Just so you know

Sorry, been too busy building an empire in Greenpoint to blog. Things are getting nutty but we're so close to being ready to reopen the shop. For those of you not in the know, I've been working my way into a partnership since the summer at Fox and Fawn. As of January, the partnership is a solid "go" as we decided to relocate the store from it's quiet Suffolk Street location in the LES to a much busier block in Greenpoint Brooklyn. We'll be on the same block of Manhattan Ave as Enids, right next to Three Kings Tattoo.

So far I've learned how to install laminate flooring, fallen off a ladder, painted a drop ceiling, hit my fingers with a hammer more than a couple of times, bitten off what's left of my fingernails, gotten reacquainted with driving on the BQE, and had more mini-misadventures than I could possibly recount. Oh and Marissa got food poisoning from Palace Fried Chicken.

My boyfriend Sean is opening a record store in our space and I'm super stoked about it. I think it will add another dimension to our shop and will make it more dude-friendly, although we've been really upping our men's section and it's definitely regaining it's former glory.

All of this is super exciting and incredibly scary at the same time. It's a risk and I know it will pay off but still, I'm finally going to be a full-time small business owner and that's intense. I won't go into the details of the anxieties this holds because I've already learned that it's something that most people can't really relate to, just as I couldn't really relate to my friends who were freelancers stuck hounding former employers for long-overdue paychecks when I had a steady hourly job. But I will say that the anxieties are many but the payoff is well worth it. I mean come on, I'll never have a boss again, just this wonderful thing called a partner. It goes without saying that I could never have done any of this without Marissa, I mean she founded the fucking store five years ago! If any of you get an opportunity like I did to earn your place in a small business through monetary investment or sweat equity or whatever, I strongly suggest you consider it. I never imagined myself owning a business ever throughout the years and years I worked retail because I never could imagine doing it myself, never could imagine coming up with the money or taking a risk and borrowing it. When I got this opportunity I can safely say that it was nothing short of life-changing and we've got so many big ideas for the future of Fox & Fawn and I have no doubt that they are achievable.

A while ago I wrote about participating in my friend Anjali's performance piece at a church for the Vice Blog. In it I mentioned that I learned a valuable lesson many years ago that was essential to say YES to life. If someone offers you an opportunity it's usually because they see some sort of potential in you. Instead of being mired by self-doubt sometimes it's good to trust a friend and just go for it. To say YES where in the past you may have said NO because you didn't think you were good enough, capable enough, you weren't confident enough, bold enough, brave enough.

I took it one step further when Marissa was talking about not wanting to run Fox & Fawn by herself any longer. I decided to ask. I asked her instead of waiting to be asked because sometimes you realize that the asking may never come and you have to make a grab at a possibility. I mean what's the worse that could happen, someone could say NO and you're life would be where it was before. Sure there's always that worry of putting someone in an awkward spot and making them feel obligated to say YES to you even if they don't really want to but if you are a person with an ounce of perceptiveness you know when you are really not wanted and frankly when it comes to the very important stuff (artistic endeavors, businesses and the such) most of my friends are wise-enough to go with their instincts instead of other people's egos.

And thank god I asked because in that instant something that never had really occurred to either of us as an option (she hadn't asked me because she assumed I wasn't interested and I had never expressed interest because I assumed she would have asked if she though I'd be a good match) became a reality and my life is far better because of it thanks in part of my putting it out there and Marissa for believing in me.

Whew! And that's life according to Beverly. Your sermon for the day. Positivity is underrated.

I Lost My Time in a Magic Vortex

Facebook is going to be the death of me. Now that I've expanded beyond simple social networking and begun playing Dungeon & Dragons: Tiny Adventures. It's been going non-stop for a few days now. I got my boyfriend hooked too. Now we're spending our evening's buffing each other's characters from different computers in the same house. It's bad. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's an awesome application. And since it makes you wait between rounds it's not that encompassing. So it's not like I'm spending 14 hours a day playing World of Warcraft (I would never dare set foot in that realm, I'm obsessive when it comes to that shit, a prime candidate for life-wasting.) But still, it's getting a little out of hand.

