#rural punk archive

[rural-punk-realness]

What is Rural Punk?

i have decided to coin a new phrase for a subculture and movement that i have seen people take place in but not give a name.

I do not just mean punks who live in rural areas, although they very much as included.

Rural Punk is a term I use for the lifestyle of minorities who are isolated from others, as well as resources they need to live. This can mean people living in literally rural areas but also people who are kept separated from their necessary support structures and resources. People like this often stick out like a sour thumb and their existence alone is seen as being alternative and going against polite society, making them "punk" even if they don't dress punk or listen to the music. This is a separate subculture from the music scene, though i am sure it will overlap. This movement is designed to include and center the voices of People of Color, as they are often ingnored when discussing rural and southern environments.

How do i be rural punk? heres some rules and examples

be anti-authoritarian

think of that guy in your town who knows where all the speed traps and cop hiding spots are

dont report people for drug usage. That person going to prison wont fix anything

protest when injustice happens in your community

don't report shop lifters

2. honor and respect nature

dont litter

reduce, reuse, recycle. DIY is an essential part of punk

document nature around you via drawing, painting or photography

be kind to animals

3. serve your fellow man

volunteer

advocate for others

listen to people talking about their experiences

speak up for, not over

vote in local elections

4. try to make your community better by spreading inclusivity and acceptance in hostile places

lgbtq+ clubs

organizing Black history events, especially if it's illegal to cover in school in your state

book clubs with diverse authors

[rural-punk-realness]

Georgia folks please check and make sure your still registered

The state of Georgia did what with voter registrations?!

[solar-sunnyside-up]

hey! sorry to bother you, but is there anything a teen without transportation in a rural area can do on their own? im pretty isolated, and theres barely anything around me.

Hey ya sprout 🌱

**A disclaimer Punk comes with some risk socially. Particularly if your in a rural area this risk goes up bc people Know You and also typically these spaces have a different vibe to alt ppl in general. Some activities are more or less risky and I'll try and do my best to give you a range of stuff from the whole spectrum! Of course this is a generalization of rural areas. Some palaces will be more cool then others depending in so many factors I couldn't go into here**

Rural solarpunk

Your gunna been to pick a topic, sorry babe. In order to not burn yourself out and in order to feel like you have an impact your gunna have to pick a cause to chip away at but I'll give you ideas! And remember just bc your focusing on one thing doesn't mean your ignoring or not helping others. Everything is interconnected and any help, helps all!

So let's give you some ideas to focus on:

Libraries- as a teen in particular you'll have access to a library at school, but depending on how big your town is you might have a public one as well. Become their biggest supporter! They are a great safe space, even conservative ones are still a good place to go for archiving/loitering purposes. They give you spaces to print stuff, to build clubs and community.

Archiving- if you cannot leave your house due to access you can always do stuff online and hear me out, i know when we do stuff online it feels like half points. Like we arent doing anything. I feel that with this blog, it feels so passive no matter how hard you work youll feel lesser. But Archiving is vital to humans! Think of the anthropologists wholl thank you down the road! Plus it does actually give you a way to have a physical representative of work your doing. Dvds, pirating media and archiving them to drives, collecting vinyls/tapes/cds!

DIY- To fight against fast fashion (although that barely exists in the towns I've been in tbh) and to stick out** you could make your own patches, battlejackets, gloves, etc.. They are statement pieces you can wear whenever your in town/at school/social spaces that ppl know what you stand for and who you are. Depending on who/where you are this might be risky so take what you can bare ok? You don't have to wear these items too you can just make them for later on!

Little libraries/little pantries- in a rural space you have more Gruella tactics you can take if you do them in random abandoned spaces. You could build a waterproof little pantry and stock it and leave info somewhere about it for ppl to drop off/pick up items. Stock it with mittens! With canned goods! With books! You might be able to do a space like this at school/library depending in how cool your town is too!

Zines- You could look into making a zine and even if it's digital you could have the QR code for download in places (stickers on lamp posts, flyers in school bathrooms, hidden in a churches pamphlet stacks >.>) making a zine is a cool task that is time consuming and informative and fun!

Vandalism- like I said you can often print off stuff at Libraries, or usually you can find a place to print stuff off near or at post offices depending on how modern your rural space is. if you have your own printer this will reduce your risk by quite a bit though! Create/find stickers or posters you want to toss across town or even school. I'd recommend starting off with some stickers and see how their handled, dipping your toes is important with these kinda things. If your really feeling it, and you know some abandoned places Moss Graffiti is also a good option! I've know ppl who have converted old abandoned stored to skate parks (I honestly have no idea how they built the ramps out of concrete but damn!! Good job guys!)

Also I'll leave you with 2 book recommendations as well-

Moxie - a RIOT GRRRL story about a girl who gets so fed up with her conservative town she makes a feminist zine and distributes it via girl bathrooms (even having a basically me too stickers and encouraging ppl to put it on boys lockers who have assaulted them). I know there's a movie, didn't seem to capture the same vibe tho so book!

Braiding Sweetgrass - this focuses a lot on reconnecting and adding story to nature around us and having science along side spirituality

[mekachu04]

J-card Insert - CHAPTER 2

Art: School photos

Snippit: Last days of Summer

Fandom: One Piece (Anime & Manga) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Eustass Kidd & Killer, Eustass Kidd & Heat & Killer & Wire & Victoria, Eustass Kidd & Killer & Victoria, Heat & Wire, Heat/Wire (background), Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Buggy (background) Characters: Eustass Kidd, Killer (One Piece), Shiruton "Victoria" Doruyanaika, Heat (One Piece), Wire (One Piece), Eustass Kidd's mom - noncanon - side character Additional Tags: Vaguely Highschool AU, Alternative Universe - No Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit, USA Western Rural 90's AU, Victoria Punk is a Datsun 620 - aka 4 hooker lil'Hustler, Art, Prequel, secretly smart!Kidd, Kidd's not an angry boi yet, actually he's kinda a silly little guy, the four Emperors are basically Cattle barons, kidd's mom's a sweet lady trying her best, Rural|Farm|Ranch life, Aged Down Character(s), Aged Down!Kidd, Aged Down!Killer, Aged Down!Wire, Aged Down!Heat Series: Part of Reposed Rebellions Art work for Reposed Rebellions with small side stories that take place before the A Side

16 year old Victoria celebrates passing her driving test by rounding up her boys in the last few days of summer vacation

[niaking]

My books are on sale for pride season. Usually $20 each, you can get all three volumes of Queer & Trans Artists of Color for only $50 (and free shipping) until the end of June. These books include interviews with Janet Mock, Julio Salgado, Vivek Shraya and more! Get the discount here. Full listing of interviewees below the break.

