Number of the Beast

Sadly, the most interesting discovery during woods walking is human garbage. Can you believe this can of beast?? It looks respectable. Unlike the silly non-art can of today. I think Milwaukee could generate more profits amongst today’s conscientious youth with a sentimental design like this. Conjuring images of horses with weathered drivers, pushing on in the Wisconsin rain, the wagon spokes spitting mud onto the barrels of expertly brewed beer. It would encourage reminiscing of harder times, when the working man just needs to saddle up to the tavern for the small comfort that’s in a pint. Oh wait, the working man still does do that. Which is why an effective graphic like this could remind you that you are just like your great grandfathers, and that’s OK, because they were honest men.

Loafass Love

This is not a review! This is true love! (At last!) Let’s talk about Loafass, the greatest band in all the land. Remember when you used to get excited about going to shows and actually looked forward to seeing local bands on a regular basis? Maybe I’m retroactively glamorizing the excitement of being young at a fucking MoneyBagsGram show-- and if you get that reference, you’re so Binghamton, good for you! And if you missed Burn the Arsonist, you didn’t have a childhood. I’m sorry. I just wanted to see how that sentence looked on screen. And I LOLed so I’m keeping it.

Now imagine that the same enthusiasm can be reanimated in your brain if only you could see Loafass: Filthadelphia PhunkPunkRock! I remember reading in Dance of Days about kids crying at Rites of Spring shows because they were so overwhelmed by how much the band affected their lives. And I think I could cry at Loafass, because everything is so good; it’s the most joyous marriage of anarchic force and not giving a fuck.

“When I get home, I want a cold, cold beer”. That’s not a convoluted concept. It speaks to the people. I think many people wish they were more proactive, but most of the time, I just want to drink a lot and do drugs-- and that’s what I call “Victory”! Not in a miserable, pathetic Bukowski sense of being a wasteoid, but in a ‘let’s put all bullshit aside and have some fucking fun’!Sometimes you just wake up, and you’re having a Big Dick Day.

I also admire the legitimacy of adding a Minor Threat cover to the album OBOY, which is most excellent. And musically, Enforcer is like a really sick intro to the song Straight to LA. They go together like Led Zeppelin’s Heartbreaker and Living Loving Maid.

Perhaps Teabaggin’ is the most accomplished song in the Loafass canon. In the least misogynistic way possible Fish explains: “Then you wake up and you hope it ain’t true—look out girl, I just teabagged you!”. If you’d like to see the proof of my devotion, go to Loafass on MySpace and notice that someone is wearing a real DIY shirt, in devotion to the song and to the band--- and that hopeless loser is ME!

But really. Seeing Loafass and watching everyone singing and having good old fashioned fun is great. And I love the crassness of lead singer Fish and his brilliant sarcastic facial expressions plus spitting beer all over the crowd. I’m in love.

Tiger (in the) Woods

My latest adventures take me into the woods. And unlike the streets of Philadelphia, the woods don’t stink of or have any people. That’s not entirely true. I saw a in the creek with her dog and was really surprised. I ducked down and tried to respect her privacy. Not like I shouldn’t have been there (anarchists aren’t supposed to jive with the idea of private property, you know). But I thought I was alone, and that’s kind of the point of woods walking: to think, etc.. You don’t go into the woods to meet sexy singles exactly.

Yesterday I came upon two guys getting high, and had this momentary fantasy of joining and becoming great friends with them for the afternoon. But they thought they were alone and meeting a girl in the woods and sharing your drugs with her might be too weird for anyone.

My most exciting discovery so far is an arrangement of an almost immaculately laid deer skeleton. Every vertebra is snugly set in the mud, all in a row. Of course, I’d hoped it was a wolf or a bobcat, but it was still ing cool to play CSI for an hour.

Claudia helped.

Another Impressive Job to Add to My Resume

I’ve been taking photos of kids with the Easter Bunny. And sometimes…I am the bunny. At least the anti-corporate perks are great. It is a small local company, owned by people I know. I actually know the person who signs my paycheck, and I see her (yes her!) everyday. I don’t have to wear a uniform, or clock in, or wear a nametag. If you’ve ever worn a nametag at your work, you’ll undoubtedly be familiar with customers using your name sarcastically or to personally disrespect you. They believe they reside in some kind of exclusive echelon because they have blatant access to what your name is, while you, the ignorant working class servant, do not know their name. “Well thanks for your help, Caitlin”.

