Independence Party candidate Roger Smithrud, who ran for Minnesota State House in district 58B, is best at summarizing his political party’s current trouble.

“I’m sad — I only got seven percent of the vote. I thought I’d get at least 20.”

His short frame, long grey hair and lit American Spirit give off a look of a working class American conspiracy theorist. He was standing outside the IP’s election night party at the Minnetonka West Sheraton, which mostly centered on the IP’s biggest hope of 2008, U.S. Senate candidate Dean Barkley.

The hotel’s dining room party — not unlike a small-scale wedding reception — was filled with a modest crowd of around 100 people; some dressed-up, some still wearing their Tires Plus work uniform. Former Governor Jesse Ventura, whose successful 1998 campaign remains the party’s heart and soul, sat at a table with his family and kept his profile low-key. Early in the night, prominent IP members were making their bets.

“Dean will make a strong showing,” said Independence Party Chair Craig Swaggert. “Whether he gets 20 percent or whether he wins, it shows that the other parties aren’t speaking to the average Minnesotan voter.”

But after a few quick minutes passed and votes started tallying, it was clear Barkley wouldn’t gain much more than his final showing, 15 percent — under the goal of at least 20.

Still, Barkley and his supporters showed no regret.

“I’d rather the numbers were switched and it was 51 percent,” said Dan Justensen, another IP chair, “but I’m damn happy he’s back here.”

“This isn’t the end, this is only the beginning,” Barkley said in his concession speech. “I can only hope the two parties start to get the message.”

But what message? It’s still altogether unclear.

The party grew out of Ross Perot’s Reform Party and eventually came to its own with Ventura’s surprise 1998 victory. He ran and governed as a moderate: libertarian in civil liberties — he vetoed a bill requiring public schools to cite the Pledge of Allegiance every day in class; liberal on social issues — he supported abortion rights and gay rights; and fiscally conservative — his first priority was to tak advantage of the state’s budget surplus and pass a tax cut.

Since Ventura’s tenure ended, the IP has kept decent support, but nothing comparable to 1998. They have kept in the tradition of a populist, individualist politics that remains attractive enough to garner a small but dedicated core of support. Barkley’s only TV ad, which came from the brain behind both Ventura’s and Paul Wellstone’s brilliant ads, shows that there are a few things likeable in these candidates.

Any IP diehard can point their finger at corrupt two party systems, money-owned politicians and cynical journalists as the root of their problems, but one thing’s still certain: If the IP believes its “spoiler party” label is unfair, Tuesday’s election results did nothing to change that.

David Dillon, who ran for U.S. House in District 3 and got 10 percent of the vote, is starting to be viewed as the state’s DFL spoiler of ’08. Some believe he crushed the hopes for Ashwin Madia, who ran as a moderate-conservative and lost to conservative Republican Erick Paulsen by eight percent.

Like Barkley, Dillon ran largely as a moderate but embraced some libertarian stances like reducing the military budget, ending the War in Iraq and balancing the budget. His policies are conservative but still acknowledge certain progressive stances. From his Web site (which is an impressive one for any candidate), he writes: “Speaking as a conservative I ask that we acknowledge the great liberal goal of universal coverage. This hardly means the acceptance of proposals for a socialist government health care system.”

Both Dillon and Barkley came off as more conservative than Peter Hutchinson, the IP’s 2006 gubernatorial candidate. Hutchinson’s campaign promised to greatly increase the state’s standards in health care, transportation and education. He gained six percent of the vote — most of it coming from the usually DFL-dominated metro area (apparently 90 percent of the MPR crowd, according to Justensen) — which was enough to spoil the chances for the unlikable former DFL Attorney General Mike Hatch, who’s been recently made notorious for starting a trend in his former office that denies staffers their own unions. Hatch lost the election to Governor Tim Pawlenty by one percent.

While the IP candidates sometimes differ in policies, Justensen laid out the party platform as mostly Federalist — limited federal government intervention and great respect for state rights. This way, Hutchinson’s promise on expanding the state’s social programs and Barkley’s promise on cutting the nation’s debt go hand in hand with the overall “state independence” message.

