"Where do you find this stuff?"

I get asked that questions a lot, right a long with requests for the detailed locations, complete with driving directions, of my favorite thrift shops. But I never tell.

There's an old rule among inveterate thrift shoppers that you never give up your best spots, because once you do, they get mined to death. Its a rule I still abide, and I realize that it tends to drive some of you mad. I get accused of hogging all the good stuff. But truthfully, that old rule is pointless these days. My continued adherence to it is sheer nostalgia. You see, in the old days, thrift stores were found through hard work and luck. You stumbled on them, mostly. And when you found one, nobody else knew. Those days are gone.

Yesterday, I hauled three big bags from three different stores, two of which I'd never heard of before. I found them using Google on a smart phone. Its that easy. There are even websites with directories on them where you only need the zip code or name of the town to find them. My adherence to an archaic rule may be silly, but so is asking me to hold your hand in finding these places. Its nothing short of a luxury to live in the information age, and I'm just old enough to remember what it was like before.

No, its not just because I know where these places are or how to find new ones that I do so well. It's about perseverance. Besides finding and visiting new stores yesterday, I also spent all morning in the highway far from home driving to them. I did this not knowing whether I'd find anything. Fortunately, I did, but I might just as easily have struck out. Good thing I enjoy the hunt almost as much as the kill. It simply does not work if you only pop into some place, and only one place, every now and again. You have to be crazy enough to give it a lot of your time. 

So that's "where I find this stuff". I hope this didn't come off all sour grapes, because that wasn't my intention. But seriously, begging me to tell you where the good thrift stores are and believing that if I don't you'll never find them is a silly as saying you'll never eat again unless I point you to the nearest pizza joint.

You gotta do your own homework.

The Home Stretch

The Indiegogo campaign now enters the home stretch, with only one week to go. This means that you'll have to endure my pleas for another seven days, but then it will all be over. Thanks to all who have helped.

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What's on the Inside

Now, now, settle down. I'm not about to proclaim that clothing is but a skin we invent for ourselves, and therefore ultimately meaningless,  but rather it is one's character and thoughts that count the most. You should know by now that I am far more shallow than that, at least so far as "blogging" is concerned. No, instead I intend to discuss how the inner construction of a shoe determines its suitability for wear without socks. Relax.

As soon as we have the first day warm enough to go sockless, around mid-May or so, I generally do, until the Fall. I know that socklessness has become something of  a de riguer look among the fashion-for-fashions-sake crowd, but simply put, it doesn't work with all shoes, and certainly not all of the time. Softly constructed moccasins or canvas sneakers are the only acceptable choice, with penny loafers (a kind of moccasin) the only hard shoe allowed. Double monk straps, tassel loafers, oxfords of any kind, even white bucks, worn without socks are the mark of the fashion slave, not the well appointed adult. Wearing those ding dang "pedi socks" with such shoes in order to ape socklesness while actually wearing socks is akin to non-alcoholic beer, de-caf coffee, or diet soda...pointless.

Pictured above is a pair of Eastland camp mocs I recently purchased new online for $79. Camp mocs, along with boat shoes and blucher mocs, are the quintessential no-sock shoes. Softly constructed and painfully New England, one might venture to sat that wearing them with socks is simply wrong. This pair is constructed of reasonably good leather in the traditional style.The toe is a but boxy, but it wears down quickly as it softens.

They have a proper camp sole, and sturdy raw hide laces. So far so good.

The tag on the outside is not ideal, but I can live with it. Hell. even my Quoddy's have a tag like that. But...

They're lined in some kind of gross synthetic. After only one wear, they stink. Using a synthetic liner is really bad design, as this shoe is practically meant to be worn without socks. So I ripped the lining out.

This is what we have inside, and I am left with a fully unwearable shoe. Anyone know where I can get a pair of leather linings? You see, leather is natural. and as such, shoes lined in leather don't stink, regardless of how the feet that wore them may have sweat in them.

Later, I found a pair of L.L.Bean blucher mocassins in nearly unworn condition at a thrift shop. Classic though they may be, I am leary of these shoes, as the last pair I bought wore out really quickly. The leather is not as good as the Eastlands, for one thing.

And the soles are awful, all wrong. But they are lined in leather, and they don't get all gross after one wear. Plus, the shoe laces wear out really fast.

So, which is better? The shoe well made of good leather with the crappy, stinky liner, or the crappy plasticy knock-off from the company that invented the style, lined in leather. Both are,in my opinion, a terrible compromise, especially given the provenance of hard wearing old yankee thrift atached to both brands.  But I digress.

If you're going to wear shoes without socks, be sure the liners are natural. If not, the ensuing stink will not be worth any idea of suffering for fashion you ever had. It will just be gross. And don't ever wear hard dress shoes without socks with a suit. That's just bad.

See, told ya' it would be shallow.

The Old Days

Today I heard of the death this past weekend of a man I knew in the old days. Torr Skoog was the vocalist, songwriter, and driving creative influence behind Boston band The Kings of Nuthin'. I wouldn't describe him as a close friend, but he was a guy I knew, who was friends with other guys I knew back when my life centered around the punk rock scene in Boston. His death, and the memories of my young life that it has brought to bear, has me feeling rattled enough the talk about it here. I'll try not to get too maudlin about it, because maudlin definitely ain't very punk.