VOLUME ONE (2014) ​CO-EDITED BY TERRA MIKALSON & JESSICA GLENNON-ZUKOFF

Mixed-race queer art activist Nia King left a full-time job in an effort to center her life around making art. Grappling with questions of purpose, survival, and compromise, she started a podcast called We Want the Airwaves in order to pick the brains of fellow queer and trans artists of color about their work, their lives, and “making it” - both in terms of success and in terms of survival.

In this collection of interviews, Nia discusses fat burlesque with MAGNOLIAH BLACK, queer fashion with KIAM MARCELO JUNIO, interning at Playboy with JANET MOCK, dating gay Latino Republicans with JULIO SALGADO, intellectual hazing with KORTNEY RYAN ZIEGLER, gay gentrification with VAN BINFA, getting a book deal with VIRGIE TOVAR, the politics of black drag with MICIA MOSELY, evading deportation with YOSIMAR REYES, weird science with RYKA AOKI, gay public sex in Africa with NICK MWALUKO, thin privilege with FABIAN ROMERO, the tyranny of “self-care” with LOVEMME CORAZÓN, “selling out” with MISS PERSIA and DADDIE$ PLA$TIK, the self-employed art-activist hustle with LEAH LAKSHMI PIEPZNA-SAMARASINHA, and much, much more. Buy book one here.

VOLUME TWO (2016) ​CO-EDITED BY ELENA ROSE

Building on the groundbreaking first volume, Queer and Trans Artists of Color: Stories of Some of Our Lives, Nia King is back with a second archive of interviews from her podcast We Want the Airwaves. She maintains her signature frankness as an interviewer while seeking advice on surviving capitalism from creative folks who often find their labor devalued.

In this collection of interviews, Nia discusses biphobia in gay men’s communities with JUBA KALAMKA, helping border-crossers find water in the desert with MICHA CÁRDENAS, trying to preserve Indigenous languages through painting with GRACE ROSARIO PERKINS, revolutionary monster stories with ELENA ROSE, using textiles to protest police violence with INDIRA ALLEGRA, trying to respectfully reclaim one’s own culture with AMIR RABIYAH, taking on punk racism with MIMI THI NGUYEN, the imminent trans women of color world takeover with LEXI ADSIT, queer life in WWII Japanese American incarceration camps with TINA TAKEMOTO, hip-hop and Black Nationalism with AJUAN MANCE, making music in exile with MARTÍN SORRONDEGUY, issue-based versus identity-based organizing with TRISH SALAH, ten years of curating and touring with the QTPOC arts organization Mangos With Chili with CHERRY GALETTE, raising awareness about gentrification through games with MATTIE BRICE, self-publishing versus working with a small press with VIVEK SHREYA, and the colonial nature of journalism school with KILEY MAY. The conversation continues. Buy book two here.

VOLUME THREE (2019) ​CO-EDITED BY MALIHA AHMED

Is it possible to make art and make rent without compromising your values? Nia King set out to answer this question when she started We Want the Airwaves podcast in 2013. In her Queer & Trans Artists of Color book series, Nia collects podcast interviews — with Black, Latinx, Asian, Middle Eastern and Indigenous LGBTQ writers, musicians and visual artists — which feature both incredible storytelling and practical advice.

In the latest installment of the Queer & Trans Artists of Color series, Nia discusses performing at the White House with VENUS SELENITE, the global nature of colorism with KAMAL AL-SOLAYLEE, writing for Marvel Comics with GABBY RIVERA, using lies to tell unspeakable truths with KAI CHENG THOM, Black mental health with ANTHONY J. WILLIAMS, curating diverse anthologies with JOAMETTE GIL, growing up trans in rural Idaho with MEY RUDE, covering crime as a baby-faced reporter with SAM LEVIN, feminist approaches to journalism with SARAH LUBY BURKE, documenting Black punk history with OSA ATOE, crossing color lines with QWO-LI DRISKILL, fat hairy brown goddesses with PARADISE KHANMALEK, the usefulness of anger with JIA QING WILSON-YANG, transitioning as death and rebirth with ARIELLE TWIST, surviving homelessness and touring the world with STAR AMERASU and much, much more. Buy book three here.

[biscuitdoeshorror]

Green Room (2015) - written and directed by Jeremy Saulnier. "After a punk band member learns about the crimes of a club owner, the latter decides to kill him and his members to protect himself. However, the members successfully foil his plan." 'Punk ain't no religious cult, punk means thinking for yourself...' What a fantastic movie. I've seen it quite a few times since it came out, and it gets better every time. With an amazing ensemble cast featuring Patrick Stewart as Darcy, Anton Yelchin (RIP) as Pat, Imogen Poots as Amber, Macon Blair as Gabe, and Eric Edelstein as Big Justin (Who I always thought was played by Tom Segura), this movie has it all. A punk band touring rural spots in the USA, earning little to no money, just basically living as crust punks do by siphoning gas and taking whatever gigs they can get are invited to play at a club. This club, however, is run by and is full of skinheads/white supremacists. The band, specifically their vocalist Tiger has the bright idea of performing a cover of 'Nazi Punks Fuck Off' by Dead Kennedys, much to the crowds displeasure. Bottles are hurled at them, spit is spat, insults are thrown. Yet they are powerless against a raging punk band crushing their possibly incest-influenced ideas. As the band finish up, they go to leave, yet Pat forgot his phone so goes back for it only to find Big Justin and other females crowded around a body that has a knife or a screwdriver placed comfortably through her temple. This causes the venue owners and staff to panic, they don't want their crimes to be reported, the only option is to lock the band in and try to kill them. The rest is spoilers for a very good film, so I would suggest checking it out. It was also Anton Yelchin's final filmed role before he died in a tragic accident (the rest of his films afterwards where archival footage or footage already shot). This one's for you Anton, 1989-2016. 10/10. Must watch movie for punk fans and people who like seeing Nazi's get fucked up.

