I took my place and settled down on a shoddy, wobbly stool by the sticker coated bar, lying in wait. I watched skinny little punks in tight pants and scribbled on shoes, with swooping hair and Sharpie tattoos, posing in corners for pictures and tweeting to each other. Barely 23 and I felt like the old Babushka watching over the kids in the neighborhood or like Willy Wonka keeping check on the Oompa Loompas.
“Need a drink?”
I turned around to face the bartender, his face hidden under an old worn out fedora, but his boredom evident by his posture and tone of voice. I dug a few bucks out of my jeans and he handed over a Blue Moon.
“Not much business tonight. Or any night really. Damn kids are all that show up nowadays. All the veterans saw the scene dying, and bowed out gracefully along with all the decent talent. Left me bored as hell behind this bar. Might as well start booking shows at Chuck E. Cheese, or some shit like it,” he mumbled as he cracked open a PBR for himself.
“I know the feeling. I’m just on the hunt.” I winked at him and leaned back against the bar, nursing the bottle in my hand.
“Dangerous game, young lady…you’re in for a world of hurt with this sorta prey.”
“Thanks, Obi Wan, for the advice and all, but I’m more than aware of the situation. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.” I played with the silver chain around my neck, the teeth charms chattering together as if they were in a frightened mouth. “Trust me. I am more aware than you think.”
He chuckled and pointed towards the band leaving the backstage entrance on the other side of the room. “Better get your guns. The prey is on the move.”
···
I was that girl that longed for the boy to sing to her. I was that girl that desired to be the muse. Screw the muse. She’ll still become some wrinkly old woman, saggy and dried up, that’ll probably die from emphysema or some other self-inflicted disease. That’s the part that all of these other girls don’t see. They see the one night stands, the romantic flings with someone clinging on to a tiny shred of what could be mistaken as fame, without the bank account to prove it.
That’s where I differ. I stopped tricking myself into believing that I would be lead into a life of sweet serenades and Sunday afternoons in bed with my troubadour. I figured the game out and knew exactly what I was messing with. I knowingly stepped into that gigantic pile of shit, and didn’t think twice about it. I had tripped and fell into these relationships before, so many times that I’d come to treat it as my destiny. It actually became quite a blessing in disguise, proving to be a lucrative shortcoming in my rational. Without knowing, these assholes that I had become so tragically and chronically attracted to had become my muse. They fueled my work, provided me with an endless supply of emotion to put into each piece. Each and every single work had a little bit of bastard embedded inside the metal.
© 2009
She stood there, back pressed against the wall of the grocery, the brick picking at the threads in her sweater, staring at the phone booth not three feet in front of her. The light from the street lamp illuminated the inside, but a small square taped to the side cast left a dark void in the yellow glass. The wind swept into the half open door, flittering the shape and creating a soft tapping sound, like impatient fingernails against an empty wine glass. It was taunting her, calling to her, telling her that she needed it. She brushed her hand across her ear, wiping away the residual whisper left behind by the wind escaping from the booth. There was nothing keeping her from moving, but she could not seem to pick her feet up from the pavement. It was as though all of her insides had bottomed out and had anchored her to the concrete below. Shallow breaths echoed through the empty pit of her body as she watched the square flip, flap, flip, flap against the glass, beckoning for her to rip it down.
A fire shot through her insides and she pounced towards the partially open door, throwing her open palm against the pane of glass, begging for the tapping to stop. Her fingers slid down over the glossy surface of a Polaroid and she began to furiously pick at the scotch tape adhering it to the glass. She could not yet make out what the image was of; it was still developing, still fresh from its camera shell. Swirls of yellow, orange, and white were transforming into a picture before her eyes. She had never been so attentive to the process before, but now, more than ever, she hungrily anticipated what was lying beneath that foggy, ghosted out film. Each second that revealed more, her stomach twisted up in an even tighter knot. Her shallow breaths became even shallower. Goddamn moon! She cursed the night for making an already slow process that much slower. Whoever left this for me wants me to suffer. She knew that whatever she was about to see was not going to make her life any easier.
