Carhartts

One night during my first few weeks in Alaska I went to the Teepee (smoky dive) with a man who kept talking about his Carhartts.  

I hadn't heard of Carhartts before but I noticed he kept touching his pants when he talked about them and put two and two together.  The way he was talking was the way women talk about Seven jeans, or True Religion jeans.  Like a brand that's really cool because it's supposed to look really good because it's expensive because the manufacturers put a lot of money into making sure they fit well.

I walked a little behind him after we got out of the car, before we walked into the bar, and checked them out.  They were just like, loose brown denim pants.  I didn't get it.

Over the summer I heard a couple other men talk about Carhartts in the same way.  "I've got my Carhartts on tonight," "Well I was wearing my Carhartts at the time," etc.  And I'd always look at their pants and see that they were not particularly flattering.  Loose denim in brown or dark green or grey.

I slowly came to understand that the value of Carhartts is that they're lined with flannel, so they're really warm.  That's why people in Alaska wear them.  Not because they're flattering.  I also slowly noticed that native Alaskans don't talk about them in the same showy way that seasonal or new Alaskans do.

Which is interesting, I think, which is why I decided to write this post even though it's not a real story.  That because I am from southern California, when I hear people talk about a brand of clothes in a showy way, my assumption is that they're a) expensive, b) flattering.  But in Alaska when men boast of their Carhartts, it's for neither reason.  Carhartts are cool because they signify sourdoughness.  Sourdoughdome.  Sourdoughity.  They signify that you're a real Alaskan.  Which has to do with warmth, not money or fit.

The First Thing I Did When I Got Home Was Scrub the LAX Off Me

Sunset in Talkeetna

Sunrise somewhere over Washington state

Annnnnd I'm home.

How I Celebrated My Last Morning At Work

When Ruth, the Minnesotan woman in her late 60s walked behind the front desk to pick up her cash drawer, as she does every morning, she said, "Yayyy!  There's a bank in here!"

I thought a second, then said, "Hell yeeeah!"

It's my last morning.  I can say the word "hell" to Ruth if I want.

(She replied with a light laugh and, "I was having nightmares this morning that it wouldn't be there.")

("And that Liz Taylor had no eyelids and was chasing me.")*

*JK guys, jk.

He's Seen It All

The man whose life is a complicated word problem of math came up to the front desk this morning and said, "So I told my wife the idea of me talking about my life into a mini-recorder and she thought it was really cool."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah.  Because you know, I have stories even from birth.  Like I was born at six months."

I frowned slightly.  "Really?"

"Yeah," he said.  "I was born without eyelids or fingernails."

"What."  I looked at him, astounded.  "You're the Liz Taylor of the lodge!"

Eight Interesting Facts About This Man I Work With

1. He has been married seven times.

2. He is 53 years old.

3. None of his marriages were less than four years long.

4. He has never had children.

5. His current marriage is in its ninth year.

6. His current wife married him when she was 45.

7. She had never been married.

8. He has broken every limb (arm, arm, leg, leg) at least four times.

---

I told him that I am coming back next summer and that I am going to write "at the very least an article or interview" about him.  He's lived all over, had a ton of different jobs, including security guard for famous people who came to this one casino in the 80s, cop, boxer. 

He agreed to this idea of me writing about him even though when he said seven marriages I exclaimed, "You're the Liz Taylor of the lodge!"  I think because he knows that being the Liz Taylor of anything is always the best possible situation.

([rushed whisper] "These have always brought me luck.")

People who are hardy are inherently interesting to me.  Hence my abiding love for the Little House series.  And Sweet Valley High.

They Do

Bartender Who's Perky: "You ladies are still awake?"

One of the two women on the couch in the lobby: "Do we need to leave?"

Bartender Who's Perky: "No, you're fine."

Bartender Who's Perky: [to me] "They're so cute."

Me: Nods unconvincingly, thinking about something else.

Bartender Who's Perky: "I'm all like, 'You ladies still awake?' and they're like, 'Why, do we need to leave,' and I'm like, 'No, you're fine.'"

