Pampered not in the diaper way

I've been in a semi-hallucinatory state the past few days. Welcome to day 3 of my detox water/juice fast. I do not recommend doing this unless you have no job or at least several days off in a row. Last night I found myself watching the Food Porn episode of No Reservations online and feeling slightly dizzy. I also applied for a job in deli prep kitchen at the Bowery Whole Foods. Umm...okay. I am supposed to ease back into food with fresh fruits and veggies but all I want are bbq wings a chili cheese fries.

Why am I doing this detox fast? Because I have been going out and eating the most delicious food on the planet night after night. Whether it is Del Posto for an anniversary dinner (7 course tasting menu, most of it out of this world, some not so amazing) or Fatty Crab to celebrate my boyfriend getting paid (so...much...pork belly) or even regular brunch at the standby that is Enids (with the biggest pancake portion I have ever seen...almond and apricot, they were so good) I've been indulgent beyond belief and it has caught up with me. On Saturday afternoon I will land in Barbados. Bikini season starts early for me this year. So I've gained 7 pounds of relationship/birth control weight. I can handle that, most of it went to my tits anyway, but for the first time in my life I've been gorging on nothing but meat and starches and I feel sluggish as hell.

So I detox to try to get all the gnarly out of my system (I started drinking small amounts of caffiene as well, that didn't help) and hopefully fit back into my impossibly small Acne Needles (did they ever really fit?) in the process. I have to stay away from Glen's Food Porn Tumblr in preparation for my island trip.

Still participating in the joys of obsession, here is a glimpse into my life in food last week.

Dinner @ Del Posto: We ordered the Grand Tasting Alla New Yorkese which thankfully is up on their website

Del Posto Winter SALAD
Roasted Porcini Mushroom, Smoked Proscuitto,
Stuffed Pepper, Mozzarella di Buffala, Spicy Broccoli Rabe

Tuna SUSCI with Insalata Tricolore
Raw Big Eye Tuna with Horseradish,
Radicchio, Chicory & Arugula

TORTELLINI in Brodo
Bollito Misto in a Miniature Ravioli
Served in a Rich Capon Broth

LINGUINI in Red Clam Sauce
A New York Classic with Pugliese Vongole Veraci Clams
and Piennolo Tomatoes

Beef ROSSINI
Beef Short Rib with Foie Gras
Truffles, Madiera & Garlic Spinach

TIRAMISU
An Impossibly Small Taste

CANNOLI with Blood Orange and Pistachio
Brooklyn Style, Made from a Recipe of Lidia's

Their site has more beautiful pictures than I even bothered. In fact I was too busy savoring to take any photos til the end. But goddamn that cannoli was magical.



The very next night we went the the Fatty Crab where we had two magical dishes and two so-so ones. The magic all came in the form of pork. Steam pork buns which sound innocuous but were completely delicious and the crispy pork and watermelon salad which...fuck...I can't even explain. So amazing. I wouldn't reccomend the skate or the chicken hot pot. The former just wasn't that good and the latter, while soothing, wasn't terribly special.

There was also pancakes, White Castle (although, what is a chicken ring sandwich with no honey mustard?), Yola's enchiladas, and an extravagent spread at Village Yokocho (the upstairs joint on Stuyvesant street right next to Sunrise Mart) including yakitori, taro stew, spinach with sesame sauce, steamed chinese broccoli, yellowtail collar (so rich I almost fell asleep after eating), and mixed pickles.

You see? I need a break!

The dress isn't too small

...you're just too big.

Ahh...cable has exposed me to a slew of adverts for new movies coming out and none have been shoved down my throat (I blame me watching too much TLC and Bravo) more than Bride Wars, yet another evil cinematic installment in the cultural pantheon of women as soulless harpies.

The media's architecture of New York womanhood is killing me. First Sex in the City normalized Botox-laden, chain smoking, hideous shoe fetishizing, money and man obsessed hags. That series ruined a piece of this city's soul. And now we have to endure two spoiled rich brats obsessing over wedding dates at the Plaza (which by the way, the Grand Ballroom is available for $80-100,000 plus catering which runs up to $400/person) and Vera Wang dresses. Hearing the words, "You don't alter Vera, you alter yourself to fit into Vera" (not an exact quote, spare me) on television kills me. These are the models of glamorous womanhood we get to look up to. Spare me.

My relationship with my body is complex enough as it is, thank you. And I can't blame the media for it entirely although that would be convenient. It is an issue I am particularly sensitive to (having written about it on this blog before.) Frankly I find movies like Bride Wars and Sex in the City far more offensive than anything that has ever come out of Howard Stern's mouth. Why? These entirely unlikable models for femininity are marketed directly towards women. Even though they are directed and produced (to an extent) by men, they are presented as about women, by women, and for women.

I will admit that my outrage may be somewhat of a folly since I haven't seen either movie (although I have seen almost every episode of Sex in the City thanks to dorm life) however, I do think I have a right to respond to the way these films are marketed and I bet my guess that their content can be garnered from their trailers and promotional television specials is correct.