There it was, everything she least expected, most desired, and oddly enough, feared right that in her pale, cold hands. The stage in the picture was lit brighter than the town she was standing in at that moment. Dead center was a stool and perched upon the stool was someone that she had longed to see so much that it had began to make her physically ill. The face was not clear, but the long hair and thick beard hiding it where unmistakable. She knew that white t-shirt and the arms full of tattoos, strumming at an old handmade mandolin. The clearer it got, the more she could feel the vomit rising in her throat. She brought the Polaroid to her lips, closed her eyes, and sprinted towards the opposite side of town.
The cold air scraped her esophagus and pierced her lungs as she bolted through the streets. Her flip flops had disappeared somewhere back on 26th. The rough gravel road was stabbing her naked feet, but the pain was masked by the hope and dread soaking her insides. Her destination was nearing. That rundown old bar on the corner of Mason that welcomed any and every musician willing to play to very few drunken old bastards that just liked to hoot and holler, cursing and throwing their beer caps and darts at each other, laughing toothless laughs, just for a moment to create a little music. He had loved that place, despite the negative energy locked inside. He always blocked it out and just played his heart out, singing with his pained and somber voice. He was there, not missing. He had been there the whole time, hiding from life, and learning the way of the world from the old bastards at the bar. The photo proved it.
© 2008
Scratching at his beard, he wandered around like a lost little boy in a larger than life candy store, overwhelmed and drooling over all the ideas and plans lurking in the back of his brain. This place was like a labyrinth, only there was no glittery glam rock god taunting him, unless you counted his conscious, which he often personified by envisioning some 80s hair band lead singer waggling his finger at him, telling him to rethink whatever idiotic thing he was about to do. If anyone knew when something was going to be a mistake, he’d imagine that the rock deities would be pretty high on that list. He wished Roger Daltrey would saunter up beside him and help him out a little. It seemed like he would know what kind of girl to work towards. He was sure that good old Roger would have this all figured out in a snap, and he would just sit back and give the thumbs up.
He had acquired an arm somewhere along the way, and was walking around, clueless, twirling this limb like a drumstick. People were staring and he’d just hold the hand up to his forehead and give a little salute with a smile. He wondered if you could just purchase pieces, because that arm would make an awesome backscratcher. He imagined taking the arm with him to bars and getting his buddies in trouble by using it to lift up girl’s skirts and then point to his friend when the girl turned around, startled and pissed. His friend’s would get over it. Getting drinks thrown in their faces wasn’t new to them, and it was all in good fun.
The body parts were dwindling down and he was approaching an aisle of computer stations that were glowing with a bright blue screen covered in blocky white text. Despite their desperate need of updating, he walked over to the closest one and starting poking at the screen, not really seeing any other way of inputting information or controlling the program. Poke, after poke, after poke, the screen didn’t budge and all he had was smudgy fingerprints overlaying the outdated typeface that was welcoming him to the EZ Build System.
Feeling a presence near him, he turned around to see a girl standing a few feet away at her own station, trying to hide her fascination with his baffled state. He gave her a wave with the arm.
“There’s a keypad on the side.” She reached up and twisted her hair back out of her face and walked over to show him. She put her hand under the corner of the screen and a small touchpad shot out of the side of the machine. He nodded and mumbled a thanks, a little intimidated by her unconventional, natural beauty and embarrassed by his stupidity. She smirked at him, pointed to her own computer, and left him to work on his own creation, giving him a good luck over her shoulder as she returned to hers. He sniffed the air, taking in the faint smell of cake batter and paint that she left behind, and preceded with the task at hand.
© 2007
“And then, he just disappears.”
I sat in the booth telling Kirsten the story. I thought about what I had just said. It sounded like I was telling a ghost story, a myth, something unreal, but this was very real. I think. Maybe I’m just going crazy from the loneliness, and I’m hallucinating. But could I really dream up someone like this? Someone so beautiful? Someone like…him? Him. I don’t even know his name, which is what then leads me back to my insanity theory. “He just disappears.”