Between Tiny Adventures (my Eldarin Wizard is a level 8, only three more levels til retirement and then I start again as a generation 2!) and...gulp...I hate to admit this to you guys...Sorority Life I really think I'm ruining my life. Seriously, I have a sorority girl whose body I inhabit and I befriend other girls I don't know via this game and team up to fight other girls. And to become friends with these girls in the game you have to be their friend in the real realm of Facebook which means I've actually added thirty or so strangers from around the world to my friends list just so I can grow my sorority and fight other girls more effectively and get better prizes...I know, I can't believe I'm explaining it or admitting it or even worse, PLAYING IT.

Bringing the embarassment of Sorority Life into it makes the Tiny Adventures thing much more acceptable. First of all, wizards and dragons and castles and orbs of mental dominion are awesome, sorority girls are not. Second aside from outfitting your character to maximize bonuses for specific adventures and the social act of healing and buffing your friend's characters, the game is pretty passive. So why am I dreaming about it? Seriously, I had a dream the other night where my actions were dependent on scores and a countdown timer and my adventures were hindered by an unknown force (aka the dungeon master!) deciding my fate. Really Bev? This is the stuff your dreams are made of? I couldn't even dream about orcs or any of the cool shit in the game, just the scoring tactical portion of it. LAME. You'd think a D&D-related dream would be much more epic than that.

FUCK! My character just failed a Constitution check and gets -5 Charisma for five adventures. I'm getting concerned about Grenabaul the Eldarin Wizard, she's not doing so well in her adventure, "The Song of the Dark Druid". She failed it once already last night but I really thought I had it this time. That's the problem with wizards, they are high on intelligence but low on constitution, strength, and wisdom and my inventory of weapons isn't doing enough to help it. See? These are issues of serious concern!



For a relative virgin to this sort of gaming I feel like I'm doing okay. I have to admit that a big part of the reason I was so willing to mock my friend's boyfriend when I saw him at his computer with a headset on playing World of Warcraft was fear that there but for the grace of elves there go I. An appropriate addendum to this example is that when my friend found a scorpion in her closet (they live in a wooded area just outside of Austin, TX) she had to beg him to tear himself away from the game to kill it. He entered the bedroom, sword in hand, and vanquished the tiny poisonous foe. Aforementioned boyfriend just happens to be the singer in fantasy metal band The Sword, so despite what you all may think of their music (they have a lot of haters out there,) their name is truly their weapon of choice and the singer, JD, truly knows his wizardly shit. Regardless, it is a good escape for the distraction from the annoyances and stresses of the real world, but seeing him made me realize that could easily be me in the headset missing dinner due to a prearranged online gaming meeting with a bunch of buddies.

Then again that dude goes on tour with Metallica so I think we can let a little gaming slide. But while it's not ruining his life I have a very real fear of it ruining mine. Tiny Adventures seemed like the perfect compromise for my desire to engage in epic adventures with little concentration or time commitment but somehow I've managed to turn what is essentially D&D lite into a time-killer. Is it wrong that I'd rather sit at home and half-watch episodes of Ranma 1/2 while making sure my character makes it through a level 8 adventure than go to all these Fashion Week parties I've been made aware of? Actually, maybe I'm doing okay.

Justification 101

I wish I was more confident, I really do. I wish I was one of those people who could live her life without feeling the need to explain any potentially embarrassing actions. I am not one of those people. Hence I form elaborate reasoning for doing ridiculous or excessive things.

"You can never have too much of something as long as you collect it." Think about it. No one can give you guff about having four pairs of Ann Demeulemeester boots or four vintage studded jackets by the same brand if you say you collect them. I don't harsh my boyfriend for spending countless hours and dollars trolling Ebay for 80's home recording cassette tapes and he doesn't hate on my for my massive closet. This cannot be used as a method of cheating other people out of cool goods. A former of coworker at Beacons used to always whine that she should get everything that was vintage Chloe that came in because she "collected it". I tried to use the same excuse with her when it came to metal shirts but she said she collected them too.