[seepunkrun]

Author: Punk Fandom: Star Trek: Alternative Original Series Pairing: Kirk/Spock Rating: G Content notes: no standard notes apply Disclaimer: These are not the voyages of the Starship Enterprise.

Size: 230 words

Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family, Humor, OTW15 | OTW 15th Anniversary Fanwork Challenge, 15 Sentence Fic, My First Work in This Fandom

Summary: In which Mr. Spock unwittingly discovers rural Iowa is as strange a place as any other in the universe.

[ao3feed-spirk]

Strange New Worlds, Etc.

read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/41810040

by Punk

In which Mr. Spock unwittingly discovers rural Iowa is as strange a place as any other in the universe.

Words: 228, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: James T. Kirk, Spock, George Samuel Kirk

Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock

Additional Tags: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family, Humor, OTW15 | OTW 15th Anniversary Fanwork Challenge, 15 Sentence Fic, My First Work in This Fandom

read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/41810040

[anistarrose]

Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!” Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. “And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

[virtualrenfaire2020]

Virtual Ren Faire 2020 Calendar

We have activities and themed days, plus we’ve compiled a bunch of livestreams from some fantastic performers to enjoy during our Faire. The calendar is updated daily, so stay tuned for more events!

Saturday, March 28

Opening day!

Join us on Opening Day for a day of faire activities. Share photos, videos, and stories relating to your ren faire experience! 

Submissions will be open starting today for the Costume Contest!

O.W.L. Fest - 7:30 AM PDT

An all-day series of concerts with a wizardly theme. A new artist is live every half hour until 7:00 PM, so tune in anytime! Don’t forget to refresh the page between concerts to listen to the latest stream. The current lineup is: Tonks and the Aurors, Lauren Fairweather, Ashley Hamel, Hawthorn & Holly, Grace Kendall, Kalysta Flame, Pussycat Dolores, The Purebloods, Flitwick and the Charmers, Losing Lara, Muggle Snuggle, Percy and the Prefects, Ludo Bagman and the Trash, Draco and the Malfoys, The Mudbloods, The Lovegoods, Alas Earwax!, The Blibbering Humdingers, Abby Ritter, The Swedish Shortsnouts, Kirstyn Hippe, POTTÖRHEAD, The Arkadian, Karl-Johan, and Toucan Dubh.

Check out the Facebook livestream concerts here.

Ye Banished Privateers Virtual Release Party - 11:00 AM PDT.

“Let’s party like it’s 1720! Borders are closing, people are being forced to shut their doors. Our global world is growing smaller, but Ye Banished Privateers believes in staying connected through the crisis. On march 28th we were planning to throw a big release party for our new album Hostis Humani Generis in our home town Umeå, Sweden, which naturally had to be cancelled due to the corona pandemic. Instead we’ll be hosting a live streamed event, at 19.00 cet 28/3 that will be worthy of an official release concert. We want to try and make this something special and grand . . . let’s stand together in all safe ways possible.”

Check out the Youtube livestream concert here.

Pub Crawl - 1:30 PM PDT. 

We’ll be hosting a BYOB pub crawl. Keep an eye out for the tag vrf2020 pub crawl for more info. Please follow local drinking laws and drink responsibly!

Cyrus Pynn (The Swordsman) - 2:00 PM PDT.

“I am a self taught professional sword swallower who perfected the art at the Coney Island Sideshow School, where I learned to present it in an entertaining and classy manner. Since then I have pushed the limit with this dangerous feat as I have traveled across the United States performing with Carnivals, Festivals and Variety Shows . . . Demonstrating the world's most dangerous stunt in an entertaining, classy manner featuring comedy, audience interaction and, of course, death defiance! ‘Down the Hatch without a Scratch!’“

Check out the Facebook livestream show here.

Andrea Beaton - 4:30 PM PDT.

“Andrea grew up in a musical family in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.  Both the Beaton and MacMaster sides of her family are well known and respected as some of Cape Breton's finest musicians, dancers and composers. She has made 6 solo CDs, a duo album with her father Kinnon, and published 3 books of tunes.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

The CRAIC Show - 5:00 PM PDT.

“The CRAIC Show is an intense & wildly entertaining act, made up of five international travelers who, in 1541AD, were banded together on an ancient battlefield. This unique merging of music from far away lands brings a sound that is unlike any other . . .  Ever-changing and constantly blending styles, The CRAIC Show is always bringing a fresh, high energy blend of World Medieval Music to a modern audience.” 

Check out the Facebook livestream concert here.

Erin Rae - 7:00 PM PDT.

“Gifted with a unique ability to fuse musical genres and influences to craft songs that feel fresh and wholly her own, with her new album Putting On Airs, Erin Rae has thrown down a direct challenge to the stereotype of what a Southern singer should be. Both lyrically and sonically, she strikes a fiercely independent chord, proudly releasing a deeply personal record that reflects her own upbringing in Tennessee, including the prejudices and injustices that she witnessed as a child that continue to impact her life to this day. According to Rae, ‘this album was born out of a need to do some healing work in my personal life, in order to address some fears and patterns of mine to allow my true feelings to come to the surface.’”

