Merry Xmas.

I've been struggling with Xmas this year. This was the year I wasn't going to buy anyone anything, because I'm poor. (Real poor.) Instead of not buying anything, I chose a select few people (parents, bf, brother) and went NUTS buying them things. Sweaters, shower heads, shower curtains, hair cuts, everything they want or could want or could use or could pack away and use in five years or re-gift. I cannot help it. I want to buy things, many things, and I want to give them to people. I want to fill in needs, I want to show them that I love them through objects. Maybe I have a social disease.

Xmas is a special for me. With my mother being religious, I've been raised to revere this time of year. Whether or not I believe in what I was raised on, the time of year is still special to me. I want to listen to the Nutcracker, I want to watch the Muppets sing songs about the season being jolly and joyous, I want to eat a shitload of carbohydrates. Coming together with my family, laughing and eating, loving and sharing company; these are things that I thrive on, and I get it in mass quantities around this time of year.

Whether or not I get the bus passes that I asked my parents for or that HDTV that I secretly asked a fake fat man for, I will always love this time of year. I want the special people in my life to know that I really really love them.


So happy holidays, friends, and stay tuned. I'm getting internet back and you'll be sick of me soon.

XOXO,
Anniemosity.

Fat.

A thousand apologies, minions.

Busy as I might be, I am never busy enough to overlook my favorite holiday ever -- Thanksgiving. Seriously, they give you like a four day weekend to completely overindulge? Only in America.

As my devoted readers and real people friends know, this year I was unable to be with my family, so I participated in my very first Friendsgiving. We ate, we drank, we laughed, we watched Friends' Thanksgiving episodes, we smized, we deep fried turkeys, we cut up eighty billion tomatoes, and generally had an excellent time.

So, without further ado, I present to you:

Things Anniemosity Is Thankful For: 2010-my cats, both fat and skinny. Yes, it's true, I've taken a step closer to becoming a real life crazy cat lady, but I couldn't be happier. (Well, if Skinny stopped meowing all the time and Fatty realized that he's actually a cuddly cat, I would be happier.)
-Gossip Girl -- don't judge me, embrace it as one of the things you love about me. Xoxo.

-cheese. I am always thankful for cheese. This year, I am thankful for brie. A real good creamy brie.

-my most wonderful goofy adorable sweet sharp-as-hell boyfriend, with whom I just celebrated one full year with.

-learning about microfiber bed sheets. Best night's sleep ever.

-my incredible family clan, who are immensely strong through some tough shit. In addition, I will not say that I am thankful that they do not live in my state, but I will say that I am thankful I get to visit warmer climates from time to time.

-depositing checks into the ATM. I'm actually thankful for this every year. I hate the bank.

-incredibly talented chef friends who thank me for being a friend with free food.

-Brita's on-tap water filter. Changed my life.

-my smartphone. Who was Anniemosity before the addiction addition of the smartphone into her life? I don't remember.

-my amazingly eclectic bizarre challenging and always hilarious group of friends. You all are fucking ridiculous.

-sorry everyone, I am thankful for Kanye West.

Shit

It's November! It's mid-November! Like, I gotta start xmas shopping soon? Whoa, almost 2011?? Shit.

Real post coming soon. Enjoy the visual fruits of October via my smartphone and sit fuckin tight, blog-os.

Mojo: Lost and Found

2009-2010 was a creatively dry time in my life. I didn't really want to take photos pretty much ever again, and for no particular reason other than I just didn't feel like it. I had no ideas, I had no outlet, and I just didn't care.

One day not too long ago, Megan drove home from Ohio and said "Let's do a photo shoot, like old times." We dressed her up and went to a spot that was brimming with ideas. We did five separate shoots in under an hour.

I didn't realize how much I'd missed it until I started the post-shoot process. I've been editing slowly over the last month and have gradually gotten more motivated about it all again. And suddenly I have never felt as inspired as I do now. I want to shoot everyone, all the time. Basic, intricate, men, women, cats. The crescendo of excitement that has been building up is looking like it's going to bear some really fucking cool fruit.

Thank you, Megan Pelowski, for bringing my inspiration back with you. Let's get back to work.

4square.

I have fallen in love with photo booths. I want them everywhere I go.

That is all.

Lies.

Lying is wrong. It's beyond wrong. Pretty sure God forbids lying in that Bible, ya know? But sometimes lying is awesome.

Let's say for instance you're... a bartender. A bartender in a stupid restaurant with stupid customers who ask you stupid fucking questions all the time. An older couple sits at the bar to have a few drinks. Once you serve them, they continue to talk to you, asking you questions about the building, your job, your life, your co-workers. You get fed up. Knee-jerk reaction? Lying.

This is when lying is awesome.

"Now, are all of you working here part-time? Full-time? Students? What's your story? What's your life about? Your long-term goals? Are you single? Living in sin? A part-time magician? Who are you?"