I know I am bouncing back and forth, at one point embracing certain aspects of traditional concepts of womanhood and at another freaking out about cinematic representations of women I just feel seem awful. And lordy lordy, I have no idea what to make of He's Just Not That Into You which comes from the writers of Sex in the City (a collaboration of writers who are both male and female, just like the other two movies I mentioned interestingly enough.) All I know is that I won't see it in the theaters and for some reason according to it's IMDB page Kris Kristofferson is in it...AND it's set in Baltimore at least, instead of NYC.

New years, old jeers

So 2009 is over. I feel like I mark my years by age not by the calendar. I don't remember things as having happened in 2006, I remember them as having happened when I was 24. So the calendar changing over doesn't impact me that much. But suffice to say, 2008/26 was a rough year. 27 is so far more hopefully and with it, so is 2009.

My blog has been quite ruminative lately. It's been a big year, slowly letting go of girlhood and replacing it with an unfamiliar idea of womanhood I am still learning how to embrace. Yet I get more confident residing in this skin every day. Part of this slow, but necessary embrace started this summer when a lot of my walls started breaking down. I've always been one to keep my struggles secret, preferring to be stoic. For someone who professes to be such an open individual, I am really fiercely private about certain things. Anyone can know the mundane or tacky detail about my life, but in many ways I am quite guarded. My major struggle this past year was learning to let go of a persona I depended on to guard myself against the threat of intimacies and focus on developing and opening up my personality.

The difference between persona and personality is something that has always fascinated me. In fact it was a major topic of my senior thesis, Raging Against Intimacy in which I explored concepts of persona development in the club scene. I spent a good number of years dwelling in the confines of what I wrote, a persona complete with nickname, full of reference points that only referred to my interests not to me as an actual person.

While rave culture made some claims about the parties being about unity and transcendence through dancing bodies further enabled by drug usage, downtown makes no such claims. Instead, it is about annihilation and mayhem. Not that the scene is always tinged with dark undertones—it manages to be both nihilistic and naïve. Deep down there is the recognition amongst many participants that while punk rock may not have saved their lives, it definitely made them bearable. Friendships are formed quickly within this commonality of history, some are surface and some much deeper, but when recreation turns into required maintenance, these associations become fractured. The bonds that are formed are formed between the “out” personas of the nightlife participants. One person can refer to another as one of their closest friends and not know their last name and possibly seen them sober only on a few occasions. There is a staggering lack of intimacy within this scene whose anthems speak of loyalty and living and dying for one’s friends.

I wrote the above as part of my thesis in the spring of 2005. Three and a half years later not enough has changed. But my life isn't a dependent on that downtown rush as it once was. A few faces from the old days have faded away, left town, or passed onto their own oblivions. The rest of us awoke startled and confused in the aftermath. Realizing that while still quite young, we were becoming too old for relevance, the real world started interfering with our highs and the personas began to crumble. Jobs and the potential for success beckoned. Our art or our careers became priorities and punk rock a distant memory. We sobered up, looked around, and realized we didn't know a thing about those who we'd partied with for years. It was a sad state of affairs. Yet for some of us, the persona persisted.

Such as with myself, Beverly Battletits...former Battletorn-er, that chick who knows more about metal than most other chicks. Sobriety may have mellowed out perceptions of who I am, but a lot of the associations remained intact. Instead of relying on actually getting to know people I'd simply protest dumbly to the running commentaries as to who people thought I was. Until finally, one day, I learned not to worry. Anyone who thinks all I am is a metal record collection and a pair of expensive heels doesn't know me. And either they are or aren't worth getting to know. I shouldn't have to prove that I am a whole person, it should be obvious upon meeting me. I can't complain about people latching onto conceptions of who I am if I have done nothing but encourage them for years. And in turn if I have not showed them anything but that persona in the meantime.

This is all coming straight from my brain through my fingers onto this blog so pardon if its a little muddled. I have been in serious rant mode for a while lately and since this is my blog I'll use it as I please, and presently it has become a place for catharsis. However I hope my personal rumination also has somewhat of a world view and you can find my musing relevant or at least somewhat relatable. If not, then who knows, maybe I am alone here and the rest of you are a little more together and balanced naturally. But I for one have had to work on it, and thankfully I can proudly say I am just about there.

The new recreation

Yesterday was like a bad New York girl's day chick flick and then it turned into heavy metal Party Monster (Chloe Sevigny was even there.) This btw, was all a good thing.

Nikki and I met to get neighborhood coffee and somehow ended up at Sephora buying her lady face things. Despite my recent gender rant about my newfound ladyness, I'd never set foot in that place before. Make-up counters in general scare the crap out of me. Who wants to face a stranger skilled in the art of analyzing your facial flaws? I braved it on Nikki's behalf and slowly but surely was seduced into turning over my face to the skilled tiny pixie pretty gay man manning the Lorak aisle. After looking at myself in the harsh lights in a 5x magnifying mirror I was defeated and helpless. I bought a $25 concealer/highlighter/blender ball combo that I'm still not sure how to use.