Kirsten looks at me as if I have some tiny play happening on my nose, squinting to see the drama unfolding on my face. I knew that she was (almost) as confused as I am, but she nodded as if she understood me completely. Well, it was a slow, judgmental nod, but we won’t read into it too much.
I must say, I have been quite the organized girl since I started seeing him. After mentally noting the first few sightings, I went and bought a date book to keep track in. I guess that was the writer in me, always wanting to make sure that I had all of the details just right. I’m sure I looked like a madwoman with this rather large (I didn’t really think about function too well), bright red book, jotting furiously in the middle of the grocery store or ruining my eyes in a movie theater. Those pages are pretty much useless to me since the lines all just jumbled and spilling into each other. In a way, I kind of felt like a stalker, but how can you stalk someone you don’t know?
Kirsten is still staring at me. The ten-minute silence that we are now pulling into the home stretch of is a dead give away that I’ve lost her. Is it possible to kill someone’s brain cells by ridiculous storytelling?
“Well…is he hot?” She snaps back to resume normal function and shoves a forkful of cake into her mouth. Bits crumble and she pushes her hand in front of her face to poorly hide the mess. “I mean…you know what I mean.”
Of course I know what she means. It has only been on rare occasion that we have disagreed about the physical appearance of the male sex. We know what we like to look at. But for some reason, the words to describe him just wouldn’t come to me. My brain was like a hat filled with ripped up, scribbled on pieces of paper and I kept pulling out the same word. Ethereal.
I am not a very religious person at all, but this whole experience has me believing in angels. Really tall, handsome, tattooed angels. With scruffy beards and untamed hair. He looked like he had just walked off of a tour bus that had an enormous set of fluffy, white wings emerging from the top of it as if it were sailing down from heaven. Even the light around him seemed to reflect from the ink in his skin; swirls of color radiating from him as I watched.
© 2005
I stared at you through the foggy glass window of the van. You stood straight and proud, with one hand on your hip, the other gesticulating wildly. One of the few things that made me wish you dead. The girls giggled at your every word, fawning over your beauty, the untamed hair swirling carelessly into those baby blue killers, and your pillowy, pierced lips. Their ignorance is disgusting. They didn’t mind that your speech was just that…a speech. Practiced in front of mirrors, perfected on me. You won me over, didn’t you? Why am I the only one who stays? I mark off the days on the calendar, awaiting the day that I am replaced with one of these new, naïve bubbleheads, someone stupider than me.
“He loves you.” I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned my gaze away from you. I didn’t know how to respond, aside from yelling, “You are his best friend! Of COURSE you would believe him,” but the sad thing is, I believe you too.
© 2003
Ha!
your menial laugh
that snort emitting from a pig’s snout
found in the wrong place
Miss Piggy
sashay and scarf down some slop
all of that garbage you spew from your mouth
it’s a pity everyone hangs on your words
like whores clutch onto men
drinking them in with every ounce of energy
so that when they get them alone
it’s passive play
My hatred for you is too complex
I get off track
fuming
(did you really think I wouldn’t notice
the graffiti tattooing the stalls,
your nauseating hearts dotting and stabbing)
thinking
of all of the ways I loathe thee
(I’ve run out of limbs on which to count)
coming up with ridiculous metaphors
& similes
something biting and witty
your confusion sweetening my bitter tongue like aspartame
your stupidity leaves me tripping
like that awkward kid in the hallway
books sliding on the slick gray floor
you’d never be that kid
just the feet kicking that math book out of reach
stepping on the lunchbox
like you just landed on some unknown nerd territory
my words become a mess
shitty syllables slung onto paper
this doesn’t make any sense
you’ll always be the queen in that third dimension
I’ll be the one plotting the outcast’s revenge
© 2008
Once upon a time, I was in love. Now, let’s not get all mushy about this; the situation was far from it, so why make it that way now? It was a less than glamorous relationship, and doomed from the start, but damn it, you caught me, hook, line, and sinker.