But the party certainly has work to do. Voter support is still high enough to give the IP major party status in the state, but not close to making a winner. From the mood of election night at the Sheraton, it seems like IP party members are committed to running a strong gubernatorial bid in 2010, when they’ll get much more public financing and (potential) prominence than Barkley got this year.
But for now the IP might be best off doing what Barkley did right after his concession speech — thinking things over a few drinks.

After finishing his concession speech, Barkley walked away from the podium in the now nearly-empty room and grabbed some of his friends.

“This thing’s pretty much over. I just got to figure out who I need to call and concede to. Let’s go to the bar. I’ll buy a round.”

Marnie took her time walking through the campus, being careful of where the sun hit the pavement, doing her best to keep close to the trees. She couldn’t help the humidity, but she could stay underneath the canopy provided by rows and rows of green. It was the one thing she appreciated, among other things, during the languid summer months. Shade, air-conditioning. If she had those two things, then she was that much closer to being content.

A biker in a hurry zipped past her. She felt the wind he created, along with a fine shower of sweat that splashed against her face. Thank god her mouth was closed.

She stumbled as he flew by, and smacked herself in a hurry to wipe the sweat from her face. Damn bikers never looked where they were going, he almost took her fucking arm off. If they weren’t weaving in and out of pedestrians on sidewalks, they were blocking the traffic on busy local roads. No place for them on the sidewalks, no place for them in the street. Just another thing to add to her list today.

It had been fifteen minutes since Susie called her, and she was already slipping into a funk. Susie would be checking her watch now, for the tenth time. The bitch didn’t like to wait. But Marnie would make her wait, because right now she had to wipe and curse for some sort of release. The biker was long gone, but Marnie envisioned him being mowed down by a busy car, a driver not looking where he was going. No place on the road for those crazies either.

The rest of the walk was all right, but without sunglasses she couldn’t help but frown and squint her eyes to block out the sun, putting a nasty scowl on her face. People stared as they passed and moved out of her way like Moses parting the effing red sea.

She turned her shoulders, this way and that, avoiding the shoulders of others as she crossed the street. Restaurants had their windows wide open. People were lounging and eating about on the “patio seating”, or a clever word for the sidewalk. For some reason the food always tasted better with a breeze in your hair, and possibly a fly in your soup. Nothing like outdoor dining.

And there was Susie, outdoors, dining. Eating a sandwich at some tiny place catering to people who wore beatnik hats and pushed inch-wide wood wedges through their ear lobes. She was sitting at a small iron-wrought table with a dingy tablecloth, ripped in all the right places, that screamed THIS PLACE IS TRYING REALLY HARD TO BE TRENDY. Susie bought into it, as the menu probably required her to slice off an arm to pay. She was slouched against her chair, stuffing the sandwich into her face with as much energy and gusto as a sickly invalid. Big bug-eyed sunglasses hid most her face, but there was no mistaking the thinly veiled anger and disdain there.

“Susie,” Marnie called out as she dodged yet another frickin biker trying to make his way down the narrow sidewalk. “Watch it, damn public nuisance,” she snapped.

He turned his electric blue helmeted head around. “Fuck off, street walker,” he said before swerving to miss an elderly woman.

Marnie dropped her jaw before whipping around to face Suise. “Did you hear that?” she said, “He called me a street walker!” Suisie sighed as she took a long swig from a bottle of pale beer.

“Well you are a street walker,” she said. Marnie slapped her pocket book on the table. It made a loud snap that startled Susie into choking. She coughed and coughed and wiped away at her lips with a deep red napkin.

“I mean, you’re walking on the street, that’s all,” she said with a hurried annoyance.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that,” Marnie said and plopped down opposite of Susie.

“You’re a street walker, he’s a street rider,” she said and drank again.

“Street walker…shit,” Marnie muttered to herself and crossed her arms. A waitress came by to check on Susie, and to see if Marnie wanted anything. No, she didn’t.

“Why not? You’re making me feel bad,” Susie said, holding the waitress from attending to other tables.

Marnie shook her head. “I have an eating disorder study to shape up for, or, shape down, rather.”

“God, your still doing that shit?”