Next stop was Bloomingdales, Nikki was on the hunt for blush and I decided I needed red lipstick. After trolling counter after counter I found it. How well I was adjusting...former makeup counter virgin on a mission for that perfect $25 tube of red. 999, Celebrity Red, Dior. It took me about 20 tests to find the perfect shade, my hand was looking like that of a cutter. Severely neglected by the gay behind the counter we waited pleadingly to find out if they had two tubes, one for each of us to look like perfect floozies for New Years. The crushing response, NO!

Back to Sephora, they didn't have that color at all. Uptown to the other Bloomingdales...SOLD OUT! Where else? Barneys - No Dior. Bergdorf - No Dior. Uptown Sephora - Didn't carry that shade. Bendel - Nope. Saks Fifth Avenue, our last hope...found the Dior counter. Begging breathless we ask, do you have 999 Celebrity Red in stock pointing at our lips still stained with the Bloomingdales tester. YES! We got the last two tubes in Manhattan. And what do two ladies do after scoring the last two tubes of the perfect red Dior lipstick? Why, they go to Red Lobster to celebrate of course!

Nearly comatose after far too many cheddar bay biscuits we did what any ladies would do post Red Lobster post lipstick frenzy...we went to a thrash show and ate some magic psychedlic chocolate truffles and went wild. It was a sea of head-banging, dirty dancing, fist pumps, and grapes of wrath in the basement of Lit. Somehow I made it home without a red pentagram tattooed on my palm even though I was begging for a homemade one. However when I did make it home with my McDonalds breakfast takeout at 7:30 am, the Dior lipstick was smeared above my top lip. Glorious mess.

I can't not say it

GO JETS!

Yes, despite all appearances, I am a football fan. The progressionw as slow, it started several years ago. Going to sports bars in midtown with Ty to get our fix. We'd sit on barstools in cookie-cutter Irish pubs on Third Ave befriending drunk financial dudes who always assumed I was Ty's girlfriend (probably for the best, much safer that way for my sake.) Ty was always on the endless search for the best and biggest screen to watch the Broncos play. Last season Daniel got in the mix with his Patriots lust but up until this year I never had a team of my own. I was always just a Broncos/Bears fan by proximity (both Chicago and Denver are reasonably near my hometown...it's not like I am going to root for the Rams or the Chiefs) and the residual enthusiasm of my friends who were such passionate fans of both teams it was hard not to get caught up.

I recall one evening last fall, Ty, Daniel and I went to Daniels favorite haunt in the shadows of Madison Square Garden, Deno's Party House USA. We went there to watch the game, I forget who the Patriots were playing, but it was last season during their glory drive (thankfully defeated by the Giants.) There was a single patron sitting on a duct-taped barstool eyeing the Russian girl behind the bar. Clad in nothing but a black bikini and a belly ring, she was soft and round and young. She couldn't have been over 20 years old. Her eyes lit up when we walked in, thankful to have other customers to distract her attentions from the solo creepo. Daniel and Ty ordered beers while I downed water and bar snacks. Daniel was a regular at the spot due to it's close proximity to the law firm he worked at and told us every time he entered there was a different young girl behind the bar. Theories of human trafficking, mail order Russian brides, prostitution, and a murderous owner entered our minds. Our bartender refilled my water three times even though it was never quite empty just to give herself a reason to stand near our group. Eventually we got so depressed by the vibes we had to leave, despite the bartenders pleas that we stay for at least one more drink.

From there we finished the game at some wretched BBQ joint and then went to Hooters. Okay. This story got way off track. What I am saying is that this season my relationship with football has gotten much more fufilling. I now have a team or two I root for. I even have teams I dislike (such as the Colts, something about Payton Manning drives me nuts.) I painted my fingernails green to root for the Jets. I love Bret Favre's stoic gentlemanly ways. The aging hero, 39 years of age, his joints aching and his body battered still taking the field and driving his team to victory. The southern gentleman, the good guy of football. How could anyone hate him? According to his Jets bio Favre, "Also enjoys hunting, TV nature programs, crossword puzzles, fishing and tending to his home and land on the 460 acres he owns in Hattiesburg, MS."

Okay I'll be the first to admit I don't exactly know what I'm talking about. But I know what I like, and I like rooting for the Jets. I like the energy of the game much more than any other pro-sport. The suspense, the glory, and struggle. It really is captivating when the game is a good one. And last night's game against the Patriots was a good one. The Jets won in overtime. Thank god. I actually felt myself getting emotional when the Patriots tied the game with one second left.

Don't worry, this won't turn into a football blog. And I didn't take pictures because certain things are holy and I don't think there is blogging allowed on gameday.