Once I discovered the art of lying in these situations, these questions became so awesome to answer, almost to the point where I actually look forward to people asking them. In the past, I've been an aspiring astronaut (inspired by Sally Ride, naturally), a music-performance student (majoring in bagpipes, what else?), a florist, a bird-watcher, and, my personal favorite, a blimp driver. (All right, I'm lying, the blimp driver situation was out at a bar. But that happened, and I was really really awesome about it.)

Tonight I told my customers that all of the people who work front of the house are old friends from college; we all needed jobs at the same time that there was a mass exodus from the restaurant and we happened to get hired all at the same time. Once I'd said that everyone who worked FOH was related to someone in the kitchen. Crazy coincidence, right?? I mean, it makes sense when you realize that we have three line cooks, one prep cook, an outlet chef, and a sous chef. That's only six people! And you know, we're all native Minnesotans, except for the sous chef and that server over there, they're a brother and sister from Cleveland. (Those customers were particularly mesmerized by my bullshit.)

I would never lie to a customer about anything like where the bathrooms are located (or at least not until I quit), but I tell you, I absolutely love that post-lie moment, one after you've told an outlandish, outrageous lie, when the adrenaline kicks in. Are they going to call me out? Are they going to ask a question I'm not going to be able to answer and totally stump me? Fortunately these haven't happened yet. I've narrowly escaped a few close calls, but my tall tales are quite superb, if I do say so myself.


They're lying too, just different kind.

Dusty Love.

There is truly nothing more that I love in the world than an awesome song or a great album. This should come as a surprise to few.

I may be a twentysomething in 2010, but I firmly believe that the best sound comes from vinyl, especially music made before 1989. I'm not an audiophile, not by any stretch of the imagination. For me, I feel a certain importance to listening to music the way the artist intended. Elton John wanted me to listen to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road the way that it was pressed into the vinyl, you know? Not remastered on an mp3. (My snobbery takes many forms, but believe me, this form is the strongest.)

I've got a decently impressive vinyl collection, thanks to two pretty rad parents who no longer felt the need to hang onto these precious albums. Let's stroll through the highlights.

Synchronicity by The Police. This is one of my favorite albums of all time, save "Every Breath You Take"... I hate that song. Aside from that, song after song after song on this album is the peak of their career together (well... "Mother" is strange). Unfortunately this was not one I obtained from Mom or Dad, but it was found, buried in the used section of Treehouse Records. This album sounds awesome on vinyl, although the one drawback is having to skip over that godawful song.


Who's Next by The Who. This, babes, is the real deal. My dad bought this album brand new in 1971. I'll tell you, when I was weeding through his box of vinyls, I grabbed this one and he winced with a secret desire to hang on to it. Every crack and pop in this album is met with a smile because it's 100% authentic -- I can almost see my dad as a 16-year-old sitting on the floor listening to the album for the first time. I get as excited as I'm sure he did when the chorus of "Baba O'Riley" crashes through the speakers. This as an awesome family heirloom.


Abbey Road by The Beatles. Another authentic album, this time from Mom. My mom was a teenager when this album came out, and similarly with Who's Next, I get a lot of flashes to my mom when she was but a child listening to this album. Classic! Classic! One of the best things about albums like this is that I don't want to skip any songs. It flows so well, beginning to end, that you get wrapped up in it and are surprised when it's over. Another excellent family heirloom. My parents rule.


Live at the Flamingo by Tom Jones. This deserves a mention for one great reason (aside from the obvious) -- this was my very first vinyl record, another mother hand-me-down. I feel that this was quite the appropriate first album for me to receive. Tom Jones is the shit. He covers everyone from the Beatles to Burt Bacharach to the Grateful Dead on this album. His smarmy banter between songs is just so perfect it hurts, very Vegas in the 70s. When showing off my collection, I always pull this one out to showcase.


The Joshua Tree by U2. I picked this one out myself, obviously. Go back far enough and you'll discover that I've always been a huge U2 fan. Everything up to and including All That You Can't Leave Behind is fucking brilliant, even their artsy-fartsy era stuff. This album specifically sounds great on vinyl because of the way it was recorded (thanks, wikipedia), but the pops of the aging record add to the atmosphere of the songs. Non-U2 fans, learn about this album.


Evolution by Journey. This is another album where the quivers and cracks in the music due to the age of the vinyl add to its charm rather than detract from it, but in a much different way than an album like The Joshua Tree. This is the only album that fist-pumping is appropriate for. When I first discovered this gem among others in the bargain bin, I ran home and played it first, and I sat back with a smile, thinking that it sounded exactly the way that it should. Then I danced by myself for awhile. I think Steve Perry would approve.




These two albums are different from the rest -- bought brand new, but still absolutely vital to my collection. The Velvet Underground & Nico and Trust by Low. These two albums were necessary purchases, but I didn't want them used. I wanted to hear them at the peak of their quality, as the musicians involved in both bands are incredibly meticulous about their sound. Wear and tear would just distract from the sound that they wanted to create. Believe me, you've never heard "In The Drugs" sound as sad or "I'll Be Your Mirror" sound quite as genuine as it does on vinyl.



