Against all odds, Still STOKED

It's been a while since I've had a good dose of positivity on here. I feel like my first month of unemployment consisted of a lot of complaining blogwise. That's just no good.

I am stoked on the Jets!



I am stoked that for the first time in a long time my finger nails are longer than my finger tips. I've been an off and on nailbiter since childhood and I keep trying to stop and keep failing. This is the first time since I quit smoking nearly 2 years ago that they are not bitten to the nubs. Considering I worked in retail around lots of grubby people and dirty money, it's exceedingly gross that I used to put my hands in my mouth all day long.

I am stoked on my new house. I haven't talked about it nearly enough, living here is a breath of fresh air. Who knew living with four people could be this laid back.

I am stoked on my return to the green. I'm going to have to ask Will Lemon for one of his genius "Weed is my speed" shirts soon.



I am stoked on Kitchen Nightmares and it's availability on Hulu.

I am stoked on working with Brendan

I am stoked on spending Thanksgiving at home.

I am stoked on spending Fakesgiving with friends.

I am stoked on baking cookies, watch out, if you want to avoid getting chubs then you'd better not hang with me this winter. Last night during the game I watched one Fletcher Johnson consume at least 10 peanut butter oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. I'm a baking machine. Just wait til gingerbread season starts.

I am stoked that I get to see this little guy every time I open my phone thanks to picture texts from his grandma.


Despite it being the infamous death year, I am stoked to turn 27. 26 was rough as all hell and I am glad to move on.

In related news I am stoked for the joint birthday party my roommate Heather, Jessica and I are having this weekend. I'd give you all the address but it's not my house. Message me on facebook or MySpace if you don't already know.

I am also stoked on Jessica's endeavors in general, check out her band with her brother Brad. Family Folk! Best genre ever.

I am stoked on Andy MacLeod's brain

I am stoked on a moderately secret book project I'm working with a friend on.

I am stoked on election night's band practice and the upcoming one when our drummer gets back.

I am stoked on Elizabeth's birthday party that I forgot to blog about because everyone else already did!





I am stoked on this couch and the number of times I've also fallen asleep on it while watching marathon football games (not with Modello in hand though.) Shh! They're vaporized.



No seriously, they are vaporized...

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.

Lil rascals there are no cats allowed in the pharoah's tomb on these arabians nights.

This shit makes me want to have kids...seriously.



My friend Brendan Donnelly has finally launched his new website which includes the debut of his kids line, Lil' Rascals. I've been waiting for this to go public since he showed me his drawings ages ago. My lil rascal of a nephew is totally getting these two





From the adult division I am pretty stoked on Cruisin


and Captain

(yes those are my green fingernails...GO JETS!)

He's got his older designs up for sale too, finally the bros don't have to go through me to get an arabic Crass (one of B Don's greatest hits) or Black Flag tee. And now that he's official he's dropped his prices too (they used to go for $40, now they are only $35.) Recession pricing on moderately offensive punk rock tees. I ordered a BLT at my old bodega wearing my pink tie-dye arabic Motorhead shirt. Dudes were not amused. The combination of cultural cooption and the most repulsive food known to Muslims, bacon, didn't go over too well. The sandwich guy read my shirt and asked me who made it for me. I told him a friend. He asked where my friend was from. I gulped..."Umm...Connecticut." Oops. But Brendan does consult with an arabic speaking friend of his so it's semi-legit.

Regardless, the shirts are finally accessible (though not in tie-dye form, but that may be coming soon.) I remember showing up at a bar with a bag full of them that Brendan had given as gifts to me and Ty and suddenly ended up with 9 orders from just about every guy I knew for tees. They literally sold themselves and I wasn't even trying.





Full disclosure: I'll be helping dear Donnelly out with the boring business stuff on his line. Aka, in a weird weird way, I guess Donnelly is my boss. I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with that. I mean, have you seen the blog? Oh well, it's not like I'll let him tell me what to do or anything.


Consumate lurker.

Some stories aren't better left unfinished

I finished telling you about the island but I never finished telling you about the forest. It's been nearly a year since I went down to the Hostel in the Forest on the outskirts of Brunswick, Georgia. It was my first trip down south and hopefully not my last. I haven't been back down that way since although I hope to change that soon.