Childlike Ambition

Thursday night was pumpkin carving night at Glens. I have recently been quite doubtful of my artistic abilities but I believe they came together quite nicely. Even though my damn pumpkin took me about an hour to carve, probably because I was distractedly texting everyone about how much fun they were missing (who doesn't want to carve pumpkins? Sheesh!) Matt and Pete make the amazing Rat Fink pumpkin, totally from memory. Glen was of course responsible for the tittie-eyed monster and I carved Bart. Not bad considering I'd never attempted a Bart drawing much less a pumpkin before. Cassidy's was unfinished when I left so I didn't get the most proper picture.


Check out Pete's new leather daddy look


Sorry...he parties

Bury Terry

Putting your cat to sleep? Do what any of us would do. Have a potluck? Okay, having a party for a cat that's about to die may seem a little strange, but then you don't know this cat. Terrance "Terry" Barrow, born sometime in 1987, 20+ years



I've said it before here and I'll say it again, I am not a cat person. I don't hate cats, I feel weird about hating any animal, it just doesn't seem right. But I am not a fan of them. I have an extraordinarily large amount of clothing and I live in fear of a potential pee cat. Working for years at Beacons Closet put me face to face with the aftermath of the pee cat more than once. Customers would bring in trashbags full of clothing that had been drenched in kitty urine. It was, without a doubt, the gnarliest part of the job. Even gnarer than that time I found an antique colostomy bag. That smell is the worst and I've smelt it become the ruination of many a messy catlover's wardrobe.

Personality-wise I have no qualms about the little beasts, in fact I kind of prefer demon cats to friendly lovey-dovey kitties. Asshole cats are sort of the best, half-wild motherfuckers who hang out, destroy vermin, and want nothing more than to fight, eat, and roam. Needy attention-hungry cats are the worst. They are always walking around with their tails in the air sticking their cat asses in your face even if they aren't in heat.

But Terry was a different cat. Elderly and somewhat indifferent, he'd cruise up to you when you walked in the front door and meow "hello" in his ancient cat voice. Cock his head and look at you impatiently until you responded with a scratch under his chin. Then he'd walk away with his stiff old gait apparently satisfied and hide back in a corner somewhere. He was a wise old dude, seemed tired by living, but still kept going. But it was obvious he was slowly wasting away. He got skinnier and skinnier and lost his ability to make it to the litterbox on time. He seemed as though he was in pain and depressed and so Angela had to make the bummer of bummer decisions. This past Thursday she put Terry down. But not before we had a Bury Terry party.


Old dude chillin by the bathroom


Will fryin plantain patties


Terry's mama


Serious spread

The Ultimate Poser

She crossed her ankles perfectly and bent over at the waist, leaning on the door of the cab, peering in to say goodbye to her friend leaving her ass in the air pointing directly at the front windows of the bar while the dudes at my table made mocking (yet obviously pleased) gestures at the vision.

We were at Motorcity. My turf. I went into the bathroom to take a piss and as soon as I pulled my pants down the knocking started. BANG BANG BANG! "Hold on! I just got in here." A pause, 30 seconds, then BANG BANG BANG! "Calm down!" The doorknob started rattling, the door started shaking then again, BANG BANG BANG! The more the impatient asshole knocked the longer I wanted to stay in there. I rinsed off my hands, applied some lipgloss, took a deep breath then flung open the door as hard and fast as I could successfully pegging the offender with the door, knocking her into the corner.

Before I knew it I had all six foot plus stilettos of her in my face. She called me a crazy bitch, I called her a stupid cunt and told her to get into the goddamn bathroom since it was obviously such an emergency. She screamed whatthefuck and I yelled shutthefuckup and she went into the bathroom, slamming the door.

I looked around and saw that my encounter had attracted a significant audience of friends who had been watching the episode unfold while standing next to the pinball machine. They knew who was inside the bathroom when the banging began and had been waiting for the ultimate alpha lady showdown. Unfortunately it didn't come to blows. I'm not a fighter, but goddamn it would have been funny to fight a supermodel at Motorcity.

That's right, supermodel. Even though it's a dead term, she's pretty close to one, has the look of the 90s amazons down to the perfect cut off Levi's and white button-down mens shirt, very Cindy Crawford in her George Michael era of hotness.

I am a big fan of having fake rivalries with people who don't know who I am. I had a year long war with Parker Posey once. It started on the corner of 4th Ave and 12th Street. I had just finished crossing the street and passed her on the street corner when she paused, looked me up and down, and then just laughed and rolled her eyes. I wasn't dressed like an asshole, I was wearing jeans and a tshirt. No visible rips or stains, nothing to prove, but the mocking tone of her laugh was devastating and totally uncalled for. She had that perfect popular girl laugh, totally Heathers, totally bitch.

A few weeks later I was at work when I saw her again. I used to scoop icecream at Magnolia Bakery. We had a cart set up on the corner in front of the bakery and I spotted Parker Posey on rollerblades. She was obviously a beginner which cracked me up because, come on, it was 2001, who learns how to rollerblade in 2001? So passe. She ate shit hard right in front of the Marc Jacobs store, fell right on her ass. I pointed and laughed and she glared at me. It was my revenge. Even though I am certain she was completely unaware of our rivalry.