Several occasions in my retail working life have warranted a severe reaction to unconventionally rude customers. At this juncture the person has realized that this employee, me, is surprisingly confrontational, and their confidence is suddenly stricken with doubt. At which point the person will then use my name to “tell” on me, because they can no longer uphold the argument themselves. They are seen looking around for a more authoritative figure to back them up. A manger in retail does not have your back. A manager will absolutely side with that dickhead, even though he knows you, and has never seen this person in his life. An apology might be made later, in the back, and it’ll be such a laugh, oh those uptight customers. But the pseudo-apology leaves one feeling even more disgruntled and helpless.

If dickhead can’t find a manager, they then use that critical piece of information, your name, to ensure that you will be told on, yes they will be making some kind of report to the highest headquarters about your performance and they will use your name, and you will get into so much trouble.

A shameful brand on your company issued polo shirt will sabotage your argument. Dickhead will dramatically look down at your nametag and say your name with the same wrinkled nose of repulsion when one discovers expired milk in the fridge and say “Caitlin”. And with self assurance building in their face, their posture, every second they will say very syrupy sweet: “Who’s your manager?”.

If you can not hesitate and fire back, just as sickly sweet—no, be adorable when you tell them the first and last name of your boss, and the name of his boss and what their titles are, and politely encourage them to give either person a call, you will make that fucker back down!

My thing is, I don’t come to your job and treat you like shit just because you’re at work and can’t doing anything about it. So go home, and tell your partner all about what a gigantic bitch I am. Declare that you will never again return to that store whilst simultaneously rehearsing all the nasty things you will say to me when you come in again. Bring it.

At this job, my boss always takes my side, and we can tell people to get lost if they’re creating a scene because they can’t do anything about it. There is no “Mom” or “Dad” to tattle to. By contrast, if a customer arrives that we like, and is a good person, we can cut them a deal, or say things like “It’s on the house”, which is such a nice divergence from the corporate hell that would never allow you to do that for good customers.

Boycott This Too

So Erik P. told a story last night. About the first time he felt the call of responsibility, appropriate adult decision making. He was out drinking, and it was already 1am and people wanted him to go to this other bar, other party, prolonging the fun. And EP had something to do the next day, and it was already late, so he declined and went home. And that's where "Nomad's Revolt" stems from: at what point do you start acting grown-up without realizing it?

After this explanation, a guy behind me yells "That was the most un-rock-and-roll story ever!", and the audience agreed and nodded their heads to Erik's lameness. But it's interesting that this was EP's second show that night, the first one was all ages, and probably very rowdy and sweaty. The one I saw cost me ten fucking dollars, in this trendy bar that didn't have any real beer. And I mean, nothing in a can; local beers only, cheapest was three dollars. There were candles on the tables. Didn't all of us old fuckers opt for the comfortable show, where no one was going to dance into us or spill beer on us? At least me and Kelly and Andre were enjoying ourselves.

I've just felt recently that many of the revolutionaries/partiers/don't give a fuck people I've known have slammed on the brakes. Rough housing and shenanigans are taboo, and I am seen as the immature loser, who's trying to relive some other repressed time period. As if we're SO OLD. Listen, if I've got another 60 years on my life, and I'm already deemed too old to do certain things then tell me what a 23 year old girl should be doing. I just haven't abandoned that spirit, just because I'm not in college anymore. Where does it say that it's only OK to be ridiculous and spontaneous and rowdy if you're in school. I'd agree it was a lot easier, but my understanding of anarchic life is that coming home from work and waiting for the next pre-planned activity coming up in the month is not fulfilling or stimulating in any way. I don't need an event as an excuse to hang out! Let's just see what happens!
Is pleasure too dangerous??


So with that in mind, I'm leaving Philly to go back to Binghamton for two months so that I can return to the Adirondack mountains and drive a boat all summer. Some people back home will decide I've failed at Philadelphia by moving back, but it's what I need to do to get where I want: Long Lake!

And please don't think I'm targeting a specific person, I'm really not. I'm not even that mad. I just want everyone to have a good time. And keep the good times coming. We've still got a long way to go!

