The Top 5 Worst Places in America

First, a note of business: I created this blog not to be a source of constant word vomit about my feelings - I want to actually have something to say when I post an entry.

That said, here's something I've always wanted to document: The Worst Places in America that I've encountered in my numerous family vacations. As a prefatory remark, my family has ties in very random places. My dad's from New Jersey (no, not the cool part of Jersey, I'm talking about South Jersey, in the middle, where nothing exists...), my brother moved to Colorado and compelled us to drive there (the road to Colorado is paved with red, rocky hills, picturesque overlooks, and rednecks), and somehow college hunting found us in the most random college towns that I can imagine.

So without further ado, the worst places in America that I've come across to this date. If anybody that reads this feels differently about those places, feel free to prove me wrong. But you're likely just biased or hold some deep seeded insecurities about your hometown, because this is the truth right here:

5. West Deptford, New Jersey
I hate to be too harsh on this place because my Aunt Linda does still live here, but West Deptford defines every single stereotype that exists about South Jersey. The white trash in mobile homes, the legally separated cousin and his "wife" living with other partners 6 months after the separation, the gaudy Soprano's accents, and the awful smelling dog with an ear infection that never seems to get cured, etc. My memories from Deptford have mostly been blocked from my consciousness, but sometimes I still get flashes of my cousin telling me that the Godfather video game is great because you can "throw women in the street and run them over with cars and shit" and then stopping for a moment, thinking, and saying "you wouldn't understand yet, you aren't married." Family is family though, so I end up in West Deptford every 3-6 years. I seriously hope this portion of my family moves...

4. Rancho Cucamonga, California
I hate desert towns with nothing to do in them. Rancho Cucamonga, quite simply, only exists because there is a shopping mall. Granted, this was a very large, relatively cool shopping mall, but I spent too much time choking on smog and eating in Outback Steakhouse to gain any enjoyment from this attraction. If I wanted to be surrounded by chain-smoking, LA wannabes, I would go to the Valley.

3. Bird-In-Hand, Pennsylvania
In order to avoid unnecessary prejudice against Bird-In-Hand, allow me to mention that I was only six when this incident occurred, and my memory is foggy. This could have happened in any number of the Amish towns that my mother took us to in search of the perfect quilting shop (could have been Paradise or Intercourse for all I remember). However, Bird-In-Hand not only has the most ridiculous name I've ever heard, it is the the setting of one of the most horrifying incidents of my childhood. After a flash snow storm, I ended up stranded outside of a quilt shop in this Amish town with a sneaking suspicion that I needed to use a restroom. Well, as we all know with Amish people, they don't much like technology, or flush toilets, and so I was screwed. And thus, I ended up on the side of a parking lot, with my six-year old johnson in hand attempting to pee before too much snow covered my package. This memory is emblazoned into my mind, and while I don't remember many details about Bird-In-Hand, its inability to provide proper restrooms makes this a shoe-in on my list.

2. Wendover, Nevada/Utah
In my family's adventurous road trip to Colorado to visit my brother, we stumbled across this lovely border town that divides Nevada and Utah. As with all border towns, all the cool stuff is on one side, and all the scary stuff is on the other. Can you take a guess on which side had which? Nevada had its casinos, its alcohol, its interesting people...and we stayed in the Motel 6 on the sketchy Utah side which had a Lucky's and what looked to be quite a few undercover coke dealers. Legally, it would make more sense for Nevada to be the sketchy side, but it seems as if degenerates instead wanted to sneak around the Utah side and entice proper citizens and tourists over to motels on the Nevada side. Apparently the ploy worked, because the only acceptable restaurant in the city for us to go to was the Rainbow Casino's buffet on, guess where, the Nevada side. This wasn't a good buffet either, but then again, are casino buffets ever good?

Regardless, I ended up in a very creepy motel room with a window facing what can only be described as a "mountain of graffiti." Literally, I fell asleep staring at a gigantic, red rock with what I would expect to see in a men's room written all over it. If there ever is a case against Prohibition in Utah, somebody should use Wendover as the example for why alcohol laws should be repealed. Seriously, they can't have helped that much if Wendover is still as awful as it is.