Check out the Instagram livestream concert here.

Sunday, March 29

Submissions remain open for the Costume Contest!

Alistair McCulloch - 11:30 AM PDT.

“Alistair is one of Scotland's best known fiddle performers and teachers.  His trio features Aaron Jones of Old Blind Dogs, and former Capercaillie whistle wizard Marc Duff. Alistair has taught a generation of rising stars at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

Linda McRae - 1:00 PM PDT.

“Linda’s love of Canadian, American and British music early on in her career resulted in multiple band configurations from roots-rock to punk to folk . . . When Linda steps onto a concert stage, into a recording studio, workshop or mentoring session, there is an effortless passion, a love of what she does and a connection with fans and friendships built and treasured. A multi-instrumentalist Linda works tirelessly as a touring singing songwriter, performing at premiere venues across Canada, the US and Europe while turning out new works.”

Check out the Facebook livestream concert here.

The Glow Bubble Show (Meadow Perry) - 4:00 PM PDT.

“Meadow Perry is a Philadelphia based Magician, Bubble Artist and Actress. Known for her beloved children's character, Meadowlark the Faerie, Meadow has been performing in various genres from the stage to private events for over 15 years. The Bubble Magic of Meadow Perry is a show that takes the visual art of bubbles, theatrical storytelling, enchanting magic, thrilling music, & a touch of sophistication to create a unique and entertaining show that has been described as ‘A mesmerizing, spellbounding experience! Charming and interesting, Meadow takes the rules of bubbles outside the box!’”

Check out the Instagram livestream show here.

Monday, March 30

Submissions remain open for the Costume Contest!

Merchants’ Monday

Show our wonderful shops some extra love today!

Shannon Lay - 12:00 PM PDT.

“There is an entire sub-genre of poetry devoted to rivers and their persistent, meditative flow . . . For transcendent folk-pop artist Shannon Lay, the river is all of the above: It’s the metaphor driving her latest album, the exquisitely uplifting August (Sub Pop Records, out August, 23rd)—which doubles as an aural baptism renewing her purpose for making music. ‘I always picture music as this river. Everyone’s throwing things into this river, it’s a place you can go to and feed off of that energy,’ she says, ‘and feel nourished by the fact that so many people are feeling what you’re feeling. It’s this beautiful exchange.’”

Check out the Instagram livestream concert here.

Jesse Linder, Bard - 5:00 PM PDT.

“. . .'Singer of Songs, Teller of Tales.’ Jesse performs as a solo artist and as a member of 3 Pints Gone, and has been a member of Separated at Birth, CrossRogues, and Tippler's Way. Jesse sings at Renaisance faires, American reenactments, Irish pubs, and coffeehouses throughout the Midwest. He currently has three solo CDs and five group CDs in print.”

Check out the Facebook livestream concert here.

Steven Greenman - 6:00 PM PDT.

“Steven has worked with some of the world’s leading klezmer ensembles, is a founding member of Cleveland’s East European ensemble Harmonia, and has been a guest soloist with the Cleveland Pops Orchestra, performing his own arrangements of gypsy and klezmer music.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

Tuesday, March 31

Submissions remain open for the Costume Contest!

Time Travel Tuesday

Share your favorite photos and costumes from any time period, from Ancient Greece to 2265. After all, in quarantine, time all feels a little wibbly wobbly!

Jonathan Cannon - 5:30 PM PDT.

“Jonathan has studied klezmer, Romanian, Celtic, and American fiddling, performs regularly, with award-winning Boston klezmer band Ezekiel’s Wheels, and for contra dances.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

Wednesday, April 1

Submissions remain open for the Costume Contest!

Anne-Mari Kivimäki & Palomylly - 10:00 AM PDT.

“Anne-Mari Kivimäki & Palomylly is an impressive sound mix with stories, archive recordings, jouhikko, double bass, vocals and accordion. Kivimäki’s music has a hypnotic pulse and it’s made for the love of old stories. Kivimäki has gathered her Palomylly band from the musicians on her successful Lakkautettu Kylä (A Closed-Down Village) album.”

Check out the Facebook livestream concert here.

Troy MacGillivray with Sabra MacGillivray - 4:30 PM PDT.

“Troy is a brilliant fiddler, pianist and stepdancer from Nova Scotia.  He’s been featured at many festivals including Celtic Connections in Scotland, East Coast Music Awards, Celtic Colours Festival in Cape Breton, the Barbados Celtic Festival and the Edinburgh Fiddle Festival.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

Thursday, April 2

Submissions remain open for the Costume Contest!

Cookie Segelstein with Josh Horowitz - 10:00 AM PDT.

“Founder of Veretski Pass, and fiddler with many other top klezmer bands, Cookie has taught workshops round the world, and has been featured in an ABC documentary and a film starring Robert DeNiro.  Josh founded the band Budowitz and has played with Vienna Chamber Orchestra, Theodore Bikel, and accompanied Itzhak Perlman on PBS.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

Oshima Brothers - 3:00 PM PDT.

“Raised in a musical family in rural Maine, the brothers have honed a harmony-rich blend of contemporary folk and acoustic pop. On stage, Sean and Jamie create a surprisingly full sound with dynamic vocals, electric and acoustic guitars, octave bass, loops, and percussion. The brothers live in Maine but are often on the road performing, producing music videos, and dancing.”

Check out the Facebook livestream concert here.

Friday, April 3

Submissions remain open for the Costume Contest!

Furry Friends Friday

Ever dressed your pet up for the faire? Show us your photos and costume ideas! Or show us your faire-themed fursuit. You do you.

Let’s Get Traditional (The Minstrel Rav’n) - 4:00 PM PDT.

“The Minstrel Rav'n travels the lands Telling Songs and Singing Stories about Taverns, Pirates and Elven Lasses. Songs of Adventure, Drinking... and things a bit on the Naughty Side!”