“It’s a lot of money they’re offering for this one. I have to become a convincing anorectic,” she said.

“Well, do bulimia, because I don’t want to eat alone. Ah, another beer,” she said to the waitress.

Marnie glared across the table before casting her order. “Bread and butter.” Susie smiled as the waitress left.

“Alcohol during the day?” Marnie said as she spread the deep red napkin across her lap.

“It’s past noon,” Susie offered with a shrug as she finished off her current bottle. She set it aside and leaned back in her chair. The oil soaked sandwich in front of her gleaned in the sunlight.

“What did you call me out for?” Marnie asked as she slouched.

Susie sighed and arched her eyebrows over the round sunglasses. She shook her head, just the slightest as she looked on down the street.

“It’s Gavin, I broke it off,” she said and sighed again.

“Susie…” Marnie said, trying to sound sympathetic. There was no end to the crazy tales of Gavin and his…odd sense of what a relationship was. But after six long months, it seemed as if the stories were coming to an end. Pity, it provided a good ego boost.

Susie reached down to play with the straps of her shoes. “Yet another psycho passes on by,” she said, pouting her lips, like she always did when disappointed.

“What did he do now?” Marnie asked. It was now time for the shit dealing, her favorite part of breakups. Such a catharsis.

“Six months,” Susie said and shook her head again, “After so long, I find him wearing the pants of another.”

Marnie felt the corner of her mouth twitch, she fought against it. “What…?” she began.

Susie looked straight at her, or the wide, fat orbs that were her sunglasses did. She shot her words out with a vengeance and anger, hungry for Prime Rib of Gavin. “After all this time, I find out he was only in it for my pants!”

“Well, most do want to get inside your pants,” Marnie said as she chuckled.

“No!” Susie said and slapped her hand on the table. “He wanted my pants, my panties!”

“What? You let him wear your panties?” Marnie said and she stuck her head forward, “You never told me this!”

“Why would I tell you something as embarrassing as that?” Susie scoffed. “They were hot pink and frilly! I never buy hot pink and frilly, the bastard.”

“That’s fucked up,” Marnie said as she shook her head.

“I know. I can’t believe he did that, with a hot pink and frilly pair no less. Vulgar.”

“But it’s not like he cheated on you,” Marnie said, “However bizarre it is…”

“Yes, he did! They were another woman’s panties. Disgusting.”

Marnie’s shoulder heaved as she spewed forth laughter. Susie kicked her from underneath the table, but Marnie laughed anyway.

“It’s fucked up that you let him wear your panties. You lost control right then and there.”

“Whatever.”

“You can’t let a man wear the pants and the panties in a relationship,” Marnie said between laughs. “It’s all lopsided then.”

Susie began to smile and turned it into a laugh. Marnie prodded at her from under the table.

“It’s for the best, nay?” She said and reached for Susie’s hand. Susie lifted it off the table and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“That’s the last fucking psycho you’ll see me with,” she said.

“Yeah, wait until you see the next freak, then say that again,” Marnie said.

She glanced to her left. A black haired man was sipping coffee and reading a book, she couldn’t see what from here. His ears were full of holes and silver, with a wood cork-screw in the lobes. His shirt looked stained with paint, or blood. Susie followed her eye line, and smiled.

“All right, but not exactly what I’m looking for,” she said.

“Not your type of freak?” Marnie said.

Susie kicked her from underneath the table.

An article that I’ve written is being published in the upcoming Wake issue #5 this Wednesday about the writing of Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation. I thought I’d preface it before it came out.

Even if you aren’t a reader, even if you are one of those kids who kept on reading Matt Christopher books and Goosebumps in the sixth or seventh grade, you can read. You. Can. Read. Read whatever you want. Don’t be intimidated by those pretentious college fucks out there who talk about Infinite Jest or Proust or whatever like they’re in this Elite Club of Readers and if you haven’t, you’re not intelligent. Just read. Read whatever you want. And when you read my article, don’t be intimidated by the names that are in it, like Burroughs or Ginsberg or Kerouac. The literature of the Beat Generation was written for kids like me and you, kids that are just living and trying not to get all caught up in this snobby, competitive shit. Don’t be afraid. Just read it. Go ahead. Maybe start with On the Road.