"I was a cultural studies major focusing in media and popular culture. All these reality shows I watch are relevant to my field of study." If you've spent five minutes on this blog you probably know that I am addicted to bad tv. Which is funny because I don't even have an antenna, much less cable. But I'm addicted to watching bad tv on the internet. I don't get too ashamed about it unless someone else is around, I have the remote, and I flip to Oxygen to watch Bad Girls Club or the latest VH1 romance spin-off. Then I get all nervous and tingly, like I have to explain myself. Usually this is unnecessary because I've realized that almost everyone secretly loves the crap that I watch, even dudes. And they feel relieved that someone else picked it out so they get to watch it with a clean conscience.

What's the opposite of money for nothing?

At the ripe old age of 27 my previous refusal to intern has bitten me in the ass. I find myself qualified only to work in a field that I don't give a fuck about-retail management. Why would I want to intern when I was making $34/hr hawking jeans at BNY? Oh, wait, you're gonna get sick of doing that? Really? And then you're going to want to do something else but no one will hire you to do anything but the thing you are sick of doing? Really? What's that sharp sting...is it reality? Regret? Who knows. What I do know is that there are plenty of great jobs out there now...if you want to work for free.

With those more qualified than myself taking paycuts, I'm feeling a little doubtful on my prospects of quality employment. So what do I do? I'm 27 years old, is that too old to start interning? Not necessarily, although a little humility will go a long way I'm sure. Sean's friend Chris offered to try get get me a stage (the culinary equivalent of an internship, you work your ass off for free and pray you get hired at the end of your run) at the extremely high-end restaurant he works at. I have always romaniticized the idea of having a trade, but have no romantic misconceptions about what life in a kitchen is like.

Unfortunately right now I travel far too much to have the possibility of a kitchen job in my life. I'm trying to think of what other sorts of internships I could try out. I could try to be Genesis P-Orridge's archivist or perhaps be a management company lackey. First assistant intern reporting for duty Mr. Wentz. Ugh. Right now my only job prospect seems to be professional blogger, but can you really be professional if you only make about $100/week? Just wondering.

The Chosen (and not the Jewish kind)

My friend works at a modeling agency. They get tons of regular submissions from people who want to be models. He started blogging some of the best and brightest of these hopefuls. Some are amazing, some are depressing, some are striking, and some are just plain...well...you'll see.

The Chosen

Here are some of the photos he's posted:









It's been around for less than 24 hours and already it's the most amazing blog I've seen in ages.

Blogging out of bounds

Murder One

Liz from Vice found my blog when I linked their blog to my blog when their blog where she blogged about me and Sean. Phew...so now I am blogging for their blog and letting you know about it on my blog. Got it? Good. Leave me comments to show the world how much you care!

I give up

Why do people listen to Karl Lagerfeld? Seriously. I will never get that man's allure. Sure, he's a German robot skeletor who has the ability to devastate anyone in the fashion world with a snide remark, but as far as I can tell all he does is sit around all day and call people fat while taking sole credit for everything his design team does. Chanel and most other high fashion branding is nothing but iconography for something I never aspired to be a part of; its the logo for the international WASP conspiracy. I see the crossed C's on grandmother's hairclips and jacket buttons more frequently than on a young fashionista's handbag. It's all a ruse, and Chanel is the most visable and powerful perpetrator.