And I am sure this girl is too. But what was incredible was the aftermath that night. She directed all her energy to a male friend of mine, trying to get his attention, apparently attempting to use her wiles to steal my dude, who wasn't even my dude. She also complained to the doorguy who is a longstanding friend of mine and the DJ who is also a buddy of mine. Like I said, my turf. No one is kicking a reasonable sober girl out of a bar unless she throws a punch which, while it would have been hilarious, isn't my style. Fuck...I should have, it would've been my one chance to make Page Six.

I don't get it when girls who have everything want more all the time. Attention vampires. If you are the prettiest girl in the room you don't need to hang a sign around your neck that screams "LOOK AT ME!" because trust me, in your short shorts and pumps everyone already is.

Anyway, saw her out the other night, she obviously had no recollection so I can peacefully go on having a secret rivalry with her that she is oblivious to. Sweet.

The Art(s & Crafts) of Partying

Maybe now isn't the time to go into this considering I just spent the past four hours tie-dyeing. But...I've been thinking about partying a lot since the epic beer bong bro-fest this weekend and I've decided to stop telling people I quit partying. Because, well, goddamnit. I haven't.

Partying is 80% attitude, 20% consumption. It is a fully demonstrative act. It's an attitude, a mindset. Consumption makes it a hell of a lot easier and last a lot longer, but it isn't necessary. Partying is a social interaction based on a series of physical signifiers such as (but not limited to) high-fives, chest-bumping, ass-slapping, dance-floor taking over, fist-bumping, summoning, surging, slaying, and a personal favorite, grapes of wrathing (if you don't know the basic rocking out gestures and stances you'd better learn them if you want to keep reading this blog.) Basically partying is all about the right combination and translation of gestures.

It may come across here that as a retired drinker I have something to prove and it's true. I mean, does having something to prove always have to be a negative thing? I am sick of hearing how much fun I used to be. I don't mind hearing people reminisce about how wild I used to be because I don't mind letting go of that part of myself because it was more part of my persona than my personality. I am happy to switch roles from instigator to enabler too. However, I don't want to say I quit "partying" because I don't think partying is necessarily synonymous with drinking and doing blow. Yeah, rumor has it I got kicked out a thrash band for partying too hard and even though that is actually an extreme simplification of things (admitted by all involved) I still get a kick out of telling people that. It's like a badge of honor (although a shameful one.) I'd rather say I reprioritized my partying than quit it altogether.

This weekend I was part of a human pyramid, took over several livingroom dancefloors, did a non-alcoholic beer bong, was kissed, ate more meat than any lady should, dug into a cake that looked like a hamburger with my bare hands, stayed out til 5 am every night, epically bikeroad, made friends, made enemies (only lame ones), successfully replaced high-fives with low-fives, and participated in various other deviations. I think I am still able to celebrate the spirit of party without blacking out and accidentally waking up somewhere other than my own bed. There are far less bruises and a few less regrets.

Things are, of course, different. My edit-function is always on and I have to try really hard to act without my filters. I have to know whether I want to do something before I do it instead of deciding that it was a good thing to do . Instead of letting chance or impulse take the reigns I am more calculated. Initially people don't think the things I do are crazy, but when they find out I am sober they do. It's as though my sobriety makes all my risks taken as threatening which is so not fair. I don't always have the upper hand although dudes treat me like I should. Just because I remember things doesn't mean they are any more easy for me...trust me.

But seriously, how fun is life without bad decisions? And who am I without risks and an artillery of potential mistakes?

Regardless...this is how I partied tonight (if it hadn't been for the pictures from this weekend this would totally undo everything I just said)

Tie-dyed shorts and Brendan Donnelly shirt (you can't tell the shirt but it is pale green and yellow)




More goods


Angela's Charles Manson tie-dye...amazing...so jealous.

So I was googling "punk flute"

I can't for the life of me remember the name of that hardcore band with a flute and a female vocalist from the late 90s. I was trying to make a joke about them last night but the name totally escapes me. I think their name has two works but I could be totally off. It always used to piss me off because I thought they were terrible but everyone I knew liked them so much and always made suggestions about them to me because I was a girl, liked heavy music, and played the flute.

Anyway, in my search I found this amazing blog entry...

"I know Josh has his problems, and he does too much smack, and his punk flute band hasn’t taken off yet, but I believe in him. He’s an artist. He wouldn’t hit me if I weren’t important to him and his work."

This is amazing(ly terrible) on so many levels I don't know where to start.

