The mighty may they fall

From Brendan

I saw Metallica play at Ozzfest on the 9th. Much discussion was had as to what songs we wanted to hear most. Brian wanted Creeping Death. I crossed my fingers for Orion but knowing it would not come named Sanitarium as my #1 want to hear it track. They opened with Creeping Death and played Sanitarium third...majorly exciting, but also kind of a let down. After they play your dream songs, what do you have to look forward to? In our case it was a large bulk of songs from the Black album. Crowd pleasers, greatest hits, you know the drill, but at least while we were there we only had to suffer through on post-black track, Cyanide from their new album. It was pretty wretched, far too much hardcore bass slapping for Metallica's sake.

But I made friend with the woman sitting in front of me. Her name was Jenni Jones and she was with her daughter and her mother. Three generations of metal at Ozzfest. She'd gotten in because she had gotten a call from her temp agency asking her to work at the Pizza Hut stand (Ozzfest was at a plcae called Pizza Hut Park btw) and they'd told her she could stay and watch the rest of the show when her work was finished as long as she wasn't in the crowd in her uniform. She wasn't even allowed to take in her wallet much less a bag (security was gnarly enough for us, I am sure they treat their temp workers like dogs) so she made her son-in-law take off his shirt and let her wear it.




Jenni was totally amped during the entire Ozzy set and then went totally apeshit (note to self...use that phrase more) (another note to self don't make notes to self w/in blog entries, it's self-congratulatory and is almost as bad as copy and pasting your IMs) during Metallica.



In between the two she showed me the two shirts her family bought her (she was at their mercy since she couldn't bring in cash with her.





In other late-breaking Ozzfest news:


You can't tell from the picture very well but that is a Dimebag tattoo on this guy's chest.


I know it's cheesy but I totally have a lady boner for Zakk Wylde and his shredability. Dude is a viking personified and he is from New Jersey! Plus he named one of his kids, Hendrix Halen Michael Rhoads after "Jimi Hendrix, Eddie Van Halen, Mike Piazza, and Randy Rhoads" or so Wikipedia tells me.


There were a fucking lot of people there.


When I told my new friend I was supposed to have met Lars she sighed and told me she was more of a Hetfield woman. I said I wasn't a Lars girl, he was just the most sociable of the lot and that of course I was a Cliff Burton girl in this life and into his next one and she just looked confused. Said, "Oh, he's the guy who isn't in the band any more, right?" It was my turn to sigh and said, "Yeah, something like that..."

What a weekend

I went to Provincetown.

I went to a party.

This man was the host:


This man was a guest:


He was wearing this shirt:


Before the party we went out here:


I was hanging out with this guy:


I'll spare you the shot of me in my bikini and instead show you this:


There was also a tiki bar involved.

I'd never done the east coast weekender before, it's a very strange scene. The streets were packed, riding our bikes down Commercial felt like a third world country, all foot traffic, no room for cars, bikes weaving in between pedestrians, near collisions happening constantly. The vacationers consisted primarily of athletically-built immaculately-groomed men. Nearly every snipped of conversation we heard as we rode out to the break water was pure gold (although no one really wants to hear the words, "speaking of cows..." while riding their bike past a gaggle of gays.)

I had a blast though. Provincetown seemed like the friendliest place in America. Seriously, I had multiple strangers come up to me and wish me a good summer, compliment my ability to run in heels, make fun of my bike riding ability (but in a pleasant manner) and one guy even made fun of a Belgian dressed like Pee Wee Herman to me.

Also of note in Ptown, a youngish mom giving her daughter Pop Rocks for the first time. Daughter reactions violently, spitting them out and rubbing her tongue. Mom points and doubles over laughing still holding the Blue Razz package in her hand.

Also of note, "My boss came to work at the motorcycle shop and told me he fucked George Michael last night."

Also someone had a story about their friend making out with Taylor Dayne. Yes, apparently Taylor Dayne enjoys getting felt up by young gays at parties on boats. The kid had no idea who it was he'd been making out with but it was the talk of Ptown according to the storyteller. The next morning the kid's mother whapped him on the head and asked, "What the hell is wrong with you? You madeout with Taylor Dayne. Do you have any idea how old that woman is?"


Amazing.

P.S. She's 46.

Taylor Dayne - Tell It To My Heart
Uploaded by Sunshinemusikbox

After the storm it's hot but dry

Nothing like seeing old friends shred in new places



Went to Texas, spent a bit of time in Austin, ran into friends I didn't expect to see, didn't get to see other's I'd anticipated on catching up with but such is life. Especially when you are staying in a magical house in the woods with deer having slumber parties in the back yard. Of course like a tool I didn't take pictures of my friends' magical house but suffice to say that my stay in the World of Warcraft fantasy metal suite was pleasant indeed.