My friends and I had a joke crew a long while ago call Closet Crust. And I created a logo for us riffing on the crossed Chanel C's, writing them in metal script instead of the prudish easily symmetrical font. It was for those of us who had grown up punk rock and had discovered a love of fashion and style that was actualized when we moved to New York. Even though we didn't look the part anymore, we still cherished our old 7"s and LPs. And yeah, I went to see DSB at ABC No Rio wearing vintage Dior and no one was the wiser. What of it? This was a time period where everything I owned was second hand from working as a buyer at Beacons Closet. So I could pull off some astounding looks on a scumbag's budget. I followed every collection on Style.com and my LiveJournal (ah yes, I blogged before there were blogs to blog on) was peppered with wish lists and dream looks from current runway collections. I dreamed of high fashion, but was content with it being unattainable.

But then something changed. I graduated from college, quit my job at Beacons, and started working at Barneys. Suddenly the labels and the price points were within reach. Spending several hundred dollars on a pair of Ann Demeulemeester boots seemed like a totally okay idea and finally a few of those Dries Van Noten knits could be mine, first hand. When you are surrounded by three hundred dollar jeans every day at work, you concept of reasonable price points becomes perverted and suddenly you've spent nearly 1/6 of your annual income buying clothes at your workplace. And when I say 1/6 of my income, understand that during that period I made more money than you probably do, and more money than I probably will again, at least for quite a long time. Commission retail is a heady profitable game, although ultimately soul-crushing. So I quit.

After I walked away I realized how hard I'd fallen for it. Fell for the hype, the manufactured sense of specialness and rarity. But it also was irreparably tarnished for me. For every beautiful overlooked piece that would go on sale, there would be 20 items ruined for me by sixteen-year-old trophy wives in training begging mommy to buy them for them. Nothing was special. After seeing the mindless upper class mindlessly spend money on beautiful pieces they didn't appreciate in the same gesture as countless overpriced disposable pieces of crap, it made me realize that it was all targeted toward the same consumer base.

$1200 dresses are not made for people like me, whether they are cheesy Versace monstrosities or glorious Proenza pieces. In both I look and feel terribly out of place. I feel too young, too constrained, and too self-conscious. And I've learned to be okay with that. I get dirty, I spill food, I get snagged, I ruin things, and I don't mind holes in my dresses or grease stains on my jeans. Delicate artifacts that can only be worn with caution by pampered misses are not for me. Silk makes me sweat and a bias cut puckers around my prominent ass. The only things worth spending real money on seem to be good lingerie, a serious coat, and few pairs of well-made gorgeous shoes. But as for that other stuff, please keep producing is so when it's threadbare and charming the next generation can buy it 20 years later.

What sucks is that I'm finding it hard and harder to avoid becoming one of those curmudgeonly "vintage is better" snobs the older I get. Blah blah blah, it's all been done before, there is no more real innovation, just theme and variation. The only thing that keeps progressing is textiles. Everything else is just a riff on something else. It's all "inspiration pieces" from closets that I'll never get to raid. Plus I'll always be more comfortable in a lycra blend than silk. Faded black cotton 90s mall dresses make me feel at home. Cheap and easy, built for damage and speed, that's what the true Closet Crust afficiando feel most comfortable in. But I'll still happily pair them with a pair of expensive boots, because what's more punk rock than black leather? It's the only thing available at Barneys that goes with my motto for fashion and life: better once slightly damaged.

Choices

A representation of my cinematic maturity

I have four Netflix at my house:

Stalker
This science fiction milestone from directory Andrei Tarkovsky takes you into the SZone, a mysterious guarded realm containng a mystical room in which occupants' secret dreams come true. Stalker, a man able to lead others to this holy grail, escorts a writer and a scientist through this foreboding territory and confronts several unexpected challenges along the way. Bassed on the Russian sci-fi novel Roadside Picnic.
Rated NR 2 hrs. 43 min. 1979

Baise Moi
Please note that this film contains explicit sex scene and scenes of intense graphic violence, which some viewers may find shocking and disturbing. This film is not recommended for viewers under the age of 18. Manu, a hardened young waif is violently raped by a group of savage young thugs. Nadine, a tough-skinned prostitute, sells her body but refuses to give up her soul to the world's oldest profession. Sex plays a pivotal and often destructive role in both their lives. Angry at the world, they embark on a twisted rage-filled road trip. Their bloodlust leaves a trail of dead bodies and mischief behind them. They become deadly harbingers of death and destruction. Anyone who has the misfortune of crossing their path, is suddenly a potential victim.
Rated UR 1 hr. 17 min. 2000