My Life as a Metalhead

My friend Angela Boatwright scouted me to participate in an article that's being put together about female metal fans. I emailed the woman writing the story in lieu of an interview and I basically blogged all over her inbox:

Full name: Beverly Hames
Age: 26
Currently reside in Brooklyn, New York
Born and raised in Lincoln, Nebraska

My earliest memories of metal are probably similar to most my age. There were two bands that were completely accessible during the early 90s, even to elementary school girls growing up in Nebraska, Guns N Roses and the mighty Metallica. I remember the rat-tailed camo-sweatpants wearing boys at my elementary school all had the same Master of Puppets tshirt. I used to sit behind one of them in health class and remember reading that list of song titles on the back to the tshirt so many times I eventually had them memorized: Battery, Master of Puppets, The Thing That Should Not Be, etc. Metallica's black album came out in 1991 when I was 9 years old, just around the time I started sneaking behind my mother's back to watch MTV and that video is hammered into my memory. The timing was perfect and metal became something that wasn't unreasonable for me to get excited about. From there I took the typical junior high mid-90s grunge path, educated by Beavis and Butthead we'd run through the halls of my junior high yelling "GWAR!!!" and flashing the horns for no reason and sing "Mother" in the park after school while smoking cigarettes and perfecting our burnout personas. Truthfully I never was a burnout and as my schooling progressed I morphed into a straight-edge overachiever. I am probably the only Student Council District President in the history of the state of Nebraska to spend her time in between classes jamming out to Motorhead in her car.

Regardless, it never seemed contradictory to be a nerd and listen to extreme music. Where a lot of my friends who grew up on either coast got into hardcore, everyone in my hometown listened to grindcore and death metal. That's the thing about the Midwest, metal never left. I went from being 11 and having a crush on Slash to being 17 and working a double at my job as a rollerskating waitress so I could have the next night off to see Neurosis play at a venue that doubled as an amateur strip club on the outskirts of town. No matter what other subcultural paths I went down in my youth (that unfortunately rockabilly phase or being susceptible to the dubious charms of generic Epitaph records punk and the cute skater boys that went with it) metal was always a constant and it never felt unnatural for a girl to like it. Maybe I was lucky. From a pretty young age I was pretty established as "one of the guys." The only girl who listened to records with the boys because she liked the records more than the boys. If anything, metal strained my relationship with other girls. I was always suspicious of them, worried they only wanted to be my friend because they had crushes on my male friends and unfortunately those suspicions were proven corred time and time again.

Despite being an eternal bro, women in metal were always precious to me. I never got into the riot grrl game. My first punk show was supposed to have been Bikini Kill but my friend's older cool punk rock big sister decided last minute not to take us (I don't blame her, what 17 year old wants to drag two 12 year olds with her to see Kathleen Hanna?) I wonder how my path would have been different had I seen that show. Instead I was turned off to riot grrls because the ones in my hometown were bizarrely mean to everyone, even the younger punk and metal girls. So instead of listening to Bratmobile and Bikini Kill and the more politicized all girl punk bands, I idolized Seah Yseult, the dread-locked bassist from White Zombie and put grunge bands like Babes in Toyland, 7 Year Bitch, and L7 on just about every mixtape I made.

As I grew older my knowlege of the history of metal increased. The 90s were a bleak period for metal and unfortunately that's where I got my start as a music fan. After I moved to New York I started getting more into thrash metal and was turned on to bands like Sacrilege and Sentinel Beast who had female vocalists. I was asked by a friend to join a band he was started and became the lead singer of what was initially intended to be a hardcore band but it became much more of a thrash/grind band once we started practicing. Once I started singing in a band my hunger for female-fronted metal increased and I started searching for other bands. I love the late 80's band photos, three or four hairy dudes surrounding a woman usually dressed in all black, her leather jacket adorned in spikes and studs, her fringe bangs, and her fuck you look. These were definitely not the girls in Vixen. Dirty, tough, and almost sexless, these were the metal women that I identified with. From there I discovered bands like Rock Goddess, Warlock, Chastain, and Black Lace.

As a female vocalist in a band I didn't experience too much open hostility, it was more an awkward sort of antagonism. More than anything I felt fetishized by the male portion of our fanbase a lot of the time. A dude came up to me and said, "Whoa, most women in metal don't look like you. You know, you look good!" I laughed at that one, because, let's see, long dark hair? Check. Tattoos? Check. Skin tight black jeans? Check. Sleeveless Metallica shirt? Studded jacket? Check. Yeah, sure dude, most girls in metal bands don't look like me. Most of it was pretty harmless stuff, guys hitting on me because I was in the band and whatnot, but I think that happens to everyone in a band, male or female. Occassionally someone would say something that really hurt. Like the guy who told me he'd talked to my bandmate about me when I'd first been asked to join in the band and that my bandmate had told him about this "hot chick" who was really gonna "get the guys going" and increase the potential fanbase. It's a terrible feeling to second guess the motives of your own bandmates and thankfully that guy's loose lips didn't cause a rift in the band. Still, it was annoying having to always be "Beverly Battletorn" and constantly market myself as the metal chick. I'm not the type of person to latch onto any singular identity and while I am proud to be a metalhead and my musical affinities are a huge part of my life, it's not my everything.