If you’ve got the time, read this article by John Clellon Holmes written in 1952. Click on the link. It’s inspiring. And read. Because you can.

This Is the Beat Generation

Judging from the rampant celebration over Barack Obama’s historic presidential win, this weekend looks to be a time for great ra-ra and inspired good times. Stop doing your homework, forever, and go do something awesome this weekend.

City Pages Picked To Click artists Lucy Michelle and the Velvet Lapelles kicks off a miniseries stint at the Nomad Pub tonight, with the first of three Thursday concerts in a row. Lead Lucy Michelle conjures up the vocal talents of Jolie Holland as she plucks away at her ukulele, while her backing band brings a variety of instrumentation to the stage. This unique folk ensemble has something for everyone, and Michelle is easily one of the best whistlers I’ve ever heard. They’ve promised some new tunes this time around, and the event is FREE, so come on down to the Nomad and get let your folk flag fly. This is part of the Nomad’s Minniseries event, which showcases a new local artist every month. If you miss this one, the Lapelles shall be back next week for another free show!

Lucy Michelle and the Velvet Lapelles with Poor Nobodys and Bitch n’ Brown (as the Chixxxy Dicks)
Thursday, November 6
Nomad World Pub, 501 Cedar Ave
Music at 9:30, 21+, FREE

This Saturday, the Clapperclaw Music and Arts Festival, an eclectic co-mingling of a great number of alternative forms, returns. The festival intends to showcase a wide range of local and national art, including film, art and fashion shows, and musical performances. This eclectic festival features music from local rappers Cecil Otter and Big Quarters, electronic-infused rock and roll from Speed’s The Name, Look Book and Man Is Doomed, out-of-towners XYZ Affair and Peter Adams, plus DJ sets from DJ Cool Money and DJ Real Talk Radio. On top of all this, there will be films screened all night, artwork from some truly talented local artists, and exclusive fashion work from local designers. I tried to write it all down here and there was simply too much; check out the Clapperclaw website for more information on what is happening and when. This event is $12 at the door and $5 in advance (with free drinks all night, did I mention that? Some people might like that sort of thing), so I suggest you get tickets early. A portion of the proceeds go to Free Arts Minnesota, which makes this awesome event all the more legit. Come check out this amazing festival and come support your local art scene!

Clapperclaw Music and Arts Festival
Saturday, November 8
Sound Gallery Recording Studio and Warehouse, 414 3rd Ave N
4 PM – 2AM (Check Clapperclaw website for schedule)
$5 pre-sale or during “Happy Hour” (4-7), $12 after 7, 21+

Also this Saturday comes the band famously kicked off tour with Guns N’ Roses a few years back for being simply TOO AWESOME (though this was not the official statement at the time, I believe, in our hearts, we all know the real reason). That’s right, those sex-starved sleaze merchants the Eagles of Death Metal are bringing their unabashed dirty-rock stylings to the Fine Line, and you’d better bring an extra pair of fists to pump cuz the rock is much too much. On tour in support of their latest effort, Heart On, the bad news boys bring you crunchy rock and roll to which you simply can’t help but move your feet. Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme drops the guitar and sits on the skins as frontman Jesse Hughes sings of love, lust and more lust while blowing your clothes off with his guitar solos. The California band bring a fun and sexy sound to the staple stoner-rock of the bands extended family, and no, they don’t actually play death metal. If the Eagles really played death metal, would they sound like this? Who cares? Come get your rock on and get your rocks off in the good old fashioned way at the Fine Line.

Eagles of Death Metal with The Duke Spirit
Saturday, November 8
Fine Line Music Cafe, 318 1st Ave N
$18/$20, doors at 8, music at 9, 18+

Her sunglasses, perched atop her cranium, pushed back the matted mass of hair that collected round her forehead. A thick layer of moist film on her face plastered stray clumps of curls here and there, which she wiped away with oil secreting fingers.