Check out the Facebook livestream here.

HST (Ed, Lilly & Neil Pearlman) - 4:30 PM PDT.

“HST (Highland Soles Trio) is 3/5 of a family band, with dancer Laura Scott and Jesse on whistle. HST has toured the US and Scotland with new and old tunes in the Scottish tradition.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

Saturday, April 4

Gráinne Brady - 12:30 PM PDT.

“Gráinne is an Irish fiddle player from County Cavan in Ireland and currently based in Glasgow where she leads sessions and plays with Top Floor Taivers, string group The Routes Quartet, and Gaeilge/Gàidhlig supergroup LAS.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

Pub Crawl - 1:30 PM PDT.

We’ll be hosting a BYOB pub crawl. Keep an eye out for the tag vrf2020 pub crawl for more info. Please follow local drinking laws and drink responsibly!

Costume Contest Judging - 6:00 PM PDT.

Submissions remain open for the Costume Contest until 6:00. Winners will be chosen between 6:00 and 7:00 PDT.

Sunday, April 5

Jenna Reid - 11:30 AM PDT.

“Jenna is a member of the great fiddle bands Blazin' Fiddles, and RANT.  Born & bred in Shetland, she learned fiddle from the late Willie Hunter. Following her music degree, Jenna performed with Dóchas and Deaf Shepherd before joining her current bands.”

Check out the Zoom livestream concert here.

Closing Day

We’re sad to see you go, but we hope to catch you at an IRL faire next season!

[bitter69uk]

Recently watched: Poor Pretty Eddie (1975). “Look, I have two weeks before my next concert. Now I’m going to get in my car and drive until I find a nice, quiet hole to crawl into.” When glamorous but exhausted African American show biz diva Liz Wetherly (Leslie Uggams) utters those words, little does she anticipate the horrors this impromptu solo road trip holds in store. In no time, her car has broken down on some godforsaken Southern dirt road in the middle of nowhere. (Poor Pretty Eddie was filmed in Athens, Georgia). Looking for assistance, Liz wanders into a decaying hunting lodge called Bertha’s Oasis. The first person she encounters is handyman Keno (Ted Cassidy – aka Lurch from The Addams Family) just as he’s beheading a chicken with an ax! Further grotesquery awaits: the proprietress Bertha (Shelley Winters) is a former showgirl-turned-sloppy alcoholic harridan who lives with her much-younger studmuffin lover, aspiring Country & Western singer Eddie (Michael Christian). While her car is getting repaired, Liz checks into one of Bertha’s cabins – but will she survive to check out? 

Poor Pretty Eddie is a putrid exploitation shocker that lives up to its notorious reputation. It’s a prime exemplar of “hicksploitation”: the subgenre of rural horror movies featuring homicidal rednecks. The hit film Deliverance came out three years earlier and clearly influenced the representation of hillbilly characters here. And the decrepit shanty town locale also anticipates Mortville in John Waters’ punk epic Desperate Living (1977).  Rest assured time has not mellowed Poor Pretty Eddie. It offers something to offend everyone! Read the rest of my analysis – if you dare! – here. Proceed with caution!

Let’s face it: the puritanical, hypocritical and homophobic hellsite Tumblr has become a dying platform since it banned adult content in December 2018. I post here less and less. (I can’t even see my archive of “Likes” anymore!). Follow me instead on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook or on my blog. Fuck Tumblr!

[mrsslrss]

2019.

Welcome to my annual accounting of things I loved, 2019 edition. 

I’m realizing the pattern here is to start this with a reflection of how I rang in the year but 2019 crept in pretty calmly: no big bugs to kill, no spontaneous sobs to a Sharon Van Etten song. On the first day of this year, I woke up and cleaned the house and, I don’t know, probably went to Big Bear and got a coffee and took a nap. Since it’s nearly the end of the decade, I could start there, but I couldn’t tell you where I was for New Year’s Eve, 2009; if I had to guess, I’d put myself at a friend’s house on the North Shore, drinking PBR with the guys and listening to pop-punk. That winter I was convinced I wouldn’t return to Poughkeepsie, I was so miserable, but when I did things started to fall into place.

I think my goal for this year was roughly something like, Just put your head down and do the work. When you are tempted to get fed up and wither from frustration or have a big ego about not getting what you want, just put your head down and do the work. I don’t know if I did that, exactly, if I really stuck to the goal, but every so often in a particularly challenging moment the goal would come into focus at the front of my mind and I’d sigh and acquiesce and nod at the work ahead of me. I got a lot done, I think; in this way I got a lot done. It was nice to be reminded about how the process can be the goal -- something I thought about a lot this year. Sometimes the goal looks like a result, but it’s really the habit I’m after.

I’d like to keep that up next year. 2019 was a year of cultivating; 2020, maybe, will be a year of action. Or maybe not! Maybe nothing flowers until 2021 or beyond. Or maybe I start tearing things up by the roots in 2020, who knows! 

So anyway. Here’s to 2019, and here’s a list (more or less alphabetized -- why not!) of ten things that helped me make it through.

annie’s homegrown birthday cake bunny grahams

My official snack of the year. Over the summer I was visiting MZ in Brooklyn and we got snacks at their neighborhood grocery store and I bought these, which are meant to celebrate the 30th anniversary of this snack company, taste like funfetti cake, and are definitely meant for/marketed to children. But anyway I ate the whole box and then sought them out at every Whole Foods in my vicinity (because I went online and WH is apparently basically the only place you can find them?) and started preaching the good word to anyone who was looking for a snack. By, like, September I had eaten so many of these that I could no longer stomach them, so I’ve been on a brief hiatus, but still: snack of the year.