Remember that night? I do. It’s burned into my brain. I had never acted that way before; something about the way you performed, held your guitar, the lights hit your sweating face…I was intoxicated. I waited around after the show, wasting time bouncing between merch tables and rehydrating myself at the bar. You take a while longer to get out of the backstage area, but as soon as you stick your head out of the door, you spot me and smile. I had never seen anyone smile so brightly because of me before. The magnets in our chests pulled us to each other. Hugs, laughter, light touches to each other’s arms while talking about old times. Had it really been that long since we had seen each other? I never thought that when your family moved to New York that I would be seeing you again this way. I always imagined myself going to FIT for college and us randomly running into each other on the street waiting for a cab, or at a deli enjoying a muffin and coffee drink. Never had I imagined this.
I had been overcome by emotions that I had suppressed so long ago, so “no” was not an answer that I could have given you that night. But I also did not see that night leading to so many others…so many nights apart. I loved you, and frankly, still do. I know you love me too, but the distance and the time apart became too much to bear.
Okay, so I lied when I said that this all wasn’t mushy. I try and trick myself sometimes, but I supposed it doesn’t really work that well. This entire mess we got ourselves into is filled with sap, and I suppose the sappiest part of it all is that nowhere in my body do I honestly feel like this mess is complete.
© 2004
It isn’t anything new and trendy for bands to sprout up on college campuses, but what does seem to be a fresh idea is the fact many are looking to actually take this pastime further than a keg party or jam session in the dorms.
College bands are beginning to think more lucratively, instead of just trying to win over some girl’s fleeting affection (though that girl could be the topic of their first hit single). With the help of Internet-streamed college radio, MTVU’s Best Campus Band award and social networking sites like Facebook, MySpace and PureVolume, college bands are beginning to get the recognition they long for.
UNC Charlotte is no stranger to fame-starved bands — take The Sammies, for example, who have been featured on national TV shows and in numerous magazines, all from a humble start on the good old UNCC campus.
More and more students are searching for talented peers and dipping their toes into the music pool. A bevy of musicians have been popping up, whether it be acoustic, hardcore, punk or pop-rock, and many of them are looking to make it a career. You may not be able to get a bachelor’s degree in rock star, but if you could, these guys would graduate with top honors.
One of the most notable artists in the past couple of years would be campus favorites Brandon Kirkley & The Firecrackers. The band brings a fun flavor to college rock, leaving the Jack Johnson and Dave Matthews clichés in the dust.
Not only do their late ’90s-influenced tunes make them stand out, but who wouldn’t notice a couple of dudes in booty shorts, too-tight tank tops, and sparkly headbands skating around campus with boom boxes in support of their band? That’s how lead singer and co-founder of the band, Brandon Kirkley, found his way to local celebrity, and how he plans to expand his band’s success, much of which he attributes to UNCC.
The college life became a bit of a catalyst for this young musician: Coming from a small Southern town where anything but a pickup truck and dirt-stained jeans is abnormal, Kirkley was able to fully unleash his talents with a more accepting, and diverse, crowd upon attending college. But he still faced some difficulties.
“It was hard finding people to get involved with a pop-rock band. People would go home and think they’d have to listen to Goo Goo Dolls now or something,” he says. But Kirkley managed to make it work with friends he met in classes and through other college friends. UNCC was brimming with untapped talent, and he was determined to find all the potential he could to push the band further.
Unfortunately, a large downside of putting together a band while in school is that many people see college as a short chunk of time — they try to get their four years and move on. But others, like Kirkley, think of it as much more than school. “There is a definite turnaround with college bands. People move on with their lives … this is what I want to do with mine,” he shares. “If I don’t make it in a band by the time I’m 30 … I can see myself and [band mate] Chris Fulton being a writing/production team. I want to write those pop songs for girls to sing. I can’t do that right now, so I have to take that song and make it a Brandon Kirkley & The Firecrackers song. Chris and I are like song-writing soulmates.”