It was hot. The thin cotton of her shirt stuck to her skin like cling wrap, so wet with sweat, her decorative bra was visible. The embroidered pink and periwinkle blue flowers pressed through the fabric like an embossed pattern. Her barely there shorts did nothing to alleviate the intense heat that assaulted her system. The way her thighs rubbed together while she walked created a sticky paste and set her off, as discreet as she could, digging and wiping, only for more to slick her skin there minutes later.

Despite the heat, she was at the University, taking refuge in one of the buildings, a science building (because they had this sort of stuff) while she grazed the message boards, to see if any posting pricked her interest.

The air conditioning was a god send and a curse. Cooling and refreshing as it was, it soon worked on the layer of sweat she sported and turned the hairs on her back to prickly icicles jabbing out on end. She stood there, rubbing her arms trying to shave away the goose bumps. She sniffled and felt the tickle of a sneeze in the back of her nose. She wouldn’t be surprised of a cold took her after the constant swap of walking through humid soup into dry chilly turrets.

Shifting her weight, she continued on down the line, her eyes hovering from post to post. The best studies were the ones which provided a large compensation. Most required passing a second phase to get it, but that was no problem.

She coughed slightly before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, the tenth one today. Sucking it down, deep, she coughed again and cleared her throat. Her eyes squinted as the coughing increased and she waved the smoke away. It was always like this when she lit one up. These damn cigs tasted terrible. She might as well lick the bottom of a bum’s grotty shoe. There was hardly any tobacco in it, just chemicals made in some nuclear hubble by impoverished children, just so she could get her money. But after tomorrow, she wouldn’t have to smoke them anymore.

Her eyes wandered further until she saw a sign in big bold letters SUBJECTS NEEDED: EATING DISORDER RESEARCH STUDY with tear off and take home slips at the bottom. Now now, it wasn’t worth anything unless the price was right. Subjects needed for a research study exploring the side effects of eating disorders. A list of symptoms informed of the subject criteria…yeah, she could do it. $200 compensation, not bad. She could pay half a month’s rent with that.

Reaching her arm up she ripped off a tab, taking half the sheet with her.

“Shit,” she hissed as the other half shot down to the floor like an armed trajectory.

Sticking the cigarette between her lips, she bent down to pick up the decimated notice. How typical of her to destroy it with just one touch. It was torn, right through all the information and the bold title. She sighed and sucked in another breath of carcinogen laced nicotine. As her ass reached the apex of its curve, she noticed a pair of chunky cross-trainers clunk-clunk-clunking away at the tiles, coming closer to her.

She stood, straightening her back and watched the woman waddle her way across the floor in a limping fashion. Hair frizzed out to the point of looking like she’d been struck with lightning, a stained white shirt, a pill-blue skirt riding up her thin legs, the poor woman looked miserable. She had probably been completely against working during the summer at a university, but her boss would have strongly suggested it, for the better of her career. But she still couldn’t see what the hell good it did to sit in an office all day.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

Her face was terrible, all scrunched up and splotched red from either anger or heat. Her eyes darted from the cigarette to the poster board to the decimated paper and back.

“Show me you student I.D.”

“What?”

“Show me your student I.D.”

“Why do you need to see that?”

“Let me see it.”

Assuming this woman was some form of authority, however low on the ladder she was, the I.D. was shown. She frowned, screwing up her lips in what looked like an angry scowl, or something that was trying very hard to do so.

“Marnie Williams, you do know that it’s illegal to smoke inside university buildings?”

Marnie nodded her head as she puffed on the cigarette. A smoke cloud erupted between them. The woman joined her in hacking up lung tissue.

“Yeah, but I have to, until tomorrow at least.”

“Excuse me?” she said, voice strained. Her eyes darted around Marnie’s face as she put two hands on her hips. Marnie glanced down, unimpressed. This woman’s lips pursed together, twitching to say something not so professional.

“Well,” Marnie said, “I’m a subject in a study about smoking, and I’m not a smoker, really, so I have to suck down all the cigarettes I can.”

The woman frowned as she jutted her head forward. Shaking her head and waving away the cloud of smoke, she pinched her eyes together.

“What?”

Marnie took one last drag on her cigarette and squished it against the wall. Ashes left a black crusty streak on the tan cork board.