keeping lists

I started this year with a big digital spreadsheet called “2019 things” where I intended to keep lists: all the new albums and songs that struck me, all the old albums and songs I got obsessed with, the places I wanted to travel in the year. I kept adding tabs: the books I finished, my financial priorities, stuff I wanted to make sure to read or watch. I was pretty diligent about updating them -- I wrote down every book I read, but definitely forgot to add a couple albums; I never made it to Philly this year. I started keeping gratitude lists (analog) towards the end of year, too, because in college a friend told me it helps rewire the brain away from pessimism, or something. 

meditation

Before this year, I’ve never had a serious relationship with meditation, but it always seemed like the kind of thing I would like. In mid-January I got struck by the urge to try it, so I did, and kept it up for a few days, and then I fell off, and then I got back on, and now, somehow, it’s been three-hundred-something days of it in a row. I have learned to find a quiet moment in a nice corner of my room before work, but also in a tent in the Catskills, in a guest room in Wales, in a hotel in Georgia, on a walk through Brooklyn, in my childhood bedroom. My life and brain don’t feel, like, enormously different or changed, but that’s good; it feels useful to keep showing up to something without expectation.

my siblings

Having a big family means every year is inevitably a big year for someone, but this was, somehow, a big year for all of my siblings. Mostly good things: health and healing, a wedding and a graduation, a license acquired and a course of study started and jobs well done. It doesn’t feel good to get into the hard stuff here, but there was a lot of that, too -- a lot of grueling bullshit overcome. After the wedding I almost texted everyone just to say how proud I was of all of them, but naturally I chickened out. But I really am proud!

navy blue

Longtime readers of, uh, *gestures wildly* whatever this is may recall that last year I claimed I only wore black but might be interested in navy blue? This year I determined that navy blue is so good: the color of the deep ocean, the night sky, my first Catholic school uniform. I bought navy jumpsuits, a sweatshirt, a scrunchie. I wore navy-adjacent eyeliner just in the corners of my eyes most days of July and August and September. I’m wearing a navy blue sweater right now. A good year for navy. 

“not” by big thief

My song of the year, which I knew from the first time I heard it. So much of this year (the news, the planet, global catastrophes, mass violence, etc. not to mention personal failures) felt hopeless and dreadful, but also so constant and exhausting that I wasn’t sure I could keep summoning anger, never mind do it in a useful way. I love this song because it is about abjection in the same way it isn’t about anything, about absence as presence, about not-knowing as knowing. It is desperate without being hopeless, explosive without being violent, or maybe: violent without being harmful. It’s about transcending language and different kinds of language and using whichever tools you have (Words are good enough). It’s about being swallowed whole by the everything-ness, a theme that came up in so much of the work I loved this year, the subject of an essay I’ll never write (lol). Music Twitter™ got into an argument about whether this band is good; I feel so sure of my love for this song (and most of what this band does) that I, for once, didn’t immediately assume I was a fool, or being had, just because someone disagrees with me. Instead it felt delicious and special to resonate with a thing that doesn’t resonate for everyone, a rare and generous experience for me. Imagine that.

pottery

At the beginning of the year I signed up for a ten-week session of pottery classes at a studio in Georgetown, and then when I told M, he wanted to join (by which I felt incredibly endeared). Then it became ten more weeks, then ten more, and since then we’ve gone nearly every Thursday night. Some things that are nice: learning to to make something with my hands, especially after staring at a screen all day; not being able to look at my phone or read the news for several hours (related: so many of the Democratic debates happened on Thursday nights!); having a standing weekly date with my favorite person. Nearly everyone in our lives got lumpy bowls, vases, etc. for Christmas this year, of which we are very proud.

“rooms on fire” by stevie nicks

This year, Stevie Nicks became the first woman be inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame twice and so Rolling Stone interviewed her about her fabulous career. In the interview, Rob Sheffield said his favorite song of hers is “Ooh My Love” from The Other Side of the Mirror, which is an album I had never listened to before, so I started listening and the first song just hooked me. It’s so dramatic and magical and moody! It’s right up there on the Apple Music-generated playlist of my most-played songs of the year.

stockholm

For several years one of my repeated resolutions was “go to Scandinavia.” Sweden has always been the big goal, but Oslo seemed possible for a minute, and in 2013 I did briefly entertain the idea of going to graduate school in Finland. (Imagine!) This year I got really fed up of having not really, you know, taken a proper vacation since starting my job, so I took a full week off after my sister’s wedding and planned a solo trip to Stockholm. Each day of my trip I woke up whenever I woke up and I explored a different island; I went for long runs, drank coffee, ate kardemummabullar, took the subway across town, saw a one-of-a-kind Viking ship. I burst into tears at the Moderna Museet, ate through a vegetarian tasting menu at the Fotografiska, had an extremely lovely spa experience. I read three books in a week. I loved every second of it.

wigs

I bought a big gaudy pink wig this spring in anticipation of seeing Sasha Velour’s one-woman show in New York -- or, I told myself I bought it for that reason, but I think I really just wanted the possibility of wearing a big gaudy pink wig at will. After the Sasha show, I wore it to see Robyn at The Anthem, and was delighted when, after I put a picture on Instagram, a handful of people in my life thought I had a) dyed my hair pastel pink and b) grew my hair ~half a foot over the weekend. (I wish!) I think I’ll wear it for our house’s beach-themed NYE party, too.

everything else 

frequent, long drives with M; songs about solidarity; the #saltypod; custom t-shirts; craving waffles; having an e-reader; the concept of “the archive”; choosing kindness; threatening to move to rural new england to work on a farm; being in love

[niaking]

A panel featuring four of Nia King's favorite artists: Sawyer Lovett, Joe Hatton, Vo Vo, and Cristy C. Road. Zines played a crucial role in reducing social isolation for many of us, whether we were one of the only punks of color in our scene (Nia in Boston, Joe in the Dakotas, and Vo in Sydney, Australia), or the only gay in our rural Virginia town (Sawyer). Cristy C. Road discusses growing up in Miami's predominantly Black and brown punk scene and using zines to process heartbreak and trauma.