1. Williamsburg, Virginia
Some may think that, compared to some of the small, crap towns that I've dug up for the previous portion of this blog, Williamsburg is a surprising choice as the worst place in America. Let's stick to the facts here, though. Williamsburg is a perpetually hot and humid town located a short drive away from the Atlantic Ocean. Oh yeah, and it's a completely colonial town where half of the residents dress as if they just met Thomas Jefferson for tea to discuss amendments to the Declaration of Independence. I went to Williamsburg to visit William & Mary, and left wondering how a single college student could exist in a place where if they walk 2 blocks, they can see a grown man pretend to be a blacksmith. I want to be as far away from any location where grown men pretend to have professions that were long proved obsolete. This is not to mention the fact that while I was there, it was 110 degrees for the entire day, with 90% humidity. I tolerate heat pretty well, and this place gave me heat stroke. Or perhaps the fact that not a single building in the town was modern enough to have air conditioning or a refrigerator for cold beverages did this. In any case, congratulations Williamsburg, you are the worst place in America.


For those of you adventurers out there, don't let me discourage you from exploring the country. Just be careful, because if it sounds bad (Bird-In-Hand), looks bad (Wendover), then it probably is bad. Happy trails!

My Life on Vinyl

Some things get better with age, right? Wine, definitely. Whisky, absolutely (well, while we're at this, let's just add all alcohol that doesn't have the word "Light" in its title). Art definitely gets better with age, because lets face it, nobody thinks art is cool until its creator has passed away. But one thing that has recently occurred to me is that music, especially its fads, seem to get much better with age. It's 2o09: vinyl sales are surging, you can still find a handful of kids with Clash patches on their denim jackets, and people continue to comment about my radio airname, Bungalow Bill, as if the White Album absurdity came out just yesterday. In fact, I can't remember anytime somebody's called into KALX and requested the new Bob Dylan album over some obscure Siouxsie and the Banshee's B-side (the closest was some guy requesting the new Dinosaur Jr. album because he said it reminded him of their old stuff...not exactly a proper concession to my point).

All of this led me to the concept of viewing my life on vinyl. I started out as a 12" single that a few audiophiles out in Berkeley picked up and enjoyed for its pop sensibilities and light-hearted honesty. But now I've grown older, an LP that's been sitting on the shelf of a man who hasn't felt strongly about anything since Surfer Rosa first came out in '88. At this point, people know me as a person. When I meet somebody new, I may have the new car smell, but I'm still the same make and model that I've been for a while. My battle right now is not for self-actualization, but for self-maintenance. I'm not having a mid-life crisis, I'm having a quarter-life analysis of where I'm at, seeing if I'm alright with the guy that I decided to be when middle school bullies and high school buddies forced me to make those decisions.

However, vinyl re-surges, audiophiles buy new equipment to play their old LPs, and people remain interested. Especially in my first summer back from college, I've realized that people generally don't change that much. While that may lead some to think that their friends are boring, and seek something new, there is beauty in this realization. A new record rarely affects somebody strongly until they've heard it a few times (case in point, one of my favorite albums of all time, Manchester Orchestra's Mean Everything to Nothing). So, in application, while we may not be fighting to find ourselves, we can take comfort in continuing to assert the selves that we have found. There's no shame in throwing on Nevermind in this decade, so why should there be shame in simply existing in a scenario - as you are, with no need to attempt originality.

The truth about vinyl is that the most comforting feeling I've ever experienced is grabbing a record off the shelves, knowing exactly where to put the needle to play the track that I want to hear, and sitting back to hear the beautiful, warm sound of the music that results. I know that I'm not going to find anything new, but I don't need to. I may be an old LP, but at least I'm not a one-hit wonder, and the experiences that I have now are simply new tracks laid down in the studio, not re-inventions or attempts to repeat what's already occurred. This is the type of musician I want to be, and more importantly, the type of person I want to be.


I've known for a while that I'd like to have a blog, and I'll do my best to update this as frequently as I have something to say. This will also be a place to update people on my music, my sports opinions, my radio show, etc. I hope that you all will continue reading in the future.