“The compensation is at least $500. If I want to get that I need to become a convincing smoker.”

The authoritative glare drooped from the woman’s face like a melting wax, slow and thick. It was the reaction Marnie counted on, typical of someone she would have a delight torturing, and someone she would never think twice about as soon as she left ‘em. This one wasn’t so old as to be shocked by more…licentious comments, but liberal and green enough to think her a victim of vice.

“T-There’s no smoking in this building,” she repeated. Her feet were re-planted in the ground, looking firm and rooted.

Marnie took a pin from the board and tacked the meager scraps of the notice paper back where she found it. The number was safe in her hands, soon to be in her pocket. She coughed again before smiling at the woman.

“Sorry,” she said, quick and curt. The grin on her face knew better. Things had to be said to placate people.

The incredulous glare she received was customary, only made her smile more. If she could smile, enough to make her laugh every day, then the lather-rinse-recycle-repeat patterns wouldn’t seem so bad. Of course, there were kinks to every plan.

The vibration of her phone tickled her butt. It was the short short loooooooong pattern, it had to be Susie.

“Hello?” Marnie said with a full on gummy toothy smile.

“Get your bum over here. We need to talk, face to face.”

The activist group Substance celebrated Halloween on Saturday with a haunted house in the Dinkytown Oakeshott Institute, based on the events surrounding the Republican National Convention earlier this year. After progressing past the chaotic RNC terror, patrons were greeted with live music from Kill The Vultures, Gay Witch Abortion, Slapping Purses and Tender Meat. The event helped raise money for the RNC 8 and to pay debts incurred from the Ripple Effect concert that took place during the RNC.

The haunted house portion was swarmed with screaming police officers and accosted protesters. In the dark confines of the church basement, I was ordered to get on my knees as an officer placed a bag over my head and led me to the next room. In the corner, a witness was being tortured and police officers beat civilians. I didn’t quite feel the fear I was intended to feel, the guns shoved to my face being rubber and all. As a political statement, the haunted house worked well, exaggerating actual events to emphasize the madness that took place. As a haunted house, it left something to be desired.

Once inside the main area of the church, the piercing aggressive electro sounds of Slapping Purses flooded my ears as a slew of costumed individuals danced the devil’s dance and downed snuck-in alcohol. All the acts were permanent-hearing-loss loud, with Gay Witch Abortion bringing their standard two-man sonic assault and Kill The Vultures sounding like they had blown the speakers. Crescent Moon of Kill The Vultures schooled listeners on the history of the place they were standing and the legend of Oakeshott, the deceased medieval-armor enthusiast for whom the church was named. In the middle of the KTV set, the real cops came and busted the whole thing. In an ironic image, some of the fake cops from the haunted house portion wound up in the backseat of the squad car. One audience member implored KTV to keep playing so the situation would escalate and we could all “get on the news”. He had probably gone without getting arrested at the RNC and was really bummed about it.

With American Nightmare, Substance successfully helmed yet another politically-charged musical event, bringing arts and activism together as is their M.O. They urged people to vote tomorrow, and so do I. Get your ass to the polls.

Halloween night is one of the bigger party nights of the year, yet it’s very nature separates itself from the other booze-addled bouts of self-destruction which populate the Twin Cities resident’s party schedules. Halloween demands a certain tone, an atmosphere not just of getting drunk and silly, but doing so in costumes, with attention to fear and spookiness. Standing around with friends playing beer pong is not going to cut it this weekend, oh no: You’re going to have to toss ping-pong balls into open skulls and chug blood and brain juice, or something fiendish like that. At the very least, throw on Texas Chainsaw Massacre in the background, but please, get into the spirit one way or another. Despite popular belief, Halloween is not an excuse to dress scantily or listen to Thriller on repeat. You can certainly do these things, but one would hope that you would do them with an appreciation of the delight of Halloween. Decapitation, gore, murder, blood, monsters, the undead, Satan… These are the tenants of Halloween. The fright surrounding the night is what differentiates Halloween from just another St. Patty’s Day; I implore you to delve into the nether regions of your unholy soul when downing cheap beer and dancing like an idiot this weekend.