With Kirkley, his love for the university and the university’s love for him kept him around. Now working on his graduate degree, he also heads up UNCC’s much-needed, long-overdue radio station, Radio Free Charlotte. The non-funded station means he’s not compensated for the time he puts into it, but for the chance to give deserving musicians the exposure they need to be noticed, he couldn’t care less.
Brandon Kirkley & The Firecrackers have become the go-to band for campus events, and Kirkley was even named Homecoming King last year. With his Niner-green guitar strap, Charlotte tattoo and UNCC decal on his guitar, Kirkley is the epitome of school spirit.
But his success isn’t just in University City. Brandon Kirkley & The Firecrackers have been headlining Amos’ and Tremont this past year, and have even become the band to call to fill opening-act slots for national touring bands. The glam persona that Kirkley infuses into the band — what is, in his words, “Bon Jovi meets Gin Blossoms” — draws a varied response from the audience, yet the intrigue continues to keep people listening.
“I have a very flamboyant appearance … that’s how people know me,” he says. Even people whom he doesn’t know. While on a recent beach trip, a young girl noticed his Michael Jackson tattoo and approached him. “She said all of her friends at ECU were huge fans of the band, and a bunch of her friends in Wilmington, too, and we’ve never even played there!” he says. “But we will be!”
While others are counting encounters with Kirkley as a brush with fame, he has had quite a few of his own. With the incredibly small budget pulled together by a bunch of college kids, the guys recorded a six-song EP that Kirkley has had the pleasure of giving to notables such as Hanson, Butch Walker and a slew of others.
The professionalism of the band in its approach, marketing and media design is definitely a key in reaching future roles, and much of the design is courtesy of yet another UNCC student, Daniel Kitts. “None of this would have been possible without UNC Charlotte,” says Kirkley. “The only constants in my life in the last seven years have been music and UNCC.”
http://charlotte.creativeloafing.com/gyrobase/the_class_y_side_of_brandon_kirkley/Content?oid=696985
The Deal: Front man and founder of ex-major label band The Working Title attempts to keep the music alive all by his lonesome and with little cash to back it up.
The Good: Going from being on the American Wedding soundtrack to self-producing CDs, the break from the corporate world gives Joel Hamilton the freedom of creativity he needs. Hamilton has what could possibly be one of the most heart-breaking talents in this day and age – a pure Southern boy with a heart full of aches that he puts into words so gracefully. While his warbling vocals and unusual instrumentation may seem a bit unconventional, the mixture blends into something so beautiful and haunting that he can render you speechless, which is evident in tracks such as “Darkness” and “Arms and Thighs.” The most upbeat track, “Physical Love,” is the closest he’ll come to being your next radio-friendly rock ‘n’ roller, but only in beat. When’s the last time you heard a top-40 song about a battle between faith and libido?
The Bad: The downfall is essentially just one song, “Hijackers.” The hard-hitting topic and unique sound is refreshing, but adding a misplaced new metal band growl to such an already pain-laden voice is unnecessary. Seems Hamilton should heed the old advice about not overworking something.
The Verdict: Falling completely away from what fans of the band’s last CD, About Face, were expecting, Hamilton succeeds in stepping into his own and embracing his chance to show what he is capable of, without the pressure of the suits. The record may bounce around in style, but that raw experimentation shows the passion Hamilton has for music, which is something that is hard to see in a lot of artists today. I say bravo.
As a big girl myself, I’m quite familiar with the treasure hunt for fashionable clothing that actually fits more voluptuous figures. It doesn’t help my search when upon entering a fashion-forward store or boutique, I’m welcomed with stares, whispers, and even the occasional, brave, greeting of “What is she doing in here?” It’s like I’m Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, only I’m fat, not a prostitute. I appreciate fashion, just as a girl half my size does, so why should I be banished to the few shops that actually cater to the majority of female Americans? Why is it OK for the skinny girl to shop in plus size stores, yet a big girl in any store that isn’t just for plus sizes is apparently a crime. It’s the fat girl double standard.