Listen here. Read here. Donate here.

More zinesters you should know below:

Mimi Thi Nguyen, Jackie Wang, Lauren Jade Martin, Suzy X, Osa Atoe, Adee Roberson, Lawrence Lindell, Breena Nuñez, Ajuan Mance, the Queer Zine Archive Project, Jenna Freedman/the Barnard Zine Library, and many, many more. 

[ademocrat]

He’s Saving California’s Oldest Weekly (Mark Twain Wrote for It)

DOWNIEVILLE, Calif. — The night before his first deadline, Carl Butz, California’s newest newspaper owner, was digging into a bowl of beef stew at the Two Rivers Café, the only restaurant open in town.

“Tomorrow I have to fill the paper,” he said with only mild anxiety. “The question is, will it be a four-page paper or a six-page paper?”

At 71, Mr. Butz is trim, with wire-rimmed glasses and a close-cropped silver beard, and he dresses in flannel shirts and cargo pants. Since his retirement and his wife’s death in 2017, he considered traveling — to England or Latvia, or riding the Trans-Siberian Railway. But here he was, a freshly minted newspaper proprietor, having stepped in at the beginning of the year to save The Mountain Messenger, California’s oldest weekly newspaper, from extinction.

The Messenger was founded in 1853. Its most famous scribe was Mark Twain, who once wrote a few stories — with a hangover, the legend goes — while hiding out here from the law.

Newspapers across America, especially in rural areas like here in Sierra County, have been dying at an alarming rate, and Downieville was about to become the latest “news desert.” The obituaries for the paper had already been written. Don Russell, the hard-drinking, chain-smoking editor with a blunt writing style who had owned and run the paper for nearly three decades, was retiring, and he seemed happy enough for the paper to die with his retirement.

And then one night Mr. Butz was watching “Citizen Kane” on cable and thought, I can do that. He made the deal quickly, paying a price in the “four figures,” he said, plus the assumption of some debts, without even looking at the books.

Still, Mr. Russell, an old friend of Mr. Butz’s, was a reluctant seller. “His position was, it’s a losing proposition and someone who’d want it would be crazy,” Mr. Butz said. “He called me a romantic idealist and a nut case. And that’s not a paraphrase, but a direct quote.”

For the residents of Downieville — and there are not many; the population is about 300 — who for generations counted on The Messenger to arrive every Thursday, through wildfires and power outages and economic booms and busts, Mr. Butz has become an unlikely local hero, a savior of a cherished institution.

“Thank God for Carl, he stepped in,” said Liz Fisher, a former editor of the paper who lives across the street from its office and runs The Sierra County Prospect, an online news site. “It was devastating for everybody that we were going to lose The Mountain Messenger.”

A cluttered, smoke-filled newsroom

On a recent Wednesday morning, facing his first deadline, Mr. Butz was staring down a blank computer screen in the newspaper’s cramped two-room office above a beauty salon on Main Street. Mr. Butz, a fourth-generation Californian and a former computer programmer and labor economist for the state, readily admitted that he had no idea what he had gotten himself into, and it did not help to learn that the paper’s publishing software was from the mid-1990s.

One of the first things he said he would do after buying the paper was ban smoking in the office, but next to his keyboard was a package of unfiltered cigarettes and an ashtray.

“What is the lead story?” Mr. Butz asked.

“The front page is blank,” replied Jill Tahija, the paper’s only other employee, sitting at an adjacent computer.

Ms. Tahija, who has worked at The Messenger for 11 years, might properly be called the managing editor, but on her business cards it says, “she who does the work.”

Her small black-and-white dog, Ladybug, a Boston terrier-Shih Tzu-Chihuahua mix, bounded around the cluttered newsroom. On every surface were books and trinkets and junk — Civil War histories, annals of the county, dictionaries, empty beer bottles, packages of ramen noodles.

In the archives section are old papers dating to the 1850s, and on the walls are pictures of Mark Twain and some slogans — old saws of newspapering, like “If it bleeds, it leads.”

Mr. Russell, who was on vacation, driving his R.V. up the coast with his wife, when Mr. Butz took over the paper, once told The Los Angeles Times that Twain had written a few unremarkable stories for The Messenger. Mr. Russell had read them on microfilm at a library. “They were awful,” he said. “They were just local stories, as I recall, written by a guy with a hangover.”

At his computer, Mr. Butz was putting together one of his first new features for the paper, a “poetry corner.” (He selected “Thoughts,” by Myra Viola Wilds, an African-American poet from Kentucky who wrote in the early 20th century.) As Ms. Tahija worked on the front page — the next day it would be filled with stories about a local poetry competition, the upcoming census, wildfire prevention and a local supervisors meeting — Mr. Butz shifted his focus to finishing his letter to readers.

In it, he explained why he bought the paper. “Simply put,” he wrote, “the horrible thought of this venerable institution folding up and vanishing after 166 years of continuous operation was simply more than I could bear.”

The newspaper, he wrote, was “something we need in order to know ourselves.”

‘Like losing a friend’

Making a newspaper in Downieville is strictly an analog, ink-on-paper affair; there is no website, no social media accounts. It loses a few thousand dollars a year, and relies mostly on publishing legal notices from the county and other government offices, which brings in about $50,000 a year, for the bulk of its revenue. It has about 700 subscribers and a print run of 2,400 copies, just below the county’s population.

“I’m not going to lose a million dollars but I know I’m going to have to subsidize some of it,” Mr. Butz said. “My daughter is already aware that her inheritance is shrinking.”

Downieville is a remarkably well-preserved old Gold Rush town, perched at a fork in the Yuba River in remote western Sierra County. History is its pitch to tourists, and it has the feel of a backlot for an Old West movie — in its corner saloon, in the one-lane bridges over the Yuba, and in the second-story offices of The Messenger, next to the Fire Department. (A painted message on the door says it is the “oldest volunteer fire department west of the Mississippi.”)