I definitely get more flack when I DJ than I ever got as a band member. When you are a woman behind the turntables you become a target to a lot of people who walk in the doors. I can't count the times men have come up to me and started quizzing me, trying to test my metal knowlege. My male friends don't have to deal with guys coming up to them and questioning whether or not they deserve the Judas Priest shirt they are wearing. None of them were cornered at the Venom show by aggressive 40-something year old men accusing them of spending $80 on their Raven t-shirt on ebay. That anyone would tell me I don't deserve a metal shirt or original pressing record is downright laughable, but it happens regularly. I refuse to allow these men to engage me in conversation as it seems they have two instincts when it comes to interacting with women, hitting on them or bullying them. More than anything it's the antagonism that bums me out. It's so unnecessary. The other thing I've noticed while DJing out over the years is that men get so much more excited when it's a woman playing Metal Church than if it's a guy. I don't like getting credit for playing a record just because I'm female. It's the DJ equivalent of "that was good...for a girl" and is frankly demeaning. Is it really more awesome that I played Celtic Frost versus my male DJ partner playing it? Really?

Still, it's better to feel supported than attacked. I've made quite a few female friends DJing over the years. There is nothing like playing "See You in Hell" and seeing just as many girls banging their heads and singing along with the chorus as guys.

ALSO, she totally identified with my experiences in high school so I responded thusly:

Thanks! A few of my friends rocked the same boat in their high school experiences. Brainiac and metalhead are not mutually exclusive identities, but in high school heavy metal was synonymous with burnout. I was president of a million clubs and on the debate team and in theater. I spent my weekends in basements watching bands like Assuck, Combatwoundedveteran, and Dead and Gone. Then again my high school was a little quirky. The captain of our football team was in a punk band and later took over my role as the president of Amnesty International at our school and our prom king was a theater kid who now works as a puppeteer. Not exactly your typical Midwest Johnny Football Hero fantasy land.

It makes sense when you think about it, nerds being drawn to metal. Topically metal lyrics can be on the ultra obscure side. I mean it's not exactly cool to read up on Viking mythology or be really into dragons when you are younger. Then again, most of the boys in my elementary/junior high experience were more focused on bands like Pantera and Megadeth than Iron Maiden. Their relationship with metal was about pure testosterone. It took me a long time to be able to listen to Pantera because of my associations of the super macho homophobic long-hairs who smoked cigarettes in the park with me. I have photos of a few of them, the Pantera "Cowboys from Hell" shirt was ever-present. All the popular kids where I grew up listened to Phish and The Doors and were fake hippies (and now are that weird breed of Birkenstock wearing post-sorority/frat types who are majored in business and are really into jam bands.)

Update on the non-updates

Maybe I should start doing that master cleanse business I've talked so much shit about since I basically have been fasting.

After doctor's orders I finally was able to eat for the first time since Wednesday. A celebratory banana. Woohoo!

All I've gotta say is, beware Azithromycin aka Z Pack. It left me curled up crying in a ball on my bathroom floor.

On the plus side I lost 4 pounds! Yeah...?

#1 online bong destination

Craft night yielded this joy:



The only flaw is that the user must watch their hair so it doesn't go up in flames at the lighting of the top.



It worked!





It's amazing how natural Angela looks holding this thing. It's meant to be.

Crafts work

Angela had a craftsnight/potluck on Tuesday night. It's going to be a weekly shindig. I wish I were a more crafty lady, but that's one instinct of girlhood that was not programmed into my brain. So while Ruby knitted leather to form a bag and Angela made jewelry I repaired a jacket, which is about as inspired as my sewing gets. But damn do I love a good stitch, give me something busted and I will mend the hell out of it.



I purchased the above jacket at Beacon's Closet when I was an employee there years ago. My coworker Christine bought it in from a customer and fell immediately in love with it and took it home. I was insanely jealous. It's nearly impossible to find a vintage Levi's jacket that doesn't have huge puffy arms or isn't man-sized.

About a week later the jacket reappeared in my hold bucket. The ever anti-social Christine hadn't bargained on a denim jacket emblazoned with patches from all over the world being a mega conversation piece and after the fifth stranger approached her in one night and asked her if she'd been to all the places on the jacket she vowed never to wear it again. Score! Strangers talk to me all the time anyway, I don't know what it is but I have an uncanny ability to attract weirdos at bars, and it's gotten even more severe since I quit drinking. Dunno what that's about, apparently I possess the creep pheromone, although that still doesn't make up for the lack of the craft gene.

I wore it a few times and then as usual (because I ruin everything I touch...another unfortunate uncanny ability of mine) the patches started to fall off. None actually became detached from the jacket but for fear of losing one I set the jacket aside in my sewing pile and a year or two went by. I'd forgotten all about it.

Yay craft night! I spent an hour and a half resewing all the suspect patches and the thing of beauty was restore to its former glory.



Still fits like a dream!



Whoa...wait...watch me turn into a girl who blogs her outfits. Because another thing I'd forgotten all about were these boots. I bought them at the Barneys Warehouse sale on the cheap. I'd already mega-splurged on a black pair (that still stand as the most expensive thing I've ever purchased) and when I found the brown ones in my size at basically 90% off I melted, bought a second pair and promptly forgot all about them. I went all winter without wearing them and only recently rediscovered them in my shoe bin (okay in one of my four shoe bins.)