L'Age D'Or
Iconoclastic direction Luis Bunuel trumpets his trademark critiques of relgion and bourgeoisie society ini this surrealistic, 1930 film -- which retains the power to shock its audience. As a nameless man and woman (portrayed by Gaston Modot and Lya Lys, respectively) attempt to consummate their sexual desire, the forces of righteousness continually thwart their passion. Artist Salvador Dali penned the provocative script.
Rated NR 1 hr. 1930

My Name Is Nobody
Spaghetti Western regular Terence Hill stars as Nobody, a man who's been chosen to take out established bandit Jack Beauregard (Henry Fonda) but who strikes up a friendship with the seasoned outlaw instead. After Beauregard decides to retire, his new buddy Nobody suggest that he go down in one last blaze of glory, and does his best to have him face off against the dodgy Wild Bunch. Will the aging gunfighter change his mind?
Rated PG 1 hr. 51 min. 1974

With these illustrious choices, what do we decide to watch?

A VHS bootleg of Next Friday.

I really need to have less ambitious movies in my queue and have at least one or two retard movies available at all times (ps I usually only get 3 movies at a time but due to some glitch they sent me 4.)

I guess it's time for Soul Plane and Spies Like Us to make their way to the top of my Queue.

I love my phone

(Yes, that is an antenna!)

Leah's cat ate through my phone charger cord (I'm still housesitting) and when I went to Radio Shack to get a new one they offered me a new phone for free as an upgrade since mine was so old. I considered it and then looked at my poor old Samsung with it's antenna and thought about all the good times we've had. And then I thought about all the hard work I'd done adding words to my predictive text. I think these words show a lot about me. Also, considering the fact that my phone didn't have "taco" or "burrito" makes me think it's kind of racist. Wow...I seriously must text like a fifteen year old stoner boy, check it out (inspired by Lisa)

Clems
Blog
Bagel
Bbq
Barging
Bitch
Bastard
Blogged
Bodega
Collard
Boner
Bong
Bonkers
Cougar
Aphrodesiac
Barging
Bummed
Bummer
Bummig
Burrito
Enids
Dj
Fuck
Fag
Damn
Dissed
Djing
Floozy
Dick
Donnelly
Dork
Douche
Driggs
Daryl
Fucking
Ive
Gnarly
Itll
Gumbo
Kamali
Lemme
Omg
Nyc
Mc
Menthol
Meserole
Orin
Ouch
Nicole
Shit
Rager
Sapping
Scum
Scumbag
Seltzer
Pawed
Piss
Slut
Roach
Roebling
Rudy
Puke
Puking
Pussy
Taco
Veggie
Tite
Tits
Transvestite
Truffle
Williamsburg
Whoa
Whore

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.

Invoking the Spirits

Last night my roommate Sam Jayne held what he dubbed a Postivie American Ambience Ritual in the baseball diamond of McCarren park at precisely 11:11 pm. According to his email: Well, basically, based on some tiny magical knowledge and belief and some help from some friends, I will be holding a ritual that will contain two basic spells: a binding and banishment of the qualities of the icon we will refer to as NIACM, and an invocation and giving of power to the icon we will refer to as AMABO. These icons are of course representative of the two candidates in the election on Nov 4 and their parties and belief systems. However, it is my belief that our voting system is partially ineffective and that magical action should take place, both now and constantly, to positively influence the American Socio-Political environment and ambience. We met beforehand at Enid's to work on the script. Andy, Sam spiritual advisor guided him through his personal magical practices. I helped with some phrasing (ever the editor I complained when it got too wordy.) Caroline wore a magical hat she made. I didn't take any pictures during the ceremony as I was participating. I got to hold the pentagram (upright, white magic, not inverted) that was used to banish Niaccm and planted it in the ground next to Amabo. Fingers crossed the spirits were pleased. The scene as how we left it. From afar Goodnight. And yes I voted today.