Me: Nods again, smiles spacily.

---

This whole exchange is important insofar as it reminds me of this hairdresser I used to have who would do this:

Hairdresser: "Oops, I guess this brush is wet!  [pause]  I'm all, "Oops, I guess this brush is wet!'"

Weirdest tic I have ever heard, maybe?  Saying something mundane, then immediately afterward saying, "I'm all," and repeating the mundane thing.  I want to write a novel where a character does that every time she appears.

---

If you're wondering if I have taken some kind of medicine or drug tonight that makes everything seem interesting and worth writing posts about, I will let you in on a little secret.  I'm all, "I will let you in on a little secret."  It's coffee mixed with Swiss Miss.  The poor man's mocha.  The poor man's mescaline.  "Do poor men need mescaline?" you wonder.  "Or for that matter, mochas?" 

They do.

Mark and I Have a Lot in Common

Two guys walk past the front desk on their way upstairs. 

I overhear one of them say, "With like, some pickles," and my ears perk up.  I am hungry right now, and I love pickles. 

I listen with interest as he continues: "And like, a really good pepper on the side.  Like a roasted pepper.  That would be so good." 

The other guy agrees, a little uncomfortably.

Halfway up the stairs the guy who is craving pickles and peppers says, "I'm Mark, by the way," and the two men shake hands.

I laugh quietly to myself.  Dammit, I'm going to miss this job.

Depressing List of Things I Did Not Do This Summer

1. Go to Denali National Park.

Autumn, the Party Van

 

 

Northern Lights and the Blue Warrior

Mt. McKinley and Northern Lights... bleached because of the full moon, captured better by my eyeballs than by my Canon point and shoot.

The Blue Warrior

The Blue Warrior is made of pens, paper clips and duct tape.  His face is a piece of soap and his eyes are two matchstick heads.  Note the bow on his back, for firing flaming arrows (more matchsticks).  In his right hand he holds a magic staff.

Fran Lebowitz cont, cont

INTERVIEWER

This all sounds so difficult. Why do you do it? What does it give back?

LEBOWITZ

The rewards of any warrior. The word that best describes my feeling of having written is triumphant—triumphant on the level of Alexander the Great. Having overcome your worst fear, the thing you are most vulnerable to, that is the definition of heroic.

Also, it’s such a worthwhile human activity. The most.

Finally, no soldier ever came to me and said, You have to be a writer, but it was decided long ago that it was a given. So when I’m writing it’s the only time I feel all right. It’s the only time I feel justified. Whenever I am doing anything else, which is most of the time, even if it is not something like robbing a bank, I feel felonious. Writing is what I’m supposed to be doing.

Fran Lebowitz cont.

INTERVIEWER

What did you do during those five years before you started writing the book?

LEBOWITZ

I sulked. Sulking is a big effort. So is not writing. I only realized that when I did start writing. When I started getting real work done, I realized how much easier it is to write than not to write. Not writing is probably the most exhausting profession I’ve ever encountered. It takes it out of you. It’s very psychically wearing not to write—I mean if you’re supposed to be writing.

INTERVIEWER

Is that because the ideas come steaming along and you feel like you should put them down and you don’t?

LEBOWITZ

Not writing is more of a psychological problem than a writing problem. All the time I’m not writing I feel like a criminal. Actually, I suppose that’s probably an outmoded phrase, because I don’t think criminals feel like criminals anymore. I feel like criminals used to feel when they felt guilty about being criminals, when they regretted their crimes. It’s horrible to feel felonious every second of the day. Especially when it goes on for years. It’s much more relaxing actually to work. Although I might not strike you as languid, I’m much more relaxed than when I wasn’t writing. I’m much cheerier, I’m definitely much happier.

Fran Lebowitz

"It turns out it’s not that I hate to write. I hate, simply, to work. I just hate to work, period. I am profoundly slothful. Practically inert. I have no energy. I never have. I just have no desire to be productive. Now that I realize I don’t hate to write, that I just hate to work, it makes writing easier."