Charleston, they usually just make me Chai Tea Lattes. If anything did go down, I'm pretty sure jeans that tight aren't easy to run in. I felt pretty safe but I wasn't there to start any trouble, I'm sure they were all fans of The Pour House WAY before it was cool and just wanted some good tunes like I did.

The band playing finished up and the crowd started building up on the outside deck. My friend and I got another round and met a middle aged woman and her husband playing that ring on a string game thats to the right of the bar. We tried to explain the point of the game was to try and swing the ring and hook it on the opposing post, for whatever point system or drinking game your incorporate it with but she wasn't having it.

"It's not possible to hook it, the ring is rotating. It's physics."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I've been trying for like..fifth...five minutes!"

As she was explaining how she read "in a book" that the physics pertaining to this game made it impossible, my friend had taken the ring and was on his 3rd try when we both heard the clang of the ring successfully hooking onto the post.

 I tapped her beer bottle with my PBR can and whispered "physics."

There was a chocolate lab named Charlie we had become friends with during our tenure out on the deck and he was making his way around our little area getting pats on the head from whoever would oblige. He was there with two girls in their mid 20's and would occasionally circle back to check in or take a little rest at their feet. If they had brought Charlie with them to be their wingman, it quickly backfired as a man well into his late 50's approached them with tight high wadder jeans, a tucked-in yet unbuttoned hawaiian shirt and no shoes or socks on. As he leaned on the African Safari arcade game to get about 4 inches from the now very worried girl's face for a little chat, he started to stroke Charlie's back with his foot. His bare foot.

"Hey there darlin, is this pup here yours?"
"Uh, er, yes sir, I mean yea."

I turned to my friend and made a face as he sighed and shook his head.

"Let's go inside."
"Damn Wando JV game."

Inside the main floor was starting to fill up as the opening band was setting up. They were pretty solid bluesy rock and a few of their songs had their moments but I was ready for The Dirty Dozen Brass Band to go on. This band is originally from New Orleans, one of my favorite cities, and they play a mixture of zydeco, cajun marching music and funk covers. I've seen them play multiple times and wasn't going to miss a chance to hear some music from home.

As the main show began to start, my friend, and another that had joined us, moved down from that upper bar area to the main floor to get a better view of the stage. The band was amazing. The main guy could play two trumpets and the same time. It's ridiculous. It's also great music for semi-dancing without spilling your drink or moving your feet from where they are, or as I like to call it, "white people dancing." Consistent beat. Not too fast. Very easy to follow.

Some people like to take things up a notch from the safe haven of "white people dancing," especially when the band really gets things going. In comes Encino Man from the outside deck completely hammered, cargo shorts, no shoes, a ripped up Quicksilver sleeveless shirt and a bandana tied to cover up his mid back long blonde hair. And not a bandana tied Rambo style, but Cinderella scrubbing the floors while little mice sing to her style. Also, I say Encino man, the caveman unearthed in Samwise Gamgee's backyard in one of my favorite early 90's movies, because he was dancing like Brendan Fraser, or, Encino Man, did in one of the last scenes of the movie where an entire high school not only had no idea he spoke no english throughout the entire movie but elected him prom king after he led a school wide dance.

I use this comparison only partly in jest, because my comrade at The Pour House used the little kick to the side move at least 2 dozen times. He even did a spinny twirl move that knocked two drinks and a purse to the ground and although the mixed drink was KIA the PBR can he saved from completely emptying out had at least a sip or two left in it. He was a little shocked but too drunk to be embarrassed and as he looked up at my now empty hand I just smiled and said:

"You earned that."

I'd like to say Encino Man had as much fun at the show as I did but after closing out and heading to the parking lot, we heard the distinctive sound of someone's stomach refusing to "party on." I went over to see if he needed any help but he was already snuggled up in the bed of a pickup and ready for the ride home.

If there's any lesson here, it would be support local live music venues, don't be afraid to dance to what you think is your full potential, and don't ever, under any circumstance, pet a dog with your bare feet, in a bar.

Mmmbop makes me run faster

 I love Charleston. People come from not only all over the Lower 48, but the world to see our Colonial styled houses and cobble stone side streets by way of one of our carriages drawn by our very weak boweled horses. For any readers not familiar with the downtown area, the main shopping strip is King St. between Calhoun St. and Queen St. It's a little over half a mile of clothing stores, cool places to eat and an Apple Store. Year round, the foot traffic is heavy and the street itself is hardly wide enough for the two lanes it bolsters, making a wait at every light. The sidewalks are made of large, uneven flat stones that look like they were placed in the same fashion you waste time flicking a deck of cards at a cup. Watching the girls who decided to keep their heels on try to walk home after a night out on these stones is perhaps one of my favorite pastimes. Wobbling like a newborn fawn, trying to keep up with "Alexis" or "Madison" they look like they're walking on chopsticks.