There is no better place to surround yourself with the Halloween spirit than at First Avenue this Saturday: Though this event is after the 31st, nothing says Halloween quite like GWAR. There’s a moment in the midst of any GWAR concert, where, soaked in blood from the eviscerated body of a pop-cultural icon and bruised from the fists flailed your direction in the mosh pit, you realize that this is perhaps the pinnacle of concert euphoria. Sure, you had a great time seeing Deerhoof or whatever, and Conor Oberst is a great songwriter akin to a modern-day blahbedy blah, but this is fucking GWAR. GWAR is more than a concert, it is an visceral musical experience. GWAR is heavy metal at its most balls-out (literally; you should see lead member Oderus Urungus swinging his obscenely monstrous genitalia with wild abandon) ridiculous, as monsters take stage and kill all the humans in sight while rocking out painfully hardcore. With smatterings of theater and performance art, and splatterings of brains and internal organs, GWAR turns First Avenue into hell on Earth, and brings the audience kicking and screaming along for the ride. There is no better way to celebrate Halloween, hands down. Wear clothes you don’t mind getting covered in a wide range of fluids and come see the mayhem.

GWAR with Kingdom of Sorrow and Toxic Holocaust
Saturday, November 1st
First Avenue Mainroom
701 1st Ave N
$18/$21, AA, 5 PM

In the spirit of pretending to be someone else, there’s a couple of cover band events going on on Halloween night: Lee’s Liquor Lounge has got E.L.nO. covering ELO (how appropriate) and Little Man covering T-Rex, and the Triple Rock features Shit Sandwich as Spinal Tap, If You Want Blood as AC/DC, We Who Cannot Be Named as The Dwarves, Sirens of Titan as Soundgarden, We Aren’t The League as the Anti-Nowhere League, and Power of 2 as the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s.

Lee’s Liquor Lounge: Cover Band Night
Friday, October 31
101 Glenwood Ave
21+, 9:30 p.m., $10

Triple Rock Social Club: Halloween Celebration
Friday, October 31
629 Cedar Ave
21+, 8 PM, $8, $6 with costume

Certain bands seem specifically tailored to Halloween. Gothic trans-core glam-rock (music writing is a great opportunity to stretch my bullshit-terminology muscle) outfit All The Pretty Horses, back together and in great form, are one of these. The Horses, a Minnesota act you ought to see before you die, share the stage with other well-cast bands, the blistering and loud twosome Gay Witch Abortion and gothic shoegazers The Funeral and The Twilight. Goth stylings and loud music feel oh so right on All Hallow’s Eve, so come blow your ears out to some fantastic local rock at the 331 Club on Friday.

All The Pretty Horses with Gay Witch Abortion and The Funeral And The Twilight
Friday, October 31
331 Club, 331 13th Ave NE
21+, Free, 9 PM

Local rap outfit Hecatomb return again for the second annual installment of the Hecatomb Halloween Howl at O’Gara’s Bar and Grill in St. Paul. With performances by Carnage, Desdamona, Concentrate, Capaciti, Mac S.P.I.L.L.Z, Ruthless, Ill E. Gal, Kymara and Zone Cashus, this is sure to be a hard-hitting Halloween event. Carnage promises “twice the exxxperience” from last year (and he looks daaaamn scary as a zombie, yikes). As everything ought to be on this hallowed of nights, this is a costume party. Come outdo the other heads in town with yours.

Hecatomb’s Halloween Howl 2
Friday, October 31
O’Gara’s Bar and Grill
164 Snelling Ave N, St. Paul
21+, $6, 9PM

Happy Halloween, be safe, eat too much candy, and watch for razorblades in apples. They’re sneaky like that.

Conor Oberst, known best for his work with Bright Eyes and currently touring with the Mystic Valley Band, is doing a free solo performance at the Loring Pasta Bar in Dinkytown today at 2:30 PM. He is playing in support of the organization Obama Campaign For Change, and tickets are available to anyone who volunteers for at least two “Get Out The Vote” shifts before the upcoming election. Sign up for shifts here and get your tickets to this intimate solo performance.