I drew this poster for a show we played back in 1999. I was the drummer in the Speed Devils, the rockabilly outfit you may remember me mentioning before. Mr. Airplane Man was a killing duo of girls, drums and guitar, playing blues the likes of which any band named after a Howlin' Wolf song should. The drummer went on to marry another good friend. The Konks were a favorite of mine, a band that was "garage" to the core yet somehow managed to maintain an originality that no one could touch. The Boston Bootleggers were the new guys at the time, and our man Torr was the frontman. They went on to become The Kings of Nuthin', local legends to those who cared, and in plenty far flung places too. This show was one of the best I ever attended. To have been a part of it was, in retrospect, a real honor. In true punk fashion, it resulted in all of us being banned from The Lizard Lounge forever. Someday I might get into the details, but I remember stepping across a bed of broken beer bottles to my seat behind the drum set when it was our turn to play.

We went on to play with the Kings of Nuthin' quite a lot over the next few years. They always brought a level of fire and energy to the show that could only make you smile. To call them the living essence of punk rock would be a disservice to them. For one thing, they weren't really what I'd call a punk band. There were seven of them, or eight, and their music was based in the black rhythm and blues style rock 'n roll of the late fifties. A big band by the standards of any of the rest of us at the time, the line up included drums, piano (always a real acoustic upright, hopelessly out of tune, that they took to every show. Heroic), upright bass, guitar, horns, and this crazy dude called Necro running around playing a washboard. They dressed in matching black suits and ties, which were constantly filthy, but they were sharp by the general standards of the scene. None of this silly studded belt and funny haircut crap, leave that to me and my friends.What made them the darlings of the punk crowd was the sheer release of energy that came blasting out of these dudes, every f*cking time. It was thrilling to see, and it never, ever got boring. A lot of that had to do with Torr. He couldn't really sing, but he wasn't exactly screaming either. What he was doing was performing in a compelling way that held the attention of each and every soul in the room each and every second of each and every set they played. His lyrics had the anthemic quality of old hard core about them, which really got the kids riled, but he was much more of a writer than that, because his lyrics were actually good too.

That's the poster for our own CD release gig (damn, why didn't I say record release?). The Kings had set them up good, and everybody was in full swing by the time we took the stage. About halfway through the set, I see this giant flame come blasting out of an air conditioning vent. Startled, I looked up while playing to see it happen again. There in the vent was Torr, breathing fire. Seriously, I'm not making this up. When I confronted him about it after the show, he merely shrugged, smiled, and put a finger to his lips. What could I say? That was Torr for you. 

I do remember him as being a somewhat enigmatic fellow. I know plenty of you think my tattoos and rock scene past are a little rough, but believe me I was nothing but a puppy in this crowd. These dudes were for real, and Torr was the realest. Sometimes homeless, sometimes living on a garage or some such crazy place, always working on some 1940s hot rod or other that was never really done, and covered in real, homemade crazy tattoos. Trust me, my shtick was downright pedestrian next to him. But for all that, you really couldn't find a nicer, more polite guy. He was disarming in his politeness in fact. It always caught me off guard a little. Once, I ran into him in The Model Cafe, then the high holy watering hole for real degenerates and wanna-be degenerates like myself, and he proceeded get us both drunk on beer and shots of Galliano, of all things. Weird.

I had just run into him, randomly, on the sidewalk in front of my job, only a few weeks ago. It was the first time I'd seen him in years, but he was just as friendly as ever. When I heard about his death this morning, it shook me up a little. He was a young man, probably not yet forty. I spent the whole day remembering those times, the people I knew and the person I was. It's funny, I often talk about all that stuff I was into, all those punk bands and silly shows, as a learning experience best outgrown when adulthood kicks in. But many of the friendships remain strong and the memories fond, and I don't regret a minute of it. It's a big part of the man I am today, even if most people might never guess it at first. Torr Skoog was one of the more dynamic personalities I encountered then, a truly memorable person. He may not have been a close friend personally, but he stands in my memory as a representative of a formative part of my life, my own version of the "good old days". 

R.I.P. Torr.

-Joey from Somerville

 The Speed Devils

G.U.O.L. Pants

Adventure Time with Finn and Jake - 411a - Who Would Win [kyussone] from Peaceful Pandemonium on Vimeo.

9:04
Finn: Don't you always call sweatpants give-up-on-life pants, Jake?

Jake: I do, because peeps need to respect themselves when they leave the house, even if it's just for ice cream or t.p. or whatevs."

Not only does this prove that I'm not the only person with a deep aversion to sweatpants, but it actually serves as a sartorial excuse to feature "Adventure Time" on this blog.

Many of you might find it ridiculous for a grown man to watch a cartoon. Others may just find Adventure Time not to your taste. From an artistic perspective, I find it to be funny, well written, and surprisingly deep. A good balance of juvenile humor and psycho-drama.

Two Weeks To Go

Our Indiegogo campaign has a scant two weeks to go. I'd like to thank everyone who has contributed so far,and remind those that haven't that if you only give me some money, I will gladly stop asking for it.

Push, push, push....give, give,give....

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The Jams

As of this morning, this is actually happening in my house.  I am beside myself with glee, praise the lord!

More to come....