"She's got it, she's got it! Wait....wait.... DOWN GOES FRAZIER!"

Why then, would this stretch be one of the most popular places to jog? Without fail, if you stand anywhere on this part of King St you will see runner after runner jog by in their brand new, neon color coordinated outfits and matching shoes. There's a part of me that wants to give anyone respect who can run in July at 4PM. In South Carolina. But, the other part of me, the part that likes to make fun of everything that moves, finds it ironic that these runners find it necessary to run here.

As a runner myself, this idea sounds like a nightmare. When I run, or attempt to, the last thing I want is to be around people who are going to judge me on everything they see, kinda like I do. Top that off with a narrow street full of drivers from Ohio and Texas who are only used to sharing the road with white tail deer and the occasional opossum and uneven, chopped up stones for a running surface and it's starting to sound like something out of Dante's Inferno.

My only conclusion is that runners who choose to brave all of these perils have one, non-fitness oriented goal in mind; to be seen. Why else would you run down King St? There are miles and miles of smooth streets with little to no traffic that provide the exact same opportunity to fight off dad's genetic gift of heart disease or sweat out last night's bad decision to mix a copious amount of PBR and "Ok just one more fireball shot." Just ask me, I know all the good side streets to run on that are as far away from people as possible that could see my stride and what looks like someone getting shot with a taser gun and stumping their toe at the same time. Plus, I'm usually singing word for word some upbeat song that keeps my mind off how much I want to quit, like......Hanson's "Mmmbop."

Say what you will, once you get past the embarrassment of the fact that you know every single word, that song will shave at least 45 seconds off your mile time.

Ok, maybe not for this guy.


I guess if I spent $80 on a pair of shorts at Lululemon then I would want to show them off too, and, as ridiculous as it may seem to run down King St. at least these people are running. They could be in a coffee shop, hipster watching and writing in a blog while housing cup after cup of iced tea, so kudos, or whatever.

The Jane Goodall of Hipsters

I have found the hipster nest.

In the process of moving earlier this month, I've yet to get my ridiculously overpriced cable and internet hooked up, which has forced me to frequent the variety of small coffee shops and cafes located on almost every corner here in downtown Charleston. Typically, I'm a slave to my brands, therefore 9 times out of 10 I go to Starbucks on lower King, however, today I chose a more local spot. I'll refrain from using names, but a clue might say it's on a street that rhymes with Shmarket.

I love nature. I was raised practically in the middle of the woods, off a county road, down a quarter-mile dirt "driveway." I have always enjoyed the perks of living so far away from civilization, such as hunting, fishing, camping, but probably most of all, I enjoy being around wildlife you can only see once you're out there. Just taking a quiet walk into a thicket, and being silent will provide you opportunities to see local wildlife in their natural habitat, doing whatever "wildlife" does. Now I live in the middle of one of America's oldest cities, and a pure bread pedigree dog being taken for a "walk" in a stroller is about all the wildlife I get to see.

 Then there were Hipsters.

Hipsters are my new wildlife. I like to watch them in their natural habitat. I like to watch them do whatever hipsters do. I like to see the crazy outfits they come up with, and how each one of them expresses how unique they are, exactly like each of their friends do. Sometimes I go places where they congregate and,  like today, instead of doing whatever I originally planned to do, I watch them like I'm Jane Goodall in the Congo. I am by no way passing judgement on the way anyone dresses or lives their life. Yes I am. This is my blog.

Let me see if I can paint a picture here.

When I walk in, the guy behind the counter has an extra small t-shirt on with some band name I've never heard of and an extra large conductor hat. Yes. A conductor hat, like the pin striped, small billed hat old coal-burning locomotive conductors wore. He hasn't shaved in at least a few months. Everything on the menu is organic and extremely overpriced. I order "Uh, regular tea? On ice? Do ya'll have that?" He tries to upsell my order with all kinds or organic goat milk and some other weird sugar extract I've never heard of. When I decline and pay he thanks me with "Thank you brother." I pick a safe spot in the corner next to what looks to be one of "my people," a guy, we'll name Jo, in a polo that's a brand I recognize, shorts that fit and weather appropriate footwear.

As I survey the room, I notice a long table in the center of the shop filled with 7 or 8 mid 20's having a serious, almost heated conversation. I open my computer and put in my headphones and like in most coffee shops, instantly become invisible. I usually play some music to tune out any distracting noise, but not today. Today I'm hipster watching.