Oberst also hits up First Avenue tonight with the Mystic Valley Band, All Smiles and the Matt Focht Band.

Conor Oberst: Concert for Change
Wednesday, October 29
Loring Pasta Bar
327 14th Ave SE
All-Ages, FREE with volunteer sign-up

Conor Oberst & The Mystic Valley Band with All Smiles and Matt Focht Band
Wednesday, October 29
First Avenue Mainroom
701 1st Ave N
$24, 18+, 7:30 PM

I knew The Wake knew how to party. In celebration of this fine magazine’s 7th year, a bash was thrown at the Acadia last Friday, featuring a wide range of musical acts, including Military Special, MC Harv, Lucy Michelle, Words, and Zombie Season. Each act was sonically different than the rest, and this made for a really interesting night.

The turnout was impressive, and it was great to see a real open and perceptive audience. The show felt very close-knit in the confined space of the Acadia, and this made for intimate performances from the bands. The night was free, a show of appreciation for everyone who came to support the magazine. All in all, this was a really fun night, and a big thank you to all that showed up and helped make it what it was!

There were photos and audio taken from the event, which I’ll try to post once they’re available.

The other day I was doing laundry at Comstock Hall—the usual: late on a Monday night, with five-or-so loads to process. Now I know it’s my own fault for 1) saving this particular chore for weeks and weeks (until I run out of towels and/or underwear), and 2) generating so much laundry in the first place (if only I could confine it to just one outfit a day, every day: think of what a tremendous savings that would be…) But no, sadly, I am a fashionista, one who is not yet able to part with a clear distinction between evening and daywear, and one who just does not own enough boxers (or briefs?) to last out five weeks.

…So I’m the laundry room around ten o’clock at night, starting the business, and, to my horror, all but two of the machines are booked! Needless to say I felt both exasperated and betrayed that laundryview.com had lied to me again. Like any rational college student, I decide to take out my frustrations—to ‘eat my feelings’ as it were—with a little late night snack. On my way back to the Fourth Floor, I stop by the vending machines for a little bit of window shopping; after all, vending machines—especially UDS/Aramark vending machines—are to foodservice as Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus are to retail: one can rarely splurge for that Armani suit, so one often settles for the Kohls special. But tonight I was feeling especially wealthy (or especially in the mood for some luxury items with which to emotionally eat), and decided to pop for the “Chipotle BBQ Snack Mix,” at the ungodly price of $1.25. (Now you know I’m a college student.)

Brady M. Nyhus, blogger

Having two dollars in cash, I feed the first bill into the scanner. Ironically, the machine decides it doesn’t like my cash. After several more tries, with both of my ‘Washingtons,’ I resolve to turn my assets into quarters—by feeding them into the machine directly adjacent and pressing the coin return button. A flawless plan …or so I thought. Here comes the hubris in this situation: that second vending machine decides to eat my dollar, recognize it, and fail to return it in any form (in quarters or otherwise) to its rightful owner. Damn! So, I do whatever any hero in crisis would do: I look through the second machine’s goods to find the next best alternative, because I sure-as-hell ain’t gonna have “Chipotle BBQ Snack Mix” this evening. What I do find is a slice of cornbread that looks innocuous enough, at the even-better price of $1.75! (I’m being sarcastic)

With remorse, I feed that bastard of a machine my second dollar. Thankfully, it consents to giving me its cornbread, and, as a bonus, that one remaining quarter. I take it up to my room, whilst grumbling and muttering curses under my breath, and, upon arriving, analyze the nutrition facts of this little piece of frozen corn rock I’m about to consume. SEVENTY-ONE PERCENT OF MY DAILY VALUE FOR SATURATED FAT?!? HOW’S THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?! In that 1.5” by 3.5” by 2” cube, I see no longer a delicious snack, but a sentence of impending death: “One Minute on the Lips; For-ever on the Hips.” And that was the event, not the laundry it turns out, that ruined my Monday.

Cheers,
Brady M. Nyhus

P.S. I hope you enjoyed reading this post. Welcome to the world of “A Neutral Place to Stare.” Updates should be regular and forthcoming. Check back soon for more of life’s quasi-satirical minutiae…