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

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?

Don't call the metal police

But I was on a folk out bum out rage when I made this one. It all started when I watched Trouble Every Day after getting about four hours of sleep the night before. My brain was having trouble dealing with the tension and the impending carnage so I took a break despite only having twenty minutes left in the movie. I laid down to nap and while I was sleeping it started raining and a windstorm kicked up. A huge gust of wind blew the box fan out of my window and onto my head waking me. I've had a headache for the past three days and have a considerable knot from the blow. I got up, turned the movie back on only to watch the most brutal part yet and then proceeded to be a bummer for the rest of the night.

In the midst of my being a bummer I made an intense folk muxtape. Upon revisiting it I found it to be too heavy so I updated it and a new theme emerged...

I present Jammers and Bummers


Alice Cooper - Sting Low Sweet Cheerio: Nothing is complete without Alice. This is an old one but a great one. I am in love with this song and it's quiet menace. It's off Alice Cooper's first album so the theatrics are not quite in full swing, but it's a quality peek into what's yet to come. From 1969.


Terry Manning - I Ain't Got You: Terry was better known as a producer but on his solo album you get to hear his dirty Memphis sound and it's the perfect balance of fuzz and restraint. Also, an interesting side-note, Alex Chilton of Big Star fame played on this album. From 1970.


The Loudest Whisper - Good Day, My Friend: For a Irish folk inspired concept-ish album, this is suprisingly complete and listenable. I love nearly every song on this record and frankly chose this one because it's my song of the moment, but it was a hard road to chose. Loudest Whisper is still going, but this album is by far my favorite, complete with a children's chorus and mythological refrains. Solid through and through. A little later than the others, from 1977.


Perry Leopold - The Annunciation: I've been completely hooked on both Christian Lucifer and Experiment in Metaphysics for several weeks. I am a sucker for a catchy chorus and "Somebody wake the dead" is right up my alley. What can I say? Haunted by faith, can't really relate, but I do have an odd fondess for tortured Christian folk. From 1973.


Townes Van Zandt - Nothin: Heartbreaking from my favorite heartbreaker. Stark and blunt. Townes at his finest. From 1971.


Mighty Baby - I've Been Down So Long: I always laugh when I hear about the kids from Amazing Baby, I'll never be able to divorce the two. Not as good as the track, Egyptian Tomb but it's still right on. From 1969.


Morning Dew - Upon Leaving: Utterly accessible but solid psych rock from Topeka, Kansas. One of the best driving records I've come across. Always one of my favorite tour jams. From 1967.


Patron Saints - Shine on Heart: This track was originally left off the album because at over 7 minutes, it was far too long. Available on the reissue, it is one of my favorite tracks. Warbling and off-kilter, it is a perfect representation of the Patron Saint's charm. From 1969.


Tradewinds - Virgin to the Night: Solid 60's teen pop. Catchy and totally summertime appropriate. I can't find a release year for this album because this is essentially a compilation and these artists recorded under a few names.


Mellow Candle - The Virgin Prophet: This band was comprised of two schoolmates from Ireland. Haunting folk melodies with a serene ghostlike quality. One of my favorite folk groups perhaps ever. This track is from a series of unreleased sessions dating from 1969-1970.


Meic Stevens - Yorric: What can I say about Meic Stevens. Essentially the Welsh Bob Dylan, this is off his only album primarily in English. Most of his releases are in Welsh but all still beautifully listenable. Still, it helps to be able to sing along, even though Yorric is by far the least sing-song of the tracks off Outlander. I love this man, I love this album, and I love the people who rereleased it. From 1970.


Fred Neil - Ride Stormy Weather: Another track off a best of type compilation. I have no idea when it was recorded but it gets me just the same. A nice return to Americana.