What I wouldn’t give to be able to wear what my size-four counterparts wear, instead of being peddled moo moos and, ironically enough, stretch pants. But it seems as though hiding our figures is easier than coming up with any fashion that is figure-flattering. I can recall plenty of times when I searched high and low for that trendy menswear vest or cute knee-high boot, only to find that the vest wouldn’t fit over my larger bust, or the calf of the boots were made for Skeletor.
Department stores that actually carry plus-size lines push the section to the dreaded back corner of the store, with the dim lighting and strange absence of mirrors. And don’t count on any visual aides by the way of full-figured mannequins in stylish ensembles; the only mannequins are stick-thin and stand like a white picket fence blocking the view of the fat clothes.
But alas, even in this recession, when a lot of these plus-size lines are being cut from stores due to cost, retailers like Forever 21, Wet Seal, and Target are investing in their own junior plus lines. Finally, trendy, youthful fashions that come in bigger sizes than large, and are meant to fit the 56 percent of women in the world who wear a size 14 or more. The youth-oriented lines are great for finding the hottest styles, but with the junior sizing, the amount of plus-sized ladies these stores are actually helping is still a small percentage of the women who seek assistance in their shopping. For instance, Forever 21’s perception of plus size only covers up to a size 16, which excludes much of the plus-sized consumers that would potentially shop their Faith 21 line. Wet Seal is more realistic in their sizing, going up to a size 24, while Target’s new Pure Energy line goes all the way to a size 30.
Todd Albaum, creator and owner of Scarlett Plus Size Boutique, knows all about the plus size market. This tall, fit Jersey boy is quite the curvaceous connoisseur, and larger ladies flock to his store for high quality, gorgeous fashions and superb service. “I’m a guy in the psyche of a plus-size woman. I know what will work well with their features, and make them feel good on the inside because they look good on the outside,” he says. “The plus-size market is literally shrinking. The reason the market is drying up is that stores don’t know how to market their plus sizes. They don’t cater to the plus woman correctly.”
Truer words have never been spoken. According to Associated Content, Old Navy, who carries affordable clothing up to a size 30, is a prime example. The store decided to expand their plus sizes from 50 stores to 175 stores nationwide, making plenty of women ecstatic, yet only months later, all but 2X and smaller where plucked from all Old Navy stores and banished to online. The chain chalked it up to poor sales numbers, but plus-sized customers chalked it up to poor promotion. In fact, a lot of consumers were never even aware that plus sizes were offered by the store. “It is a niche market and marketing is key,” Albaum says.
With all of the plus sizes being moved out of the stores and onto the Web, shopping has become a blessing and a curse all at once. While we’ve gained numerous outlets to finding fashion-forward clothing in sizes all the way to 5X and beyond, we’ve also lost the ability to feel the fabric and try on the pieces before making our final decisions. This leads to more returns and more hassle than what should be occurring. Yet it is hard to turn away from the plus size ecommerce world. “Online is my biggest competition,” Albaum shares. With online stores like OneStopPlus.com, women can go and search tons of different vendors all through one site.
Stores like Lane Bryant, B & Lu, Making It Big, Avenue, Ulla Popken, Silhouettes, Kiyonna, Catherines, and Torrid have all been serving the plus-size market online, through catalog, and in retail stores for years now, and while they may struggle, they remain open for the consumers. They are aware that every woman needs an outlet for fashion, whether she is a size 6 or a 26. And with the sudden fascination with plus sizes in the media with shows like More To Love, or Dance Your Ass Off, their business may begin to thrive again. Lead singer of The Gossip, pugnacious and plump Beth Ditto, has even signed on with TopShop (the UK’s version of H&M), producing her own line in their plus store, Evans, which will be expanding to the U.S. soon.
Even with these glimmers of hope in our big hearts, it still seems that the plus size market will be getting skinnier before plumping up again anytime soon.