These albums are Tom Waits albums. Brand new, like the Velvet Underground and Low albums. Tom Waits is my favorite solo artist ever, and I feel his music to be such that I don't want to hear it at any quality that is less than perfect. I need the authenticity. If there's a crackle, I want it to be because he put it there. If it warbles, I want it to be because Tom saw it for the greater good of the song. Nothing but brand new Tom Waits. He's the only artist I'll do that for.

I like to hear music in a billion forms, but vinyl is absolutely my favorite for many reasons. You have to commit to the album if you want to listen to it, otherwise you'll spend an enormous amount of time skipping songs. You can't take it with you -- you have to sit and listen. And most importantly, it sounds so fucking good. As my vinyl collection expands, I feel a sense of arrogance in my musical tastes... but let us not forget that "Hold The Line" by Toto sounds great on vinyl.

Phew.

My eyes are sore, my spine aches a bit, and my right wrist has a weird click to it, but the first post on anne velocity is completed, as my photography blog is now up and running. Please be sure to tell Megan how gorgeous she is, as retouching is not a reality in our shoots. There are many other posts in queue, so, you know, keep a close eye out.

Women. Woods. Wed Wine.

The scene: Biwabik, MN. Eleven girls drive eight hundred thousand miles to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of one wonderful gal. Amid games, jokes, laughter, fresh salmon, and a lot of complete inappropriateness, there were some photos.






























Boy oh boy, did we have a good time or what?




This post was brought to you by the most adorable alarm clock ever.

Something Duluth something.

Mr. and Mrs. Fat Tony were wed this weekend in our hometown of Duluth, MN. Of course none of us are truly native Duluthians, but we call it our home for a multitude of reasons.

Tony and his missus are wonderful. We love them. We love them so much. We wanted their love celebrated in true Duluthian fashion. So we came from Minneapolis, Mankato, and Boston. We drove, we flew, we sang, we laughed, we ate drive-thru food, we (briefly) got lost in the suburbs, we got so excited we could barely contain ourselves.


It began where Duluth sojourns normally do. A few pints of Lake Superior Kayak Kolsch while reacquainting yourself with Lake Superior herself. The sun shines down so innocuously until all of a sudden you notice it and say to your companion, "it's fucking perfect."


You forgot that Duluth is smaller than your city, as you run into an old friend at Target. "Come to dinner. Bring our friends." A table for five immediately doubles in size. Some eat wild rice burgers. Some eat thirty-five jalepenos. All drink beers. Starfire Pale Ale - high five! Lighthouse Golden - don't judge! Apricot Wheat - Apricot Wheat - Apricot Wheat! Wildfire Lager - burns! I forgot how much I miss you -- I forgot how much I love you. What are you doing next? Nothing? I've got a plan. It's fucking perfect.


Dance! Dance!! Dance!!! Spin, twirl, throw yourself into the arms of your friends. It's like you never left, like there isn't time or distance separating anything you once knew. You are here tonight, you were here last night, the night before, last week, last month, last year, all the time. All of a sudden someone is hollering to pay $40 to whoever can get Fat Tony's shirt off his back and you think to yourself, "this is fucking perfect." Hold up. Are those Ray-Bans?



Love. The weather is gorgeous. The flowers are gorgeous. She is gorgeous. He is gorgeous. You are gorgeous. We are gorgeous. The wind whisks away their words, leaving the vows in the space between the husband and wife. As you wipe away your tears of happiness and love, you lean over to your bff and whisper, "this is fucking perfect."


Celebrate! Eat great food, drink free wine! Take photos, do the hallway dance. Request your own personal jams, request those that your friends will dance to, request those that encourage wonderful memories, request those that require spelling out F-to the-E-R-G-the I-the E. Sarah Fuller knows the entire "Single Ladies" dance, and she will avoid the bouquet with you. We sing, we dance, we drink, we love, we celebrate so much we know we'll be sore. You wait in the long line for the ladies' room and overhear your friend looking for your group by declaring "I'm the date of a girl." You laugh out loud, grasping for your friend's hand, and you think to yourself, "this is so fucking perfect."


You want food. It's late. You get what you want eventually, and believe me, everything tastes so much better after mooning a fast food establishment from across the street. A rodeo burger from Burger King and a chocolate milkshake? Fucking perfect.



You are different. Duluth is the same. Your friendships are the same. Your love is the same. It's always good to go home, to be reminded of your growing pains, your mistakes, the bumps in your path... the reasons you laugh, the reasons you love, the reasons you are who you are right now. Remember that time we got in trouble? That time you cut your foot on that rock? That time we went here, the time we did that? We laugh, we hug, we go our separate ways, promising to keep in touch better, to see each other soon. We go home, return to reality. Our jobs, our bills, our friends, our beds, our cats (both skinny and fat).

But that glorious weekend vacation to a different time and place to come together and celebrate one of our own was truly... perfect.