So good, right?

Speaking of forgetting things for months at a time at the bottom of bins, I seriously want to get a room makeover. I need to build a lofted closet because the dust is starting to get crazy. Every room I've ever had in this city is totally nuts. One roommate in Greenpoint said it looked like Blossom Russo exploded. Good call.

Here is a virtual tour of my insanity:


Dresses, belts, and hats.


Tshirts, bags, hats, and parasol.

I have three clothing racks, one for dresses, one for t-shirts, and one for blouses, jackets, and skirts. The coats are on a fourth clothing rack outside of my bedroom. Aside from that I have my scarf collection hanging from my walls and a few heavy metal articles on display.


Eyeball backpack, hand painted Iron Maiden denim jacket, Kreator painters cap that I need to mail to Blizz back in SF, various scarves and purses, and party graffiti.


Hand painted Iron Maiden vest, Black Sabbath hat, crate of shoes.


Motley Crue official roadie jacket, papoose, top hat from Alice Cooper Halloween costume, vintage scarves, Styx coke mirror, acid yellow bedsheets, and a an art star's former blanket (long story, I'll tell you about it sometime.)


Led Zeppelin mirror, Old Style clock, vintage scarves, a purse made from a baby alligator, flute, Ramones lunch box serving as jewelry box, Victorian chainmail and beaded purses, ancient photograph of a dog sitting on a wicker chair, and black and silver suede gauntlet gloves.


Asian baby, fantasy tapestry, television draped in white fur pelt.


Tv draped in white fur pelt

I've been in my spot for over two years. If I ever move it's going to be seriously crazy.

It's not the color of your skin, it's color of your pants.

HEALTH Perplex NYC's Dance Party Seeking Hipsters


Just the title of that article makes me vaguely horrified to be a part of it. But there I am in all my fuschia Judi Rosen glory.

You know wearing pink jeans really gets a girl in trouble. This morning I was standing on the F platform minding my own business playing Sudoku (fucking crack) when a giant dude in baggy jeans and a sports jersey approached me. Seriously, he was huge, at least 6'3" and well over 220 pounds.

I looked up and he opened his mouth before he figured out what he was going to say. After a couple of false starts (dudes, seriously, decide what line you are going to us BEFORE you approach a chick) he laid out the "I just had to approach you, you're so beautiful" gem we all know and love.

I tried to brush him off nicely saying, "I'm just trying to get to work, I'm really not in the mood to be meeting anyone right now."

He shook his head disappointed in me. "I see how you are. You're racist. You just don't like black people."

Now if I was awesome I would have said, "I'm not racist, I'm just superficial. I have no problem with black people, I just don't like fat people." Well he wasn't fat so much as just giant, dense both physically and mentally.

But since I am only internally a jerk I told him that I wasn't racist, I just feel no obligation to hold a conversation with strange men who approach me. Being a chick in New York City, especially one who wears tight pants (okay skin tight pink jeans) and has tattoos, I'm pretty used to it. I practically have a sign around my neck that says, "ASKING FOR IT"

Anyway, check out the link. It's pretty funny. It's my second time on Spin.com and I'm wearing the pink pants that make weird dudes bother me constantly and I'm totally not gonna stop wearing them.

WooHoo?

And p.s. I am totally not racist. I even went through what we lovingly like to call my brown period. Seriously, there was like an entire year where I didn't kick it with a single white dude. There was a the chubby stoner rock Mexican who actually said "mang", the cokehead islander with the sweet pad and an intense designer pedigree, the dreadlocked black clothing designer aka walking talking Bad Brains reference, and the mystic Iranian who liked to do it to Neo Nazi black metal and wore more chains that I did. See? Race doesn't matter when it comes to getting into my pink pants. Ridiculousness is what really counts.

Hey there lonely one...

I find what I crave in the details.
















Thank you Christopher Bailey.

It's been done and it will keep being done. The shapes on the runway didn't interest me. Burberry has never fit me quite right. In the dream worlds I'd inhabit roaming from floor to floor when I couldn't quite stand to work during my days at Barneys I was never that drawn to the pieces on the rack either. I'd spend far more time slipping into Dries Van Noten knitwear or the prohibitively expensive Ann Demeulemeester (even with sale prices of 75% off and an employee discount on top of that it was hopeless) than any of other designers. Accessories, forget it. Not once did I buy a designer bag as a BNY employee and my only jewelry options were on the 7th floor, a far cry from the glory located on floor one.

Still, a girl can dream and a girl can wait for the inevitable knock-offs of that solid metal spiked cuff. The feathers I'll have to do without.

Minnie Mouse is my friend

Despite style.com trashing it I kinda dug Zac Posen's Minnie Mouse works at One Eyed Jack's inspired show. Red Black Yellow White. Good call. Totally bordello poker table.











That suit is amazing and I really dig the windowpane pattern on the dress. It could use a little restraint but with it seems as though everyone was so reigned in this season I appreciate the sense of fun, even if it is a little Moulin Rouge.