Adipocere | too sweet to die

Currently viewing the category: "Adipocere"

Signifyin’ hipster

By D.E. On October 14, 2010 · In Adipocere

I wasn’t actually going to post about this brain trust examination of the “Sociological Investigation of the Hipster.”* Because really, who cares? I mean, I care enough to off-handedly dismiss it and all its nonacademic panelists as a covey of dipshits-qua-dipshits. But it’s impossible for me to pick out the comments or conclusions I take issue with most because I hate them all equally. After I read this article, there was almost not enough hate left in my heart for me to continue with my workaday hate. Also, my friend Tom put it better than I could:

Is it just me, or is this entire panel a waste of time/energy/thought on par with taking a cat to visit Santa or giving 18 year-olds the right to vote? How can hipsters be “the latest youth movement in the tradition of greasers, rappers, mods, hippies, punks” if no one would ever claim to be one? It’s something you call someone else, not something you purport to be. Unless you’re being ironic, in which case you probably ARE a hipster, but then you’re trapped in an asshole infinite regress, so the point is moot.

Thank you, Tom. I can now go back to hating all the things I usually hate. And McInnes and Lin can go back to merely being two of those things instead of being the situational Bob Grant and Chance of hipsterdom.

APPLAUSE.

Cranial Abuse, Blinded By Hate**

*What, no “Hipster-qua-Hipster”? Who vetoed that?
**Sidenote that runs longer than the post itself: This was an Albany (well, technically Troy-Core) band from the late 80s that later became Stigmata (who we referred to as “Stinkmetal,” because they did stink, and were way too metal for our tastes, but listening to this track now, it’s not 100 percent awful). “Troy-Core” was our shibboleth, but in fact was a term embraced wholeheartedly by its adherents, who enjoyed “absolutely abysmal speed-metal influenced hardcore with sloppy slow drumming and vocals that scream ‘thug’” and moshed with cretinous glee whenever fucking Leeway came to town. Come to think of it, I believe Troy-Core had its own special, especially violent version of moshpit behavior. God I hate hardcore. Why did I go to so many shows? Oh that’s right — there was nothing else to do.

[permalink] →

Hard to understand — a helluva man

By D.E. On October 3, 2010 · In Adipocere

As you know I’ve been going through my old photos and I came across a few from a certain era — 1991 — and was reminded of driving around in my friend’s mom’s station wagon, making her pull over so that I could talk to some dumb skater guys. At that point I had thoroughly embraced both early hardcore and hip-hop, based largely on the tastes of guys that I liked a lot, so I remember the tape playing: Son of Bazerk, Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk, which — come to think of it — was far cooler than any of the hip hop any of those dudes were listening to. It was a fluke. I loved that album, remember listening to it for years and playing it during parties in college and whatnot.

So imagine the amazing synchronicity: Just the other day, N and I were talking about that silly Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timberlake “history of hip-hop” medley that’s been making the rounds and arguing about who was unjustly left out (hint: EVERY SINGLE WOMAN MC except Missy Elliott and also the Bay Area, but I digress) and we were sitting there trying to name all the notable female MCs out there and coming up woefully short. And then I remembered: “How about Half Pint from Son of Bazerk?” And in a moment notable only because N’s knowledge of rap trumps mine to the power of ten, he said, “Who’s Son of Bazerk?” And I was all like, let me see what I can find on FilesTube. Lo and behold, there we go. (And hey, I bought Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk in 1991 — I’m merely replacing it under warranty.)

And so then I thought, what the hell are they up to these days? So I googled them and here’s the synchronicity: They have totally returned and released their first record in 19 years in September: Well Thawed Out. (Am I crazy, or is it some big secret?) So, goody. I bought it.

Son of Bazerk, Change the Style [1991]
Son of Bazerk, I Swear on a Stack of Old Hits [2010]

[permalink] →

Huddle the doorway

By D.E. On September 22, 2010 · In Adipocere

In my ongoing (and somewhat foiled, at this point) attempts at tracing my genealogy, I’ve gone back through my dad’s old family photos (mostly from 1930-1960), which turned up a few years ago. At the time, they were interesting, but they were a bit like looking at someone else’s pictures. I recognized my grandparents and my dad, but I not only didn’t recognize most of the subjects — I also felt no connection to them.

Now, at least, I can put faces to the names on the old Census forms. But even my dad can’t identify some of the people. And so, they’ll remain strangers.

(First-time visitors to the apartment often ask if all the old group portraits hanging on the walls are of family. They’re not. They’ve been picked up at tag sales, flea markets, and junk shops. It’s always struck me as odd that folks would get rid of their family photos, but perhaps it’s because the faces were as unfamiliar to them as my family’s photos are to me. But some people, like me, enjoy looking at photos of strangers.)

About this photo (click to enlarge it [whoops, originally uploaded a flipped version]): This here is my great-grandmother’s second husband (of three, total) and their dog. It was taken on the back porch of the house my family lived in in Windsor Terrace. Even though it has little resonance for me on a personal level (never met that guy, never met that dog, and never been to that house), I think it’s the most unintentionally brilliant photo in any of the family albums. Why is the dog sitting on the chair? Why is he posing for a photo?

And why is Tom Waits standing in the doorway?

[permalink] →

One thing you can’t lose

By D.E. On September 9, 2010 · In Adipocere

So, another Brimfield Flea Market down. That’s it for the year.

I do enjoy being up and on the road in a van crammed full of shit that used to belong to people who are dead now, shit that we’ve appropriated, put a price on, and will unload on some other person whose express purpose is to start that cycle again.

Brimfield is fundamentally different from, say, the Winter Antiques Show (where I also work) because at its heart, it is a giant flea market and not some curated, vetted, swell-attended deal. Brimfield is like a Bruegel painting with chemical toilets and $5 parking. And if it’s old, or made to look old, you’ll probably find it there.

Fully half the dudes at Brimfield look like Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil could wander around all day and not even get hassled. The median age of the women at Brimfield is about 100, and the uniform is a giant floppy hat and a wire cart dragged in a way that leaves a path of destruction and dinged shins in its wake. The majority of attendees have a singular obsession*, and some even wear signs or t-shirts that proclaim this, like the guy with the t-shirt that reads “LOOKING FOR BOY SCOUT MEMORABILIA.” Um, ok.

And they all want it for less money. My dad is generally acquiescent when they ask. When folks try to haggle with me, I defer to my dad, but if I didn’t, I would not be as good-natured about it. I think I’d be more like, “I can’t do that” or “perhaps this isn’t the item for you” or “how about you kiss my ass in two places and dream about a third?” I’m not a nice person. But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the whole experience.

And this morning, I came back. A surprising number of people in Hudson commute into the City for work via Amtrak. (By surprising, I mean like four or five. Still.) That is a long way to go and a spendy way to do it. So, on the 7:20 train this morning, I found myself among other people. At 7:20 am on most mornings I am in the presence of one other person, max, and a cat. Both are fairly careful to avoid me.

I am, in fact, a morning person. Just a solitary one.