I already related the basic stories of hostel life, from Jim the Mountain Man to the kindly staff. I neglected to mention Jim had an aversion to knowing the time saying that it enslaved us and also sported a Burning Man tattoo on his arm. Such details are important. Let me show you the way round the forest of dreams...and I'll let my inner hippie shine (drum circles are still off limits in my mind.)

Here are some details I neglected:


Chickens! Everywhere!


Outdoor shower

I was terrified of the outdoor shower. So terrified I avoided showering until my last day there when I was so filthy from my island excursion I had no other choice. It was amazing even though the water smelled of sulpher. I really wish I'd done it more than once. The water was steaming hot and the view of the quiet forest was holy and serene. I don't have too many opportunities to commune nakedly and privately with nature, in fact I believe that was my only one, so it was an experience to be cherished.



The toilets were a slightly less terrifying and extremely more necessary hurdle. I'd never heard of sawdust compost much less used it. From the photo above you can gather the basics of how it works. Still, pissing in a hole and covering it up with sawdust takes some getting used to. However it is infinitely less gnarly than an outhouse and actually smelled quite neutral. The pleasant gnomes and elves painted on the walls and the mosaic and stained glass work made it a lot easier as well.







My favorite thing about wandering the grounds was that there was something to see every place you looked. The gifts left behind by travelers over the history of the hostel were still in place. Trinkets here and there, a well placed dream catcher or skull. Not just feathers and runes, although I am a sucker for both. There were island shells and notes and beads and so much more.




This was my window inside the Pool Hut (picture at top) where I stayed my second and third nights.





The Labryinth was the most magical spot on the grounds. Let me give you a tour.



















I am ready to go back to the island and the hostel, but unfortunately it won't be on the same dates, as I have no money for an end of November joyride. However, I am faithful it will come soon, perhaps when the weather first starts to warm although I do want to avoid college hippie spring break mayhem. I'd rather drive than fly this time and am open to company. This trip was so valuable to go alone the first time, it doesn't have to be solo the second. It was a memorial pilgrimage in part, to honor the memory of my friend Stefan, a series of coincidences put me in his favorite place in the world (the hostel) on the anniversary of his passing. One can surely understand the sacredness of making that trip alone. I was afraid at first of the hostel because of that association, not sure if I could handle it emotionally. But my memories kept me warm instead of keeping me scared and for that I am thankful.

Insert Obama pun here...

The white flying spots are beer...

On election night I had band practice until 10:30 pm. When I exited the building in Chelsea to book it over to Williamsburg all I knew about the results was that Obama had taken Ohio (thanks to shredder/bandmate Angela.) One long and stress-laden subway ride later I arrived at Union Docs right before 11. Moments after I walked in the door the Electoral tally topped 270 and Obama's win was secured. The crowd went apeshit and the Weight boys kicked into a round of "Na na na na hey hey hey goodbyes." My timing was magical, the moment was magical. Everyone was hugging and kissing like it was New Years, but this was so much better than just a new year. It was the passing of history, not just the passing of time.




The boys in the band were joking that this was the most amped up crowd they'd ever played for and the audience wasn't even looking at them during the set.




Let freedom ring!


We were amped! And please disregard the gum in my mouth...oy...


Jameson had Sam open a celebratory bottle of champagne


You playing?


Or drinking?


Getting down and dirty during a rendition of Shout!




Orin, always the photobomber


Let it ring!!!


The crowd kept flipping off McCain during his concession speech.


Orin kept hugging everyone. He told me I couldn't start a crust punk band now (not that I was planning on it) because now wasn't a time to bitch about our country. He and a bunch of dudes are getting outlines of America over their hearts...who knew dirtbags could be so patriotic? It's nice to see faith restored. Let's hope it lasts.


Whoabama!

From there we took to the streets. We steered clear of Bedford which apparently was going nuts. From the video footage I've seen I kind of wish we ended up there but we'd eaten mushrooms so I think it would have been a bit overwhelming. Still even on the walk from Union Docs to Daddys every car that passed honked and cheered and everyone who passed us on the street was hooting and hollering with joy.

Here is some footage of Bedford Ave


Here is some footage inside Union Docs where I was