There's one hipster, I'll call....Asher. Probably 5'9, maybe 135 lbs, clean cut haircut and a 5 month beard, he has a white button up that is at least 2 sizes too small, sleeves rolled up and tail tucked into khaki pants his legs are screaming to get out of. They are rolled up to the knee. He has heavy wool socks on and what appear to be full ankle coverage hiking boots. In mid July. In Charleston, South Carolina. Elevation above sea level. 18 inches. Accessories are minimum but he does have Rayban Wayfarer styled thick rimmed glasses.

To his right is a young lady who we'll name Harmony, who has bleached denim shorts that are higher on her torso than they are long on her legs. She has tucked into them a denim button up short sleeve, buttoned to the top button and bright red suspenders. Her dreadlocks are somewhat tucked into a round, flat brimmed straw hat gentlemen in the 1920's used to wear. She has a piercing in her lip, nose, eyebrow, and from what I could count, thirteen between both ears and Rayban Wayfarer styled thick rimmed glasses. Something red and flashy catches my eye from outside. It's a motorcycle. No. It's a motorcycle with a damn sidecar. Like, a real motorcycle with a sidecar, that you see in old movies and where else...I don't know, the circus? Off hops what has to be the most extreme type of hipster. The lion of the hipster world. The head honcho..... The Well Funded Hipster.

He, let's say....Blaze, takes off his matching red helmet to show hair to his shoulders and of course, a solid 6 month beard. The helmet is one of those full coverage ones, because safety and good health are very important to hipsters, save the cowboy killer Marlboro Red he lights up outside to prepare his pallet for the delectable organic tea journey he's about to embark on. After "brother" thanks him at the counter, he proceeds to give each and every patron apparently waiting for him at the table at least a 10 second hug.

Stop right now and count to ten.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

That's how long each and every hug was. If I wasn't creeped out by that, the cheek and forehead kisses he gave both male and female friends alike pretty much did it. He had a v-neck t-shirt on and I swear the V went to his belly button, painted on skinny jeans and you guessed it, heavy thick socks and hiking boots. Unlaced. If you drive a motorcycle with a damn sidecar you're not going to stop being hip whenever you get dressed, and from the looks of it, that happened last weekend.

I can't help but watch them. I'm so excited that I've happened upon this "pot-o' hipster" so close to my apartment. I can't keep my discovery to myself.

 The conversation is heating up. There are printed up handouts being passed around. I can't help but listen in, though it wouldn't necessarily be called ease dropping as this shop is small and they're getting loud. I was expecting them to be talking about some political issue, rejecting the mainstream materialism Wal-mart is destroying America with or some dope new poetry reading lounge. I was wrong and had to look down to hide my ear to ear smile when I heard why.

"Meat is the enemy! All living, breathing beings have a spirit and we have to stop the senseless slaughter of these spirits. If you eat meat, you're a murderer. Seriously guys." -Harmony

That happened. Those words were actually spoken with a deep conviction, and received with slow nods and twists of mustaches as though it were a holy text being read in some sacred temple. They were having some sort of anti all-animal products meeting, to spread awareness and strengthen the movement. I had to admire their passion. They were serious about their cause and were exploring ways to demonstrate their disdain for the consumption of animal products. Picketing Harris Teeter, Crosbys Seafood and even taking a field trip out to some beef farm in upstate SC were put up for discussion. No real plans were nailed down, because the conversation quickly moved from how horrible meat is for your digestive system and then to Asher, Blaze and Harmony each "one-upping" each other with recycling techniques and the dedication to a world free of commercial materialism.

I couldn't take much more so I turned my music up and continued with my work. All that talk about how horrible meat was made me want to eat something , something full of commercial grade beef. And cheese. I immediately walked home, got in my gas guzzling SUV and drove to Wendy's. Did you know they will put as many patties on a cheeseburger as you want? Seriously, if you say, "Give me a #3 (which has 3 all American beef patties) and put 7 extra patties on there" they'll do it! I believe my spirit animal is an Angus beef cow. The 2178 calories (actual count) were quite delicious and I thought about my hipster friends back at the coffee shop. Who am I to say what is an acceptable style of dress  or length of facial hair? Who am I to say the uneven sidewalks of downtown Charleston don't deserve hiking boots. Who am I to say all animals don't really have spirits? My cheeseburger with 10 beef patties had something a little extra in it that made me feel pretty special. Maybe it was a spirit, maybe it was just the MSG, either way, I was glad I could enjoy it as freely and as passionately as my friends could refuse it.

 I hope I cross paths with my hipster friends again soon. I love a good iced tea while I observe the species interact in their natural habitat. Maybe I'll get to experience another sighting. Maybe, like Jane, I'll gain their trust and be accepted into the group. Guess I'll be in the market for some new shoes and reading up on how to be a hipster.