With the demise of gold mining and the shuttering of the sawmills that were once an economic engine for the region, Downieville reinvented itself as a destination for mountain biking and fly fishing, with an abundance of Old West charm.

Residents reacted to Mr. Butz’s last-minute purchase of the paper with a mixture of relief and gratitude.

“A real sense of relief,” said Lee Adams, a former Sierra County sheriff and a current member of the county’s Board of Supervisors.

The paper was always an important institution, but it had become more so in recent years as Northern California dailies like The Sacramento Bee and The San Francisco Chronicle stopped distributing in the region, and rarely sent reporters to cover Sierra County.

“We would have to fall off the face of the earth to make one of those papers on a normal news day,” Mr. Adams said.

The Messenger is more than just a chronicle of weekly happenings — government meetings, births and deaths, the police blotter, the weather — but also a repository of the county’s history. The paper is just a year younger than Sierra County, which was founded in 1852, the year Wells Fargo was established to serve the Gold Rush and the riches being dredged from the river.

When Bill Copren, 76, a local historian and a former county assessor, wrote his master’s thesis on the political history of Sierra County in the mid-19th century, he relied on The Messenger’s archives.

More recently, when officials secured a spot on the National Register of Historic Places for a local school built in the Art Deco style in 1931, they used the paper’s archives to confirm the details of how it was built and who paid for it.

The paper’s closure, Mr. Copren said, would have been “like losing a friend.”

Under Mr. Russell, The Messenger had a distinctive attitude and a brusque, straightforward style. He was averse to political correctness and not immune from using curse words in print.

Mr. Butz said he did not plan to own the paper for long, and wanted to find a younger person who could take over. He said he was thinking about bringing the paper into the digital age, with a website, and was thinking about turning it into a nonprofit publication, accepting donations and grants to keep it running.

But on a recent Thursday morning, the day after deadline, he was just happy to have his first issue under his belt.

His Thursday routine is now established: He gets up early and drives about an hour and a half to a printing plant in Quincy, Calif., to pick up the bundles of freshly printed newspapers. On the way, he and Scott McDermid, the paper’s longtime distribution manager, stop at the Express Coffee Shop for waffles and eggs.

And then, with a truck full of papers, they crisscross the county, past the tall cedars and Douglas firs of the mountains, and across the Sierra Valley, dotted with junipers and cottonwoods, stopping at every shop and gas station, emptying newspaper machines of last week’s edition, collecting money and dropping off fresh bundles of The Messenger.The story around town is how Mr. Butz saved the local newspaper.But Mr. Butz, a still-grieving widower — his wife, Cecilia Kuhn, the drummer in an all-female punk band, Frightwig, died in 2017 — sees it another way.“It’s saving me,” he said.

[untitledfanfictionblog]

By My Side by Demonicputto 

Good Omens, Aziraphale/Crowley, 37k, T 

First in a seven part series 

This is the first in a series that is one of my favorites, mostly because it's been so god damned dependable for so long. Every Wednesday is favorite fanfiction day, and that rocks. The author is on a well-deserved hiatus right now, but I think they're planning on picking back up in month or two. 

But it's a human au without being a human au. Crowley gets strong armed by Gabriel into drinking a potion that transforms him into a human child. He will grow up and live a human life until he dies, with no memory of being a demon. 

Aziraphale of course misses him, and eventually figures out how to check on him, and lo and behold, the situation is totally unacceptable. Crowley is having quite the unhappy childhood. So the only interference allowed is if Aziraphale becomes a human child also. Which of course he will do if it can help Crowley. Aziraphale drinks only part of the potion so he ends up five years older than Crowley, and has all of his memories intact. 

And so starts the slowest of all slow burns. You thought the 6000 years of canon was long. This is somehow longer, and it's lovely. Crowley and Aziraphale grow up together with human families in rural Connecticut. They go to school and Aziraphale becomes a theater kid, and Crowley is a cool emo punk in a band, and they're just best friends through all of it and it's lovely. And in the later installments they start figuring out they're gay and navigating that and there's some tough stuff and there's some really good stuff. 

And they finally made it from little Crowley's five year old crush to them finally being old enough to kiss, so hallelujah.  It's good stuff.

[kuramirocket]

The work of Mexican director Roberto Gavaldón spans the cultural divide at the center of Mexican national cinema, embracing both rural sagas of peasant life (the genre made internationally famous by Gavaldón’s contemporary, Emilio Fernández) and urban dramas centered on moneyed professionals (as in the cosmopolitan work of Julio Bracho). Whether they wear a sombrero (like Pedro Armendáríz in Rosauro Castro) or a fedora (like Arturo de Córdova in En la palma de tu mano), Gavaldón’s protagonists are marked by ungovernable passions and gnawing self-doubt, as they move through an unstable world toward a frequently unkind fate. 

A brilliant technician, Gavaldón developed a distinctive visual style—based on bold back-lighting and intricately subdivided spaces—that suggests the film noir stylings of Hollywood directors like Anthony Mann and Joseph H. Lewis.

With the assistance of such regular collaborators as the writer and political activist José Revueltas, and the composer Raúl Lavista, Gavaldón created a dense and coherent body of work that is only now being rediscovered, thanks largely to the ongoing restoration work of Mexico’s two major film archives, the Cineteca Nacional and the Filmoteca de la UNAM, to whom we are grateful for making this program possible. 

This is the first of three film series that celebrates Mexican cinema and is presented with the generous support of Televisa Foundation-Univision.

On selected dates, there will be music in the Sidney Poitier Grand Lobby curated by LA-based ranchera punk artist and singer-songwriter San Cha. Music playlists curated by artists Doris Muñoz and Cesar Saez will play in the theater before all screenings in the series.

Series community partnership provided by Tomorrow’s Filmmakers Today by Hola Mexico, and the Consulate General of Mexico in Los Angeles.