Managed to take a dip in the river before I left town though. We took the dog down to the dog run and waded in. I wussed out when I felt little fish nibbling at the tops of my feet. In or out of the water it was beautiful:


Steps leading down into the water


The view


Roots...radical


The lovely Ozma, who was too wild to be let offleash

We bailed on Austin a day early and drove to Dallas where Early Man and Valient Thorr were playing. Nothing like seeing bros rage in a different time zone.








These little dudes ruled. They stood front and center during the entire set pretty much motionless. The look on their faces was if they were politely listening. They were obviously stoked but they had a very passive way of showing it. Quiet reverence and Early Man aren't too things I frequently put together.


So much hair...


Caught in mid-shred

I didn't take any pictures of Valient Thorr. My camera was about to die and I was too busy keeping Pete company at the merch table. But holy hell, those dudes rocked far heavier than I remember them ever having before. I hadn't seen them in two years and it was great to keep company with the hardest working band in rock n roll (at least that I have the pleasure of being acquainted with.)


Herbie with fans with homemade Valient Thorr shirts


Summon the beast my children


Nothing like watching a friend sign autographs...such a weird weird thing

And then...somehow...this picture happened:

To those I've upset.

Note: I didn't publish this until now: 12/8/2011. I've been going back and rereading my Alaska tales in preparation to write about the experience and the backlash and I am now publishing what sat on my dashboard as a draft for over three years. At the time I realized it was better to stay silent than to explain my actions.

I caught three fish when on the boat.

I understand that you are upset.

I gave those fish to an Alaskan family.

That family shared them with their neighbors and other Alaskans. They took several different native Alaskans out on the boats with them, all of whom had families and licenses. The number of fish caught was cumulative and shared amongst several families, no one was over the limit.

The fish stayed in state and went to feed those who were unable to come themselves as gifts of kindness.

They were gracious enough to be my hosts and are proud of where they come from.

They wanted nothing more than to share a special experience with visitors.
I understand the law and why it is there and we did not take any fish with us from your state.

My writing was an expression of an experience, not meant to be a reflection on Alaska in general nor was it meant to be any definitive point of view of what should or should not happen on the water. Writing about it was my way of sharing the experience with others whom I know who weren't there with me on my travels.

This blog should not be used as material for a news story, editorial or otherwise.

Consider this my apology although I believe my experiene when explained, is hardly newsworthy. The atmosphere on the river was highly competitive with people bragging left and right about how many fish they'd caught. The blood lust extended much further beyond our boat and in fact was not encourage on ours. I was just brought on to be given the change to catch a fish in a net for the first and last time in my life and doing so was a life-changing experience.

I need to be aware about what I post in a public sphere. Blogs can be highly personalized and I never believe mine to be really geniunely noticable to the outside world. I have a core group of readers, most of whom I know. Never in a million years did I expect anyone from a newspaper to find what I wrote and find it necessary to tell an entire community. However by posting I know I put myself out there, able to be used to prove a point.

Comments are disabled on this post as I would like it to serve as a statement, not a dialogue and would like to move on. Thank you.

Jam bands in the final frontier

Let's talk for a minute about the bar scene in Alaska



Immediately after picking us up at the airport Matt insisted on taking us to a local brewhouse called Humpy's. His friends were playing there and he hadn't seen them in a while and we were so dazed that we agreed to whatever. As soon as we walked in we were immediately transported to mountain college town USA. I seriously thought I'd taken a wrong turn and ended up in Boulder. That vibe is so universal, a dreadlock here, a batik print there, and Tevas everywhere. It was not what I expected at all. But it made sense, that the rugged backpacker adventurer type would be drawn to Alaska. Duh.

There were also far more women than I'd bargained on. I reminded myself that we were in the city and that the rugged mountain men of my weird northern fantasies would emerge deeper in the trip. Still I was disappointed. This was Alaska! Where were the men who actually used their Carharts instead of just wearing them. Where were the men whose beards were signs of life in an inhospitable climate instead of badges of laziness and Brooklyn fashioning? Where were the men who earned their plaid? All I saw was a grip of mellow dudes drinking beer to barroom jams. I could have gotten this in Nebraska!

Not that I was trekking north looking for some great romance but I'm a girl and damnit, a lot of girls think about these things. I know full well that when faced with an actual mountain man I'd probably be skeeved and he would probably be equally as skeeved. After all, the romance of the wilderness is not the reality of it and I pity the survivalist who has to interact with me and my Brooklyn bloggy ways (though I found myself consistently blessing the fact that I was born in Nebraska, as I used it as currency with those who immediately soured at the revelation that I was a New Yorker.)

We went fishing the very next day but upon our return to Anchorage we were taken by Matt on an official bar crawl. The very first stop, the Pioneer, featured a bartender from the Bronx. That didn't seem very Alaskan-esque, but was fitting nonetheless. Then again, most of the people we met in Alaska came from somewhere else and arrived there searching for some intangible ideal. Or, as in our bartender's case, they'd gotten in trouble when they were younger and had come out there to straighten out, loved it, and stayed.