"Wedge a stone in the gears of the clockworks,
try to keep us from acting our age. We swore we'd
carry on like this forever, 'til the free spirits bled.
But now can you believe who's a mother, and that
so-and-so's cut off their dreads"

After all, the nomads are settling down :(

PUKE II

Do you remember the first time you puked? I do. Not baby spit up, etc... But as a human being.
I didn't know what was happening! I didn't even know that it was possible to have stuff come BACK out of your body. I had no idea.
I know what throwing up is now, that it can happen to people, animals, words ("word vomit"), maybe the orgasming penis could be considered as puking if you want. Point is, lots of things have liquid-y substances forced out of them.
But I don't know this at all. Never heard of it. Never saw it. Didn't think it was a thing.
So I wake up, in what I perceive to be "the middle of the night", but it's probably like 10:00, considering I was in bed at 7:30, right after the theme song to Jeopardy!, which was my ritual lullaby before bed. La-la-la-la..... I'm definitely wearing footy pajamas.
It's the dead of night to me. I wake up and my arm is all wet.
"What the fuck?
What is this shit on my arm?"

So I don't know what puke is right? And I don't know what this is, or why I'm wet, so it certainly didn't come out of me.
I walk to the door and puke a little. Oh what the fuck. I'm really scared. I must be dying. Out to the living room, with my parents on their respective couches watching TV. They are confused. I'm never out of bed. Before anyone can process anything (Like why is she awake, and is that vomit slinking down her pajamas?) I say one word.
The word to start every childhood sickness from then on: "Moooooooom!, immediately punctuated by "BAAARRRRFFFFFF!!!!"
And here I thought I was just going out there to ask them what was up with that smell in my room and did they maybe leave a bowl of soup in my bed, cuz it just dumped on me.
Nope. Full on upchuck. All the muscles in my body working against me to heave every ounce of not-quite-digested food back out and on to the carpet. Food can come back out?? OMFG!

I called my parents the other night, and asked them if they remembered this specific time, and could offer anything else to add. Of course they didn't. It is only important to me. Hank just says "I remember you puking A LOT!".

PUKE I

First Grade. I'm 6 years old. My best friend is Melissa. She's fat. Not disgusting. But the fattest person in our class. No matter, Melissa is hilarious. We have fun together. So it's the day after we get back from Christmas break. And everyone is parading around in their new clothes, looking and feeling sexy. I'm wearing this hot pink and purple number with cats on the sweater. My parents would never buy a sweater this sweet. It was from their friends Ralph and Amy. They know what's cool. Not anymore though. Ralph just got out of jail and Amy left their daughter with her new husband to go get a job in another city. Life sucks.
So it's lunch time and there's just enough room for all the girls in our class to sit at one table except for two. Guess who the two girls are who sit at a big long table by themselves.
Me and Melissa. Fuck 'em. We're having a better, bosser party over here.
Melissa's been whining about a stomach ache but I keep babbling on about my holiday.
Suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, she barfs like a gallon of puke onto her tray, drowning her food in this viscous brown upchuck. And here's the funny part: she pukes straight down onto her tray, looks up at me with coffee colored dribble sliding down her chin and says: "Caitlin I barfed!".
I guess little kids don't know what to say in that circumstance. Like, obviously you barfed.
And here's my disgusting, self-centered answer to my best friend: "Don't get it on ME!".
Ugghh. I have so many regrets in my life. And this is one of them. Being sick when you're young is like dying. It's unbearable. I didn't help at all. She ran to the garbage can with her tray and threw the whole thing away. And ran to the nurse, after asking an "aid" if it was alright.
And all I could think about was my new sweater, and how I didn't want any puke on it.

Now in 5th grade, I had a friend Erin. And I used to pee my pants a lot. From laughing too hard. I still do. I've laugh-peed as recently as 2008. It's a thing. And it's better than shitting the bed. Erin used to make me laugh so hard. A kid with pee stains is not ever going to live that down. Backing out of the room can only be used once or twice. So Erin would give me her sweatshirt to tie around my waist so no one would see the pee. Isn't that the nicest gesture? Even nicer was: I would give it back to her at the end of the day, with MY pee on it, and she would wash it. Or her dad would, rather. That's a good friend.
That's a GOOD friend.