Thoughts on Trevor Nelson: A Lofty Birthday Panegyric

Once, in New Orleans, on a balmy summer afternoon, I was making my way through the French Quarter when something caught my eye. There was a small Chinese man, tucked away under the branches of a small tree, separate from the crowds, who was gazing proudly at a picture he’d just completed. Intrigued, I shuffled over to look over to look at the creation.

It was a picture of a majestic unicorn, gracefully flying through blue skies, and in his mouth he was holding a painting of another unicorn flying through equally blue skies. This unicorn, though, had golden legs, and his ears were shaped like candy canes. And the unicorn was drunk. The Chinese man was too.

But soon I felt myself fall under the spell of the unicorn, intoxicated by the metaphorical themes that only a drunk unicorn can convey; indeed, something we can all relate to. I became dizzy and overcome by rhapsody, and began to violently gallop away, arms and legs akimbo. I’ve felt this way but twice in my life; the second episode came when I met Trevor Nelson.

Trevor, simply put, transcends time and space. When around him a feeling that can only be described as otherworldliness washes over you. Maybe it’s his disdain for emo-kids, or lack of New York sophistication (he is something of a rugged, Texas brute), or perhaps his uncanny ability to suck his own toes. Or maybe it just can’t be put into words.

We all find ourselves, from time to time, feeling as though there must be more in life. Being content is well and good, but the tendency to become restless and unsettled is very natural. Our hearts swell with inspiration for something better and we can’t shake the suspicion that somewhere, perhaps just around the corner, life is stirring. The question then becomes: How do we make our way, from the turbulent seas of inspiration to the far, far shores of accomplishment? There is but one answer: Trevor.

The notion that a young man, who divides his time between ill-advised poetry, ramen noodle truck parties, pimping himself on e-bay, and playing unfortunate harmonic guitar solos at 3am is the source for redemption and a renewed faith in life seems dubious at first thought. But I’ve met him. I’ve spent time with him. I’ve seen the inner most depths of his soul. I’ve seen him intrude on our dinner. I’ve seen chocolate sauce spread all over his body.

Trevor: a young panglossian; a romanticist orphaned in the harsh realities of a post-modern world; a reason to get out of bed in the morning.