We sure as hell stood out though. Megan especially. She, a beacon of blonde Amazonian appeal amdist the crunchy granola vibeage. I got several lewd comments from groups of older men but they were mainly fixated on my pants (yes, if you wear Judi Rosen jeans out in Alaska you will bewilder the fuck out of many a man.)













All of the photos from that night turned out as weird, obscure, and messy as we did. From selecting Orion on the jukebox to doffing a coonskin cap (hey, it was the property of our genuine Alaskan host!) we were pretty much embarassments the entire time (a feat I regularly managed to accomplish at bars despite my sobriety.) We were the tourists taking cheesy posed photos at every opportunity. Simultaneously exoticizing the locals while they exoticized us. I fell into the traps that I, as a long-ish time New Yorker hate so completely. We were all bad jokes and preconcieved notions, half of the time wrong, half of the time correct.

But jerks and weirdos that we were, we still had a blast.

See?

Never took this to be the face of a killer

Aside from various roadkill and bugs I have never killed another being and the roadkill was accidental so suffice to say I have never deliberately murdered anything aside from a roach or ant or mosquito. I never thought about it either. As a former vegan I am excruciatingly aware of where our food comes from and generally don't dig on factory-farmed raised meat (though I can't really afford another option most times.) Subsistence hunting is a magical mythical notion to me. Hunting was never that major of a pasttime in Nebraska where I grew up and obviously it doesn't have much to do with the reality of life as a New Yorker.

When I was invited on the trip to Alaska salmon fishing was the first activity on the agenda. We flew into Anchorage and the next day drove down to Kenai to meet up with our host Matt's family who were already out on the boats. On the drive out there we got reports from mom who proudly gave the totals of 63 fish the first day and 68 the second. That's a lot of salmon. Matt explained that we would not be doing line-fishing but instead pursuing the method of dipnetting. Now only licensed Alaskans are allowed to dipnet and they are only allowed to do it for a few weeks each July. Graciously Matt's father flouted the law and let us on the boat.



We suited up in borrowed rain gear (I was given a child's set as the smallest adult. I couldn't lift my arms above my head...oops!) We went out on an inflatable raft boat that comfortably sat four, each of us had a net, but the fish weren't swimming. Starry-eyed but the numbers of 20 fish per person I was overjoyed, thinking that catching a fish would be a breeze. But alas...my first time out, not a damn salmon. Only a single flounder which we threw back. After three hours we only caught five fish total and called it a day.

I was pretty heartbroken. When you dipnet you literally dip your net into the river and the fish swim right into it. When you catch one you use the boat as support and pull it out and dump the fish into the boat. Usually they are allowed to flop about for several minutes as they slowly die but occassionally if one is especially spunky they will club it which helps end the convulsions but summons an unpleasant amount of blood.

The following day we were given the opportunity to go out again. Megan had caught two salmon so the family was insistent that I not leave Alaska without catching one. Again, we went back on the boat, with the father at the motor and this time Matt's sister and her friend at the other nets. Mariah was seated in the spot I had been last time and immediately caught two fish as soon as we finished motoring up the river to the bridge. She caught two more before I felt my net tug. Elated I pulled it up out the river and saw a seven pound red thrashing in the net. I swung the net over the side of the boat and flipped the fish onto the floor. I watched it crash and bang as it's life went out. You wouldn't expect them to last as long as they do. And when you think it is over, they'll start right back up again, twisting and thumping as their eyes go blank and their mouths open to nothingness. It's a strange thing, watching something die. Stranger still when you are the agent of it's death.

Matt's father tried to lay it out beforehand in the terms that they were swimming upriver to spawn then die, so we weren't killing anything that was meant to keep living for much longer anyhow. That fact didn't bother me. Whether or not the being was doomed. Just my placement, watching something die, actually killing something. It's not a feeling I get to feel every day. And at the risk of sounding ridiculous or creepy, I found it quite spiritual. Looking at something slowly dying at my feet knowing that thing was going to be food, I felt very much a part of nature's way. An agent of the earth, existing within it's bounds and it's rules.

It's hard not to feel that connection in Alaska no matter where you go. Kenai wasn't the most beautiful spot but it was the most accesible one emotionally. It was good we went there first because while it didn't contain the shock and awe of places like Denali or Hatcher Pass, it was the perfect primer. It exhibits the typical of Alaskan beauty. So constant in it's sunlit mountains and misty skies and wildflowers admist rusted ruins, this beauty becomes almost mundane. It's the typical skyline and god I miss it.






Well after midnight




Round midnight


Commercial nets


Wildflowers and rust




Neighboring campers

The drive from Anchorage to Kenai was our first view of just how insane the place we had arrived was. The following three pictures were taken from the back passenger seat while driving. We wanted to stop and get out every two minutes, it was that consistently mindblowing.







We did finally stop and these were the results:




Megan and me


Megan and me


Matt


Me and Matt



And that was just the second day...